Too tired to stand up and order a pizza? Or is your tablet too far away to order online? Now you can rock some heavy metal American thunder. Order that pizza pie straight from you Xbox 360. Who says you have to move? Not Freedom.

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Look at this friggin’ madness. The various Pizza Huts of the world are upping their game. First it was the Pizza Hut UK claiming hot dog-stuffed crusts. Now  Pizza Hut Middle East is smashing hamburgers on top of their fucking pies.

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Pizza Hut UK is upping its fucking game, son! They’re outdoing us Americans at being slovenly Western pigs. Behold!, the hot dog stuffed crust pizza.

Hit the jump if you dare.

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Domino’s Japan up on that gimmicky but awesome tip, friends. They’ve created the Halloween Roulette pizza, which features ghost pepper sauce. Hidden in one slice.

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This is a surprise! A horrible, wrenching surprise. Apparently Microsoft pays, pays! YouTube personalities to promote XB1. Here I thought these folks were bulletproof, incapable of being morally assailed.

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I was worried for a hot minute about the United States and our crown as the Gluttons of the Planet. Pizza Hut over in the UK and the Middle East were unveiling truly heinous concoctions and there was silent on our Western Front. Worry not, friends. Burger King has got our back.

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Oh lord, friends! It is the mother-fuck-ing weekend, and not a moment too soon! A stressful week has given way to a temporary haven. Some 48-hours or so where I can shut down my brain, open up my gullet, and eat junk food and watch slop. How the hell are you folks doing? It’s a goddamn mess across the map, with most of the Empire getting ass-blasted by cold weather and snow.

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What’s up, slugs? Are you existing in a marmalade of twinkling optimism and oppressive anxiety? Or, is that just my bipolar ass? Either way, welcome! For me, it’s a gloomy-as-fuck Tuesday, following a long weekend. Which means that everything requires just a smidge more emotional energy than usual, and if I’m being honest, I feel as though everything costs more emotional energy for me than most.

That’s neither here nor there, though. I mean, right? That ain’t the point of this shit, Monday Morning Commute (on a Tuesday). No, no! Indeed, the point is to share what I’m anticipating and enjoying this specific week. Then, I hope you’ll join my ass in the comments.

Regal me, motherfuckers! Regal me with your own happenings! I beg. I plead. I demand.

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Holy shit. There’s Christmas spirit, and then there’s five hours of Darth Vader burning on his funeral pyre as your Yule Log spirit.

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Being a bro means many things. The word has decayed, transmuted, metamorphisized throughout the ages. The term has been passed from one culture to the next, each co-opting the sacred letters for their own means. Those who wield Thu’um have used the word for power, pain, and glory. At its truest essence, being a bro means coming through for another bro in moments of need. Strip away the smell of Milwaukee’s Beast, peel off the layers of Frat Hall grease, and you will find such a truth. So when Johnny Hotsauce said that The Tricky Thing Called Life was keeping him away from this column, I decided to be a bro. Help a bro. Make a bro. For life.

Now I’ll level with you. There are a couple things  I’m better at than Johnny Hotsauce. Eating sixteen pizzas in front of a disgusted family and tee-ball team.  Desperately shitting into a toilet four minutes before I have to teach a class and still making it before the bell rings. Torrents of man-chocolate glossing the ceramic throne, all while I’m counting seconds and checking Tumblr. However, writing a comic books column is where Hotsauce has me bested. By a considerable portion. So I supplicate myself before you folks. Accept my bro-powered offering until his return next week. I know I am not worthy, but I know I am a true bro.

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