Welcome to another edition of Desktop Thursdays! I’ll level with you, I don’t update this often, ’cause I really don’t do much. For a column that’s predicated on showing my world(s) with you, both literal and digital, I…I don’t take many pictures these days! But! I’m here today. So bask in my banality, and then share your own in the comments section!

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It’s Monday Morning Commute, comrades! A day late, but what can you do.

Yesterday was one of those days where the laptop didn’t leave the book bag upon my return to the Mother-Ship. But, I’m here now! Ready to give you the rundown of what I’m looking forward to this week! Ready to eagerly anticipate your own happenings in the comments section.

It’s Monday Morning Commute, comrades! A day late, but what can you do.

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It’s been four weeks, but goddamn, I’m back. Computer, uh, healed. Its technological malfunctions sated by the astralGeniuses and of course the corporealCurrencies paid forth to said astralGeniuses. I, I can’t complain about the corporealCurrencies spent or the fact that the astralGeniuses really didn’t live up to their name. ‘Cause finally I have a fucking computer again. The Engines of Depravity that power the Space-Ship Omega and this Garbage Lord are whirring up to full strength, and we’re just going to fucking resume operations.

I’ve missed you fucks.

This is Monday Morning Commute. The weekly wank-off over the arts&farts that are serving to propel us through a given week. You know, the shit we’re looking forward to, enjoying, anticipating, worshipping, that serve as a balm on the existential burns of existence.

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Hello, salutations, and greetings, fellow Trash Lords. Scions of the Elder Garbage. It’s I, your fearless dumpster pile, Caffeine Powered. Coming to you from a shitty, broken down computer at the public university at which I theoretically work. I say theoretically since due to bureaucracy and the lack of an actual budget for the Fall Semester (seriously), I haven’t gotten paid since August. Eh, whatever, whatever.

I come to you here, because as I’ve commented upon in other posts, my goddamn personal computing machine is about to enter its own fourth week of in-action.

But, hey. I got time before class, so I figured I would throw some sort of line of communication into the EchoChamber.

For perhaps the first and only time, it’s Thursday Whatever The Fuck! My angered, frantic Thursday edition of Monday Morning Commute.

I miss ya’ll, I miss blogging for ya’ll (all three of you), so here’s what I’m up to this week. You know, when I’m not embracing a desiccated bank account and a general malaise.

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“Y’gotta jam the apple in his mouth before y’roast him!”

“Stuff that!”

“Zackkly, y’gotta stuff it right in and then y’can roast the fucker on a spit real goo-”

“Nah, man, stuff that as in fuck that. We put an apple in that pig’s mouth and then tryta roast him on a spit, whattaya thinks gonna happen?”

“I don’t thinks nothing’s gonna happen, I knows what’s gonna happen! All that’s gonna happen is we’re gonna have us some good-goddamn-delicious barbecue, and its smoky-goodness is gonna have a hint of apple!”

“You fuckin’ moron! Lookit his fuckin’ mouth — it’s too fuckin’ small! Stick an apple in there and then spin him around and around? It’s gonna fuckin’ fall out! We kill this pig, we roast him up real good, and then we jam the apple in his mouth as a garnish!”

Clint, despite every instinct-bone in his body aching, had to admit that his brother had a point. Which really sucked, because Clint had been building up this moment in his mind for months, visualizing how it’d go down. And no matter what changed in his mind — the guilty parties present, the setting, the time of day — one thing always remained the same.

The Senator would be roasted on a spit, naked save for his tie and socks and the flag lapel stabbed into his tit, and he’d unable to scream because of the apple jammed into his mouth.

But if Clint’d learned anything since joining a gang of jenkem-huffing bipartisan cannibals, it was that sometimes you just had to temper your expectations.

“Awh, aight Brucie, you makes a good point! But I still thinks we should wait until the apple’s in his mouth before we post to Facebook!”

“Of course, Clint. Of course.”

—-

This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

I’ve just foisted some drivel-fiction nonsense upon you. Thanks for putting up with me. Oh, who am I? I’m Rendar Frankenstein — hack writer, amateur sociologist, and pop culture enthusiast.

So, here’s the deal: I’m going to show you some of the stuff I’ll be consuming in the hopes of staving off workweek-ennui. Then, you hit up the comments and show off what you’ll be consuming! And then we all share!

Really, it’s sort of like a pop culture/entertainment-suggestion potluck.

But totally, totally cooler!

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Oh, Oh, Oh! Dancing in September! Welcome to Weekend Open Bar! And it’s a uniquely special one, at least on the annual tip. It’s the first Weekend Open Bar of my favorite time of year. Mother. Fucking. Fall. Though not officially penetrating the calendar until later this month, this weekend begins a maelstrom of miscellany during the upcoming week which officially signals it for yours truly. So I’m lighting the autumn candles, slipping into a hoodie, and wanking it to rotting leaves, spectral forms populating our general psyche, gridiron collisions, and blockbuster games dropping.

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Drink it in, mannn! My existence! Drink in these views from the degenerated meat-halls through which I walk in the TangiVerse. After all these views I’m proffering are the very point of this weekly post, Desktop Thursdays. I didn’t hit you folks up last week, as I was in Nova Scotia throwing Nana’s urn into the marsh. It is a necessary Acadian tradition, through which you unleash a fallen Acadian Village Shaman’s corporeal form, so they may walk the Omniverse with their fellow brother and sister shamans.

So this week it’s a heavy dose of Nova Scotia action and of course, my stupid fucking dog and cats.

I beseech you to share looks into your own lives in the comments section. Or don’t, you dirty little voyeurs.

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Come one, come all, to Monday Morning Commute. Yeah. Yeah! Fucking Yeah!, I’m late. Again. But, like, hey man. I don’t know, I got nothing. General tardiness. Spent yesterday trying to cobble together peer mentors for my Fall semester classes, while admittedly spending most of it playing Uncharted: The Lost Legacy, and watching Monday Night Raw. I’m Trash It’s okay. I’m Trash! It’s okay. I’m Trash!. It’s okay.

Come with me, friends. We can be Trash together.

Even though I’m tardy, even though I’m on vacation before the Fall Semester Gauntlet begins, I got a good amount of shit I’m up to this week. I got a good amount of shit I’m enjoying this week. I got a good amount of fucking shit I’m looking forward to this week.

I shall elaborate on all three of those categories after the beep, the robot vomits into the digi-textual microphone to check for efficacy, and the buzzer sounds.

Then I hope you shall elaborate on your own happenings in the comments section.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

*beep*

*bzzt, vomit, vomit, one-two-one-two, bzzt*

*buzzer sounds*

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Sometimes, man. Sometimes, I just straight-up spend too much time thinking of a post title for a Monday Morning Commute, and then I spend too much time hunting the perfect image. “Perfect”, I know. I’m trash. Anyways, how are you fucking folks doing? You stellar Garbage Lords.

Me?

This guy?

Well, I’m currently pinched for time. Tomorrow I leave for the Great White North, meeting the rest of the family up there for a final service for my Nana. She sloughed the mortal coil last year, I think maybe I discussed it?, and now it’s time.

To throw Nana into the marsh behind the family home. Where her shamanistic tendencies can be unloosed, sent to interact with her fellow Reality Melters in the Gilded Plains of the OMNIVERSE.

Me?

This guy?

Well, I’m currently wasting time!

So here, without further adieu, is what I’m currently enjoying, currently looking forward to, currently sweating. Let me know what you’re up to this week!

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Booty Game Too Strong?! Fucking impossible! Try me, bro. When I die, I hope my epitaph reads, potentially, as such: He Died As He Lived, Worshipping The Booty. Oh fuck, Oh me, Oh my. Where I am? I got, I got the vapors. The dog’s looking at me side-eyed, and I’m worried she perceives the eventual-embolism approaching. Finally. My body and mind soaked with Dew, my loins and shirt soaked with Booty Worship.

While I’m here, before my leaves fall, let me throw this out to you, fair Garbage Lords. This late-as-fuck but hey-at-least-I’m-posting-it edition of Desktop Thursdays.

Check out my rot-gut, trash existence! Then, I beseech you, before the long night comes, share your own world(s) in the comments section.

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