“They say that great beasts once roamed this world. Big as mountains. Yet all that’s left of them is bone and amber. Time undoes even the mightiest creatures. Just look what it’s done to you. One day, you will perish. You will die like with the rest of your kind in the dirt. Your dreams forgotten, your horrors faced, your bones will turn to sand, and upon that sand a new God will walk, one that will never die”

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Standing in front of the starcruiser’s big bay windows, Lonnie stared into the abyss of the chalice in his hands.

“G’head now, m’boy, no needsfer delayin’.”

“But, but, Grampa…I…I don’t wanna. It smells bad.”

“Maybe so, maybe so. But if we’re gonna kick this baby into hyperspace, we needta go to sleep first. So be a g’boy and drink up.”

Lonnie’s gaze shifted from the chalice to bay windows and then back to the chalice. He thought, just for a moment. A single moment. Just long enough to remember Momma and Poppa and Brother Reggie and how good it felt to be on terra firma, grass between the toes and sun upon the brow. How good it would feel, again.

And then he drank.

“Thazzaboy! Okay, Lonnie, y’goan to your sleep-pod now and I’mma set the coordinates!”

“Sweet dreams, Grampa! Hope you dream of the sun like I’m gonna!”

“Thazz right! Thazz right! Dream of the sun!”

And with that Grampa took a swig deep enough to empty the chalice. And then he sat down in front of the big bay windows of the starcruiser. And then he started to dream of the sun. And then he dreamed of his son, and dreamed of his son dreaming of Lonnie. And then he wept and wept and closed his eyes tight.

`Cause when you’re two hyperjumps away from home and you’re out of fuel, all you can do is dream of the sun.

—-

This is a public announcement. The MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE has been commandeered. My name is Rendar Frankenstein and I mean you no harm. Join me and we’ll discuss what the fuck we’ll do in the hopes of getting out of this workweek in one piece.

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The latest descent into adolescent sophistry, scatalogical humor, and irredeemable buffoonery is upon you, folks. Gnash your teeth at The God That Forgot You and curse It for allowing us to continue our podcast.

This latest iteration covers a typical gamut of garbage.

Feauring such topics as “Eating only broccoli that women have farted on” and “Hipster Or Homeless? should be a game show.”

If that hasn’t sent you away, we also mock both Liberals and Trumpers, have half-hearted conversations about Doctor Strange and Arrival, and psychoanalyze Bateman’s childhood pants-shitting and subsequent life-long catastrophic psychological trauma.

We hope you’ll join us!

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I’m currently coming down after finishing probably my two favorites things of 2016. The series Westworld and the game Dishonored 2. That sad feeling that you know the end is near. Like a good book you can’t put down but suddenly find yourself turning the pages more slowly because you know you’re almost out. Almost out of that new experience juice. That something that is intangible until its gone and you realize you won’t get it back. That first run.

I actually slowed my play of Dishonored because I really wanted to savor the end result. I played the whole game killing as few people as possible. In a lot of cases this meant a lot of reloads, as not only is easy to accidentally kill someone but the difficulty if much higher in approaching the various scenarios the game gives you. It’s easy to toss a grenade into a room and watch the fun from 3 stories up. It’s much harder to get up close and personal to each enemies and take them out one by one. I really wanted to not only play non-lethally but also be a total ghost to the NPC. (the last part didn’t work out so well) I did however complete the game with the ‘best’ ending, as in the most positive outlook for the kingdom and our characters.

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It’s Desktop Thursday, on Friday! Yesterday was busy, man. But like — not in a bad way. Today is busy, man. But like — not in a bad way. I’m eyeing the end of the semester, and really, my biggest concern right now? I’m stuffed into an office, and I’m ripping an insane amount of ass-rockets. The boom, boom, boom of flatulence may very well be heard through the glass door. The boom, boom, boom of thrice-soaked cabbage-scented diaper farts may very well be smelled through the walls.

Hey, what can you do? I mean sure, I could not fart. But that I’ll get a stomachache and I ain’t about that life, you know? Wait — where the fuck are we? Oh, oh yes.

It’s a Desktop Thursday, on Friday! The weekly column where I should you my world(s). Be them virtual, textual, gastronomic, or physical. Then! Oh, then, how I hope you’ll share your own world(s) in the comments section!

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It’s the freakin’ weekend, baby! This is the freakin’ Weekend Open Bar, baby! After a particularly strenuous week, I’m happy to report I’m currently supine. Type-type-typing away. Next to Mrs. Omega. Got a weekend of gaming, reading, watching, and sleeping on the docket. Can’t complain, can’t complain.

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I’m just fucking done, man.

The semester has unravelled my precariously knitted-together psyche, spooling it across the OMNIVERSE. If you’ve randomly tripped today, know that it was probably a shredded, knotted, bloodied-strand of my former-consciousness. What was formerly an ebullient, marginally sarcastic whelp has been transformed into a quick-to-fret, foggy-headed nightmare.

I’m just fucking done, man.

This here is Monday Morning Commute, by way of Tuesday Afternoon, sponsored by Ennui and A Colossal, Albeit Ineffective Amount of Caffeine.

This is what I’m looking forward to, this is what’s on my mind, this is what’s simmering in my soul, this week.

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Welcome, fellow travellers! Welcome here to the Open Bar, upon the Space-Ship Omega! I #cantstop and I #wontstop the cheesy, but ultimately enjoyable (for me) conceit! You know, the one about this website being a Space-Ship. You know, the one about us being denizens of a shuddering, weathered, but comforting hunk of self-propelling space-junk amid the abyss of the internet cosmos.

As I said, it’s comforting.

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Step Into The Spot Like Woo! What’s up, space-pigs. How are you? What’s populating your world(s)? It’s been a busy, busy week for me. I know, I know, no Monday Morning Commute. Busy Monday. So tired Tuesday that the laptop stayed in the bag when I got home. Wednesday I went to a concert. But I’m here, now! Watch me! Step Into The Spot Like Woo! This here, this right here, this right right here here? Desktop Thursday! The weekly wank-off where I show you my existence laid bare. Be it my virtualscape, my hellscape, my physicalscape. Everything and anything I’ve captured in the past seven days falls here.

I hope, friends. That you will. Step Into The Spot Like Woo! And share, oh please share, your own world(s) in the comments section!

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The bar is open early, friends. It’s Thanksgiving Eve here on the eastern arm of the Empire. I’m blessed enough to have the rest of the week off. So why not let the Asgardian ale flow already? So why not let the Martian space spice be smoked already? I have no good reasons for why not to, I have no good explanations. All I know is that life is too short, too vicious for even the most blessed, to not seize upon moments of revelry with you and yours.

Weekend Open Bar on a Wednesday evening.

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