#Featured Articles
Tuesday Evening Commute: Born Of The Bomb
It’s Tuesday, Tuesday Evening. I’m writing what was supposed to be Monday, Monday Morning Commute. The clock ticks towards quarter of 6pm, Eastern Seaboard of the Empire Standard. I have approximately 23 minutes to file this, to fart it, to fecal-blast this shinformation onto your digital face. Before! Before my next obligation. I’ve been wearing the same dress pants for ten hours, I’m tired, my caffeine levels are precariously low, and I have so much goddamn wood to chop before I sleep.
But I’m happy, happy to generate this minuscule bubble of textual diarrhea. This minuscule raft in the shitty seas of oblivion that seem to constitute this year, this 2016 A.D. Come friends, come quickly. Ignore my purple-headed boner, I merely have to pee. Come friends, come quickly. Ignore the wild look in eyes, I’m merely between my past caffeine fix and my next.
Come friends, come quickly. Join me on this raft, cling to it with me. Nay, cling to it for me.
This is Tuesday Evening Commute. This is what I’m looking forward to this week. Please, I implore, I beseech, I cajole. Please, join me in the comments section. Let me know what you’re indulging in this week.
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Weekend Open Bar: You Are Ready For Upload
Stand by, your consciousness is ready for upload. Say goodbye to the rot-filth of tangibility, and embrace the ephemeral. You cannot escape Entropy, cause brother the Universe is still dying on you. But hey, no more meat-case. You cannot escape Entropy, cause brother every time we re-upload you to split processing load, you lose a few bits and bytes of yourself. But hey, no more meat-case. So what to do, what to do in the Digital-Oblivion? Why, why not hang out at Weekend Open Bar? The weekly wank-off session at the Space-Ship OMEGA. Tunnel in to one of our android-bodies. Submit your credit codes, cause capitalism don’t need physical space. Drive that android-body up to the bar, and kick the time with us flesh-rats in the Tavern.
Views From The Space-Ship: There Will Be Fruit Vomit
Thursday! Desktop Thursdays! High and mighty Desktop Thursdays! The weekly window into the Existential Walls of Banality! that configure my life! Come, come, come! Bask in my mundanity, my mendacity, my overall banality! Then! And only then! Please share looks into your own lives in the comments section!
Monday Morning Commute: You Are Always Home
Monday Night, another Monday Night. Less hectic than most, more hectic than some. But I’m here, and so I type, and so as I type the sands of time drain. Both towards the moment of imminent slumber, and the moment of eternal slumber, the eradication of order on a cellular level for one Ian Omega. What’s weird? On this autumnal night, less hectic than most, more hectic than some? What’s weird is that I fear the former more than the latter. The former brings the siren screech of an alarm clock, the latter brings at worst Nada and at best Something Else.
All of this is neither here nor there, though, neither here nor there.
For this right here is Monday Morning Commute.
Weekend Open Bar: Holiday With The New Scum
This is Weekend Open Bar.
I’ve got a cold this weekend, folks. This is how bad of a cold I’ve got, I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya. My cold is so fucking bad that I couldn’t even finish my chimichanga. How’s that for a fucking cold? My cold is so fucking bad that my farts are thick, hateful, nightmare blasts of Theraflu chemicals and phlegm-gut. How’s that for a fucking cold?
But the Theraflu does its job, oh yes. I knew the Theraflu was doing its job earlier tonight. I knew it while I was walking the Snowbeast and out of nowhere came the thought, “Man, I’m damn comfortable, I could just lay down.” Now mind you I may live on a rather comfortable, middle-class street. But at no time should a gangly man with a SpaceX hoodie be laying on the damp concrete sidewalk, a confused Great Pyrenees alternating between lapping at her owner and struggling to break free and run into the woods for a Vision Quest.
After I had that thought, after I processed that potential consequence, I thought to myself. Well golly, I’m straight fucked-up on Theraflu!
Views From The Space-Ship: That’s One Lazy Lady
Desktop Thursdays! My thinly veiled excuse to post pictures of my dog, my cat, and me! Yeah, man. I don’t know. Every Thursday comes, and I’m like. How is it already Thursday? Apparently I don’t take any pictures. Eh! Eh. Ehhh.
Whatever. This is my world across the past week. Desktop Thursdays! My thinly veiled excuse for me to ask you to show me your world! What does your look like? Hit the comments section!
OMEGA-CAST #19: They Have No Lightning!
…and, we, are, fucking back! Let’s get it out of the way: Riff completely fucked up the audio, recognizing after we recorded that he recorded it through his laptop microphone. So, yeah. It’s Garbage Audio from the Garbage Lords! That said, we hit on a variety of topics, and we sport a new contributor: our own Eduardo Pluto.
Monday Morning Commute: I’m Broken! And Having A Good Time!
Another dosage of the Monday Blues antidote for you, fellow OL garbage folk! Right here! Right now!
The wind whispers of blood and ill intent! Monsters on podiums, clowns in streets!!! Tedium, tedium, tedium surrounds us! Our distractions betray us, but they’re all we have. Our politicians betray us, but they’re all we have! Our bodies betray us, but they’re all we have!
Feeling down? No worries!
Another dosage of the Monday Blues antidote for you, fellow OL garbage folk! Right here! Right now!
This is M-O-N-D-A-Y M-O-R-N-I-N-G C-O-M-M-U-T-E! And so long, so long as I continue to pump blood (HOT BLOOD) and suck wind (DRY WIND), I’ll be here. Commuting physically to the indoctrination clinic that I try and subvert. Commuting electronically to the space-oasis aboard Space-Ship OMEGA via the shuddering pipes of the I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T. Bringing you my own personal panoply, baked, shredded, and snorted, that gets me through a particular week. My distractions! My anticipations! Hark, we must stare at the Tube, the Screen, the Page. Lest we stare at the corners, at the shadows, at their encroachment.
Oh, Plato! I’ll take the fucking cave. Thanks for the fire. The sky outside is a dank pall, and the folks that gaze up at it find only horror. Yes, yes, I’ll take the fucking cave.
You know how this goes, oh, you know how this goes. Follow up my own weekly wanderings with your own assortment of distractions and existential deflections in the comments section.
Weekend Open Bar: To The Left of Reality
My wife is really good at throwing wood into the wood stove that heats our sunroom during the Winter. Someday I’m going to be typing this from a shelter, or a shack, or my backyard. You see, she’s really good at throwing it. Ashes are really good at flying into the air. Burning embers are really good at hitting the tile, and not the rug.
But woah boy!
Someday them embers are going to hit the rug. I’ve seen it.
But woah boy!
Someday them embers are going to ignite the rug, maybe the dog, definitely the house. I’ve seen it!
In fact, somewhere across the OMNIVERSE, in an incredible amount of Universes, this is happening now.
Somewhere: my pubic hair, which dangles to the ground, is igniting from those embers.
In fact, somewhere across the OMNIVERSE, in an incredible amount of Universes, this is happening now.
Somewhere: my dog, which is also a dinosaur, which is also Jesus Christ, is turning nipple milk into water, drowning those burning embers.
I’ve seen it!
Anyways — until she burns down the house here, until the embers take down this dry ass house in this dry ass state on this perpetually dry ass Planet — until then — I will be celebrating Weekend Open Bar from my couch.
Right here!
Weekend Open Bar! Come come, folks. Celebrate the weekend with me. Come come, folks. Tell me what you’re up to this weekend!
Monday Morning Commute: You Are Here
A boom, boom, boom, let me hear you say the World is On Fire and All Effort to Correct Its Faults are Futile so Let’s Dance as the Palaces Burn!
Can I hear you say it? Are you saying it? Screaming it?
Screaming it as your white-knuckled rage is consuming you, screaming and screaming and screaming. Screaming as your throat rips, as your lungs burst, as your eyes dilate beyond capacity.
Can I hear you say it? Are you saying it? Screaming it?
Screaming it as your heart explodes, as your moment in time-space rips, as the Void collapses in, on, around, within you.
Can I hear you say it? Are you saying it? Screaming it?
No? You’re just sort of sitting at your computer? In your sweatpants? A thick, honeyed malaise slathered over you?
Hmm.
Me too.
So let’s embrace this rejection of the rejection together. Let’s share what we’re enjoying this week, these enjoyments specifically designed to keep us from screaming.
This is Monday Morning Commute.
