I Eat Teeth.

You could say it’s an idiosyncrasy. Some people need to pull their socks up after they sit down. Some folks need to turn the faucet three times to the right before they can leave the bathroom. Others shine their shoes so they can look up them skirts on the subway train.

I Eat Teeth.

Big whup. Mom didn’t like it when she was around. But now she ain’t around. She’s behind the shed. And yet. Still.

I Eat Teeth.

Dad didn’t let me visit the nursing home no more after that one time. Didn’t think I should eat teeth. But now he ain’t around no more neither.

I Eat Teeth.

Mom, Dad, the Neighbors, the Teachers. I’m sure they had their own thing. Dad’s tissues next to the nightstand told me was up to somethin’. Mom’s perpetual change of clothes in her car. The Neighbors’ pool parties with their friends, the teacher’s eyes and the cheerleaders’ skirts. Don’t matter. We all got our thing.

I Eat Teeth.

Mom’s teeth, Dad’s teeth, Ted’s teeth, your teeth. But no worry. You live in me and I live in the Center and together we live forever.

I Eat Teeth.

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You’re alive, yo. Day after day you’re telling Death “No” and sauntering on in the Oblivion that is a Godless, Apathetic Existence. There’s something to appreciate in that effort alone. You’re Conquering the Drive to give into Entropy. Someday you’ll stagger, fall, maybe even tap. Don’t take it personally, don’t take it as a slight against your character. Even the Universe is mortal. But for now, while we persist, let’s body slam existence together. Celebrate the Weekend with this Open Bar.

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OH YOU THOUGHT US GONE? Naw, bruh. Life. It happens. But choke down this GNARLY PODCAST until the SPACE-SHIP can resume full operating capacity. PART GODDAMN 1 of a PODCAST we cut nearly TWO FUCKING WEEKS AGO. And this time it’s FUCKING ME behind the delay in posting it. And life. Definitely life. Anyways. THIS ONE has WAY CAPS and most importantly THE FUCKING RETURN OF RE-RE-RE-RENDAR.

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Jesus Christ. It’s been a week since I poked my head out of the hovel known as Port 6616 of the Space-Ship OMEGA? Crazy life the past seven days. Wrought with tension, anxiety, smiles, laughs, farts, poops, lesson plans, caffeine. I’m posting this just as a proof of life. Desktop Thursdays has transmogrified into something more accurate: View From The Space-Ship. Per usual I encourage everyone (if there’s anyone in these halls anymore) to share their own existential snippets.

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If there was one thing Grandpa was good for at Thanksgiving, it was sniffing a legion of nanobots before sitting down at the dinner table. There was an inevitable moment during the passing of the animal-flesh and the smashed-starches where his slackened, tired jaw would clench-up. Science retrieving something scattered decades ago by the natural progression of his Meat Case. Somewhere between that third fucking scoop of potatoes his eyes would dilate. His neck would kink. And as he tried to keep his hands from jittering upon the wooden offering-plank, a barely audible moan would escape them cracked lips.

“Oooh, the potatoes” he would murmur. False teeth clacking. “Ohhh, this turkey. Th-the gravy” he would gasp. We tried not to stare. When you’re one-hundred and thirty-four you write your own rules. None of us said a word, but we all knew the goddamn truth. That withered one man’s dick was titillated. An orgy of chemicals in his veins, an orgy of nanobots in his balls prodding his phallus into a seemingly-impossible climax.

Goddamn Grandpa and his goddamn nanobot-induced autoerotics.

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This is Monday Morning Commute. Share what you’re up to this week.

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Your Flesh Sac will whisper wearingly to you, if you let it. Letting you know that your knees are giving, your rib cage is creaking, and your heart is just sort of fucking tired. Your Flesh Sac will point out the fleeting Liminal Burp that is all your life. Do not listen. Do not believe its lies. It is the only way to sally forth into the resplendent Gloom of Oblivion that awaits us all with your head held high.

(Unless someone decapitates you and raids the Gates of Eternity with your Head on a Pike. There is also that way.)

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This is Views From The Space-Ship.  Fuck, man. Busy couple of days. Barely touched the computer. Barely updated the site. So here. Snap back the veil, perceive the Reality of Caff. It’s nothing special. Like all, I aspire to transcendence, but should work towards accepting banality.

Share your own view of the world if you’re so inclined.

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Hello friends. Humanoids. Martians. Sentient cups of coffee. Pythons with overdeveloped cerebral systems courtesy of Nazi experiments still being conducted on the Far Side of the Dark Side of the Forgotten Moon of Jupiter, Rapture. If you’re reading this, I implore you to join in this wonderful column-based activity. Monday Morning Commute. The place where us Conscious Piles of Organic, Inorganic, and Unidentifiable Matter gather and share what we’re digging on during a given week.

I’ll go first, then you share your weekly beloveds.

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Can I get a fuck yeah?! It’s Friday! Which means it’s time for many, many things. Provided you are one of us proles blessed (and it is more and more becoming a genuine blessing) with having the weekend off. Drinking! TV binging. Maybe some sexy-sex? Reading, gaming. All sorts of shit! And this is Weekend Open Bar! Where we come together. Pop a soda-beer-bottle-of-wine-whiskey, whatever. Share in the revelry of the next two days.

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Views From The Space-Ship! Where I yank back the scab obfuscating my Realm from the All-Peering Eyes of you Internet Lords. Bask in confirmation of my tangibility. Bow your head, humbled, knowing that such refuse as myself runs free within the Kingdom. Then share looks into your own world. Virtual and Literal.

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