After  John Hinckley’s assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan, someone went about collecting the president’s blood. Much like other heirlooms, that blood has passed hands through the family. Also much like heirlooms, a family member is finally like “fuck having this, I can make some dough off it”, and is auctioning the hemoglobin off.

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True life confessional stylee: I loved the original Lazy Sunday back in the day (and while it was hot I think it’s not cool to like it anymore), and if this is indeed Samberg’s final Digital Short, it seems fitting to drop this as his coda.

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I’ve always kept it to myself, a linger feeling that Batman could kick more ass if he was hopped up on the Dew. Everything  kicks more ass when you’re jittering on the Dew. Now Pepsi Corporation Pigs and Dark Knight Rises  Marketing Swine have made this mash-up of my geek dreams come true.

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You have to had it to us as a species. We’ve had our priorities down for a long, long. Titties and war! The world’s oldest cave engraving? A vag.

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If you’re a regular passenger on Spaceship OL, chances’re pretty good that your a bit of a comics fan. And if that’s the case, you’ve probably seen the name Ben McCool poppin’ up over the last few years. Unless, of course, you’re a genuine turkey. But let’s assume that this is a turkey-free zone, shall we?

The writer of MEMOIR and CHOKER (amongst others), Ben McCool has quickly established himself as a burgeoning force of nature in the sequential art ecosystem. Yes, it’s true that a viscous oil of staid storytelling may pump through the veins of the comic medium. But McCool takes a stab at narrative resuscitation by mainlining a cocktail of novelty, originality, daring, and genuine entertainment directly into the heart.

Yes, I am a fan of Ben McCool.

In fact, I recently found myself sending the British-born scribe a set of questions that I’d conjured up during a moment of half-inebriated super-confidence. To my delight, McCool pleasantly responded! What a gentleman! Hit the jump to check an exchange which includes an exploration of the comic book career path, some insight into what inspires creativity, the sharing of a truly filthy haiku, and plenty more!

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They stare deeply into one another’s eyes, both realizing that the power the other exhibits is not synonymous with their own, though still to be appreciated.

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Kim Dotcom is the founder of Megaupload. He’s also a douchebag of colossal measurements (Google him). On top of that though, he’s quite the modern day character, from how he forged his platinum bank account to how he has lived his life. Now if he has anything to say about it, we’re going to be experiencing the Dotcom in a myriad of ways.

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There is a fine line betwix courage and insanity, and the same rings true in the universe of meme. These two pups are the perfect archetypes for a deeper discussion on the difference. Some of our most beloved heroes we would probably consider insane, and so many of our insane villans have far more courage than the rest of us pleabs. The best part about the meme world is that there is a layer cake of laughter with some real depth down in the middle for those who care.

Just like last week, let me know which you enjoy most in the comments. God-speed, and good luck.
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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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Voodoo-prescribin’ witch doctors once invited me to a party.

It was the summer of 1987 and I was in the middle of one of the worst hangovers of my entire life. Since April, I’d spent every waking hour thrashing to Among the Living and doing lines of gasoline-soaked blow. As far as I can recall, it wasn’t until mid-July that I even realized I’d made it all the way to Nova Scotia.

Don’t let anyone tell you that heavy metal and drugs won’t lead you anywhere. They will. Specifically, to the beautiful port-town of Yarmouth.

Anyways, I stumbled out of buck-toothed Ambellina’s bedroom, leaving behind my Walkman and cocaine in the hopes of finding something slightly more transcendent. Fortunately, I found the Tim Hortons whose manager seemed eager to keep my coffee cup filled to the brim, free of charge. (In hindsight, I think must’ve let him look at my Polaroid collection. You ever see a Yeti’s genitals? No? Well, then you haven’t seen my Polaroid collection.) After my thirteenth cup of black wonder, I saw them.

The witch doctors.

There were three of `em. They were all black dudes. They were all wearing sleeveless Wham! t-shirts tucked into blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into work boots. And their accents couldn’t’ve been more diverse. The fat one spoke with a Cajun twang, the old one spoke through a metrosexual French patois, and the tall one sounded German.

In a flash, they’d all taken the liberty of joining me in my booth. Surrounded on all sides, strung out, and shaking in an over-caffeinated stupor, I had no hope of escaping `em. Which wasn’t really a concern of mine until the old one pulled a decapitated chicken out of his backpack and started rubbing it on my face. “Ah, mon ami, you need to stop stressing out!”

“Ja! Too stressed” shouted the tall one, loud enough to turn the heads of patrons.

“C’mon,” encouraged the fat man, “un p’tit boug hain’t gotta worries! We fixxya!”

I was vexed, absolutely sure that these three were going to murder me. I finished my coffee, the best last meal I could ever hope for, and prepared for my demise. “So, you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?”

Uproarious laughter.

The old man put the chicken back into his bag and did me the favor of wiping the grease and blood from my face. Granted, he cleaned my visage with his bare hand and then proceeded to clean his hand with his tongue, but the sentiment was there. He then did his best to reassure me.

“Eh bien! Murder is for poets! We are witch doctors! And we’ve got a prescription for you!”

I was curious. “Okay…what is it?”

“ES IST VOODOO!” bellowed the Bavarian.

“Um…” I equivocated, “what type of voodoo?”

Toothy grins spread across the trio of shadowy faces. And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, four of the ugliest, skankiest Canadian girls I’d ever seen appeared behind the witch doctors. If I had to bet, I’d’ve put my money on at least two of `em havin’ VD.

The old man grabbed my shoulder and cackled, “The type of voodoo that starts with a bourbon-soaked orgy!”

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Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the feature in which I write whatever nonsense pops into my mind and then run through the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. At that point, it’s your duty/honor/begrudging privilege to hit up the comments section and share your own ennui-destroyin’ elixirs.

Enough feet-draggin’, let’s rock!

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