Hello there, `fraidies and gentle-hams. My name is Rendar Frankenstein, and once upon a time I was one of the captains of the fine vessel known as Omega-Level. With Caffeine Powered, I helped steer this nerd-craft through the Interweb Ocean, fending off the ever-present threat of vibe-pirates and soul-trolls. In those early days, I’d write reviews and drink casks and even occasionally lend my word-vomit to the back of comic books.

But these days, I’ve taken to the dark underbelly of SPACESHIP OL. I like it here, where I can chat with the suspected mutineers about their murderous visions and incorrigible bloodlusts. And no, I wasn’t demoted to chomping on fish-heads and tossing the shit-barrels overboard by the powers-that-be, I volunteered for this spot. It fits me just fine.

Because the fact of the matter is that I’m Rendar Frankenstein — the hack writer extraordinaire who wears a heart on his sleeve that bleeds so profusely you’d swear he’s menstruating.

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This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, a weekly show-and-tell session that promotes the cross-pollination of all things in the pop-nerd sphere. To get things started, I’m going to show you the various ways I’ll be staving off workweek ennui. Your job is to then hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be watching/reading/eating/playing/drinking/doing to exorcise the forty-hour-a-week demons.

Let’s do this.

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Ain’t this some Batman Inc  shit right here. A  Brazilian  city has authorized some old motherfucker to walk around as Batman. Fighting crime. Stopping murders. Breaking up drug rings. I’m not even kidding.

Hit the jump for more details.

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This is another echelon of pickpocketing madness. Chinese thieves use chopsticks to liberate the valuables of strongly owned citizens.

Hit the jump to check it out.

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As Men and Women of the Universe, it is our job to consistently thwart the Will of Everything. Case in point: the creation of taco-flavored ramen.

Hit the jump to behold The End.

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Oh, Darren. If I didn’t openly admit I shouldn’t stop you from making some honest cheddar, I’d be hanging my head over this one. You directed an ad for Kohl’s  starring J. Lo? I hope you bought the kids something nice with the check.

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This is a video of a propane-powered NERF dart cannon. Powerful enough to dent a motherfucking whiteboard. Why? ‘Cause this is America and we love freedom.

Hit the jump. Bask in the glory.

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I’ll never forget the night I fucked Miss Americana 1973.

We’d met earlier in the evening for some casual drinks. Sitting in the Holo-Lounge, we ran a huge tab and sparred with one another. We both pulled punches, knowing that the other was far too vulnerable to be dealt a true blow. She was as defenseless against my clever quips as I was against her cheekbones   and ass. Oh boy, was I defenseless when I was against her ass!

Anyways, banging a supermodel in a space station hotel suite is hardly an event worthy of a bedpost-notching. Hell, the name R. Frankenstein isn’t on three different brands of jetpack-vibrators because my stinky-little-peenie hasn’t gone off-planet. No, I’ll never forget my sexual encounter with Miss Americana 1973 because of what she gave me.

My first LSTD experience.

She had just climaxed, yanking out a clump of my hair and pouring a bottle of Pepsi on my belly (per my request) when I started to feel…off. At first I chalked up the tingling at the back of my head to either coital-bliss or an impending tumor. So I kept feebly thrusting. And the tingling persisted. So I kept feebly thrusting. And the tingling grew stronger. So I kept feebly thrusting. And the tingling turned into music.

And then the walls began melting and Roger Rabbit materialized so that he could tickle my ass and Miss Americana 1973 metamorphosed into a squid-creature that would’ve made even the likes of Lovecraft squirm and cry like a babby and then I began to cum but my dick shot out staples instead of ejaculate but I felt no pain only the wonder of producing steel from my sexual reproductive organ and I had to apologize to my squid-lover of the evening because I had shot staples all over his back but I made sure to clean them up with a rainbow.

When I awoke the next morning, Miss Americana 1973 was nowhere to be found. It seemed that I was completely alone in the suite. But then I closed my eyes and I saw that I had visitors – the spellbinding memories from the night before.

The remembrances of my first sexually-transmitted hallucinogenic experience.

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Hello to all of you – the heroes, bombshells, brats, nerds, Capitalist-hating-Commies, stuntmen, nurses, Commie-hating-Capitalists, post-modern Romantics – that visit Omega-Level? Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, your spot for sharing the various means by which you’ll survive the workweek. Hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be reading, watching, playing, eating, or listening to this week.

It’s internet show-and-tell at its most dastardly.

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I can’t solve a Rubik’s Cube. I can gun it off the wall at a moderately impressive velocity and then string together a line of obscenities guaranteed to make you blush. This dude right here can solve one in 28 seconds. Blindfolded.

Hit the jump to watch the maestro.

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Holy shit-tits, this is the bizness. (Disregard that entire sentence. It’s the entire bag of Jelly Belly sugar slowly metabolizing in my caffeine-guts.) There exists, in a promise land, a 24-hour cupcake-dispensing ATM. Mine eyes and shit. Mine eyes.

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Listen. Sometimes it gets a smidge difficult to differentiate reality from fantasy. Especially living in the Muiltiverse, where the first logical thing to think whenever anything gets weird is “Well, I’ve slide into an alternate dimension where these Goblin Men with soft serve ice cream coming out of their nipples must be the norm” , right? So I don’t blame  Nathan Fillion and Tim Daly for having a bit of difficulty disconnecting from their roles as Green Lantern and Superman.

Hit the jump to watch the humorous struggle.

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