Merry Christmas!

Gavon Laessig brings my attention to clearly the best Christmas tree ornament. Ever. I can’t wait to construct my own and use it for the years that follow. It’ll make a nice festive holiday jumping off point for me to explain to Lil Caffeine Powered about how the internet broke us and now we’re all using tasers and nipple clamps to get off.

The phantom hides in the pantry, waiting for the child to awake. Always in the pantry. Always behind the cookies. The child, bleary-eyed and delirious with dream-dust, makes his way into the snack cabinet. His belly, constantly satiated by parents who know not of discipline, grumbles. Obeying, the child opens the cupboard door and reaches in to retrieve the chocolate-chip delights.

SNATCH!

Snack time.
For the phantom.

–-

Welcome, my babies, to the Monday Morning Commute. This is the place where we detail our agendas for the upcoming week. Avoid the drudgery of existence. Beat boredom into a pulp. Repel the Snack-Phantom. Let’s fuggin’ do this.

–-

Listening / A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra

In case you haven’t noticed the fleet of minivans parked at the mall indefinitely or the neighbors who think their front lawns are reasonable facsimiles of Times Square, let me clue you in: it’s Christmas time. Or holiday time. Or whatever. From my completely secular standpoint, I kind of wish we could all give up the bogus religious connotations of the Winter Solstice Festivals and agree on something new. One holiday to rule the all.

Anyways, I use a few different activities to get into the holiday spirit. Spending time with friends. Pounding eggnog by the liter. And most importantly, listening to seasonal music. Over the years I’ve run the gauntlet when it comes to Christmas tunes, from Jimmy Buffet to Savatage. Hell, if you don’t give yourself a chance to try the kookier coldcuts from the Christmas music antipasto, you’re really doing yourself a disservice.

This year, however, I’m going the route of the traditionalist. I took it upon myself to download a vinyl rip of A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra.

Holy Jesus-Birth, Santa, a digital transmission of a piece of plastic that was listened to by someone fifty-three years ago?!?! Somebody with hopes and dreams and a consciousness that has probably since faded back into the Universal Collective?!?

Yes, I even try to make my holiday activities about temporality-defiance.

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Amazing, NFSW picture below the jump. I censor, because I want you to feel comfortable mindlessly refreshing us from your cubicles.

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I had the greatest idea yesterday. It involved a musical I’m going to put on. The star will be none other than my hero, the Martian. Aka Weezy F. Baby. It isn’t going to be an original production, but rather a reimagining of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Check this shit out.

Ready?

Weezy Wonka and the Sizzurp Factory. I realized that this was a go when I pictured little kids swimming around in one of those Wonka lakes, but it’s made up of fucking cough syrup with codeine and Sprite. Sizzurp in the house! I can’t tell you why I was picturing little kids swimming in lakes of codeine cough syrup. Like, I literally have no idea how I arrived at that thought. Who knows!

Also, maybe the kids can prance through cannabis gardens, and they’ll get shot out of a fucking cannon by little midget helper people when they start smoking too much and the what not.

Weezy Wonka. It can’t be worse than that deep-fried abortion that Johnny Chucklefuck Depp and Timmy Totally Kooky Burton put out a couple of years ago. Right?

Who wants in? I’m currently casting as well as soliciting donations.

[enlarge]

Who can say no to this shit? For starters, you get to wait on a dude hand and foot. Plus, you get free ass beer. And!, I bet he doesn’t realize you could totally gank those beer cans and turn them in for nickles. This shit probably isn’t legit, which is a shame, because I have a winter break coming up.

[Source: Boingboing]

Well, it has become clear what someone should be getting me this Christmas season. To orgasm, and beyond!

Everyone that tells the Brothers OL to lay off the caffeine and energy drinks can officially cram it!

Unless you were born in the 1800s, you undoubtedly realize that Frank Thomas is the greatest athlete of all time; check out the Big Hurt promoting the ultra-safe, certainly-good-for-you energy powder ZizZazz!

The energy boost was something I needed to play professional baseball.

That’s what we’re saying! Just about writing and reading and…uh…playing video juegos and whatnot.

I came across this sign today, taking a drive. It stunned me so much that I had to fucking pull over and take a picture of it. I can’t think of anything that would make this sign a good idea. I mean, well, I have two ideas. Either they were listening to Bono’s command to perform cunnilingus, or they were like “Fuck it, let’s just come out and be honest about it. Little boys, supplicating positions!”

Not exactly a brilliant slogan, but god damn if it didn’t make my morning.

[OCTOBERFEAST is the greatest celebration of the year, a revelry dedicated to pop-culture’s most nutritious Halloween detritus. Plastic screams and artificial sweeteners have never been more bountiful. In the old country, villagers refer to the extended party as Satan’s Snacktime]

I’m going to tell you a scary story.

When I was a little kid, there was a professional wrestling company called the WWF. Don’t look for them – they don’t exist anymore. This company had absolutely perfected the slop-culture art of pro-wrestling, creating a product that was as enthralling as even the finest piece of art. The good guys were the best. The bad guys were pure evil. And even the maniacs captivated. If you were an apostle of the WWF, it was a beautiful time to be alive.

But lurking about the dark underbelly of staged athletics was a different creature altogether. Relegated to filthy corners of sports entertainment, this abomination took umbrage at its second-class status. This being didn’t smile and shake hands. It didn’t kiss babies on the forehead and say “God bless.” And it sure as hell set any precedents.

This ghoul was called the WCW. And it was the malevolent doppleganger of the WWF.

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College Humor brings an amazing representation of the Jersey Shore as an old school RPG. Fucking amazing. Jersey Shore is the future, Final Fantasy IV is the past. When the two worlds collide, time and space ripple momentarily, before embracing the awesomeness that is the contradiction.

Hit the jump to check out the video, skank.

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