Truth be told, this podcast was a long time coming. And I ain’t sure it even should have come. You see a couple of months ago Rendar found himself a beautiful OMNI-DIMENSIONAL babe upon the silicate dunes of Io. Packed up his stuff, took the boarding shuttle down to her hut, and ain’t been seen since. We get glorious missives from him every once in a while — he’s happy. Kid on the way, arthritis salved by the regenerative sand-leeches he found down by the Cloaked Bay. But the drawback is that we couldn’t cut a podcast. Eventually we decided to record one without him – heresy I know – and pray he’d return before we dared record a follow-up.

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Que pasa, friends. Caff-Pow here, still a bit ragged from a wonderful weekend at Boston Comic Con. But soldier on, I shall. Sally forth, I must. So into the ditches of minutiae, I plunge. This is Monday Morning Commute. A post dedicated to answering the simple (or maddeningly complex) question: what are you looking forward to this week? What are you up to? Excited about? Don’t be shy, I’ll go first.

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A special edition of the OMEGA-CAST, straight from the floor of Boston Comic Con. Riff Simian captures a raging Tomahawk regarding a complaint about our “Fuck Lucas” t-shirt. The beautiful Bride of Frankenstein checks in. Our momentary brush with Rich from Toucher and Rich. Rendar Frankenstein talks cosplay. Caffeine Powered’s significantly better half talking about his obsession with cocks and lightning bolts. Bazinga! shirts. Budrickton’s descent from Toronto into our funny sounding land. And other assorted bullshit and madness.

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Fred was certain that everything’d gone according to plan.

Sure, it was only the third time he’d been called upon to complete the procedure. But why should he worry? It was the first thing they’d taught him at the Neural Corps Academy, a matter of routine that even those struggling with the coursework could exact if necessary. And he wasn’t no goddamn wash-out, he was quick to remind himself while taking a deep whiff of the checkered material.

He was Fred DeCoup. First, a child prodigy. Then, the star student-cum-valedictorian. And at twenty-two, the youngest cadet awarded the position of Reprogrammer General .

Needless to say, Fred was more than a bit startled when the subject woke up screaming. Typically, subjects’ reentries into consciousness are marked by outward expressions of tranquility, sometimes even gratitude. But when XT-203 came to, he was writhing with hatred and spitting vitriol.

“You piece of shit! You raped me! I remember everything! Release these clamps so I can tear out your throat!”

Fred DeCoup dropped XT-203’s boxer shorts from under his nose. He froze. He knew that everything hadn’t gone according to plan, that he’d made an error of the most egregious sort.

In his perverted ecstasy, Fred had forgotten the most important rule: always run a mind-wipe.

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the weekly call-to-arms for all aboard Spaceship OL — crew and passengers alike — to discuss the various ways we’ll combat the Boredom Bastards! Rumor has that a few of these fun-suckers’ve been spotted in the very sector we’re headed towards this week, so we need to make sure that everyone’s armed and ready to face `em!

Murder your familial responsibility with movies. Crush your manager’s halitosis with comics. Piledrive your self-doubt with pizza.

I’ll get us started, but you hafta join me in the comments section.

Let’s do this!

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Bummed out that the Boston Comic Con is cancelled? We at OL certainly are. It was going to be the first time we rolled out the Fuck Lucas ruckus to our native state. Don’t sweat too much, folks! There is an alternative. A friend of mine and ridiculously talented dude Adam Miller is involved with a replacement ditty taking place in Beverly. The Boston Comic Con Sucker!

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If there was one thing Durban hated, it was his bedside electronic crow.

Every morning, every goddamn morning, the metal-feathered automaton would leave its battery-perch, hover above the bed, and screech directly into Durban’s face. It didn’t matter to the faux-fowl whether Durban had a day off from the mineral farm or if he was dreaming of his ex-girlfriend from Jupiter or if he was in the midst of an ethanol-fueled fever dream. And this is why it was such an effective companion.

`Cause at 5:45 AM, the electronic crow was guaranteed to terror-scream Durban back into consciousness.

To be fair, Durban recognized the practical value of his name-brand, top-of-the line robot-rooster. After all, he wasn’t going to wake up and go to work completely of his own volition. And who could blame him? It takes a special sort of masochism to rise early enough to catch the first boneshaking Teleport-Shuttle of day to Rhea, the most bastardly of Saturn’s moons, only to spend the next eight hours scavenging for traces of Lupillian.

Goddamn.

But without the bird, Durban wouldn’t get to Rhea on time. And if Durban didn’t get to Rhea on time, there’s no chance an operator would save him an excavator. And if Durban didn’t excavate Lupillian, he wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. And on most days, the thought of not paying his rent on time positively horrified him.

But on one fantastic Monday morning, Durban decided that his hatred of the crow was more palpable than his fear of landlord-ire.

5:45 AM crept into existence, and the crow came to life. Shaking itself off of its docking station, the bird began to flutter upwards. But Durban had awoken nearly a half-hour before, plagued by a crotch-burn no doubt gifted to him by the discount Prosti-Clone he’d rented on Ganymede. So with one eye open and a fire plaguing his urethra, Durban waited for his every-morning adversary to strike first.

“CAW! CAW! THE CURRENT TIME IS FIVE-FORTY-FIVE ANTE-MERIDIEM! CAW! CA-“

Whoosh! The whiskey bottle spiraled through the air! Smash! The crow simply hadn’t been programmed to anticipate such an attack, and as such its beak was decimated by the hard glass corner of the bottle’s ass. The bird spent its last few seconds writhing in robo-agony, head caved in and vital sparks bleeding into the air.

“Well, I guess ya still woke me up, eh?” Durban was crouching down to assess the damage. Seeing that the target was destroyed, he took a self-satisfied swig from the whiskey bottle and walked over to his much-littered coffee table. From the table, Durban snatched a stack of comic books.

“Fuck work. And fuck birds. Today, I’m drinkin’ and readin’ comics.”

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! As OL’s weekly gathering for entertainment show-and-tell, the MMC is digital nerd-discussion at its finest. Here’s how it works: I’m going to showcase some of the fun-stuffs I’ll be munching on throughout the week. Then, you hit up the comments section and show off the enjoyment-snacks you’ll be stuff into your own mind-gullet. In the process, we geek out and debate and talk all sorts of nonsense.

It’s wonderful.

Let’s go for it!

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Thank the Maker – April’s almost over! Here in New England, winters are absolutely brutal and I’m pretty sure that this last one has been the bleakest of my life. As such, April seemed like it’d be a great reprieve but it’s proven to be a fickle bitch – cold and rainy with just enough sunshine to keep the razor from my wrist. But once May hits the winter coats are traded for hooded sweatshirts and smiles are abound.

It’s true – scientists say so.

To get us through this final week of National Sexual Assault Awareness Month, let’s hop into the Monday Morning Commute – the shining piercing on the tip of the dong that is the workweek. I’m going to run you through the highlights of the upcoming seven days, and then you can do the same. It’s internet-buddy show-and-tell at its best. Or worst. You decide.

Let’s do this.

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