Clap your hands, say Weekend Open Bar!

Clap with me, rhythmically at first! Ignore, ignore your eyes rolling into the back of your head!

Clap your hands, say Weekend Open Bar!

Clap with me, now with a bit of horror, a pinch of fear! Ignore, ignore your mind being severed from your body!

For! My friends! To the Omniverse!

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The OMEGA-CAST is back, jackholes! With Rendar, to boot! Oh, so, delicious! Not really. It’s a bunch of me being really phlegmy, burping, and realizing the reason no one likes me anymore is because I come off as a sports talk radio host! Oh, I’m being negative.

Okay, okay. Um. You could always just skip to the part where Rendar, who has returned, and whose returned I said I would wait for, until we recorded a new podcast, argues with bitchy, loveless Eduardo about Baby Driver.

There’s, uh, other stuff. Han Solo movie talk, Bateman’s typical sociopathy, and overall just degenerate garbage lord fun. I hope you’ll join us!

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Man, it’s been a weird summer so far. Today marked the sixth, and final week of the summer class that I teach for incoming freshmen students. There’s just been something off since the get-go, and as its conclusion nears, a sense of confusion that it’s really ending, and a sense of relief that it’s really ending are both making themselves known. But it’s the end, the conclusion, the finale this week.

And for all my whimpering, simpering, and bitching, I only have to wear dress pants three more times until September.

And for all my whimpering, simpering, and bitching, I only have to work four days a week until September.

So here we are. Frazzled, and fried, but fairly grateful, all things considered.

This is Monday Morning Commute. The wank-off section, where we wank, and oh do we stroke, and rub, and perhaps even lick ourselves to the arts&farts we’re looking forward to on a given week. I’ll go first.

Then you go. Get excited. Don’t worry. Wet naps and warm towels will be dispensed per your request.

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I don’t know, what the fuck do you want from me? Just kind of in a funk, lately. Not pervasive, rather it sort of floats in and out of my day. Tired. Burnt out. Expressed the idea to my wife yesterday and her response was immediate, logical, and undeniable: I haven’t had a proper vacation in who the fuck knows how long, and I work myself to death. Always busy. Always tired. Always distracted.

Case in point, I write the above paragraph at 2pm during my lunch break. But, here I am, now! It’s 7pm. I have surfed time, space, commuter traffic, a half-assed workout, and a dog walk to rejoin this act of writing. I’m just, you know. Tired.

But! Hey! It’s Monday Morning Commute! By way of Tuesday. Despite being slathered in a melange of malaise, I’m actually looking forward to some shit this week, I’m actually consuming some pop culture I’m enjoying this week.

Join me in the comments with your own pop culture proclivities, thoughts on existence, gifs of furries farting on cakes. I don’t give a shit.

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This reminds me, I have to catch-up on Thrones before the premiere.

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Hello, friends! Denizens of the Space-Ship Omega! This is Monday Morning Commute, by way of Tuesday Evening. Why the tardiness? Why the general silence on the blog?

I’m glad you (didn’t) ask! I just blitz’d a weekend in Maui for a best friend’s wedding, and well. Coming back to reality after two days in paradise requires efforting on several levels. Readjusting to timezones, readjusting to the perils and praxis of regular life, yadda, yadda.

But I can’t complain.

I’ve discovered the answer to a question I’ve been asking myself since last year, when I knew I would be going to Maui. Is thirty hours of travel in the span of four days, and thousands of dollars for said travel, and missing teaching two incredibly intensive summer classes, worth forty-eight hours in paradise, for a best friend’s wedding?

Unequivocally, yes. 

But this, right here! It’s the weekly column where we share what we’re up to, on a given week! I’ll share my own findings, as I rattle around in the befuddled muck of my consciousness, trying to figure out not just what I’m up to, but what day it is, what time it is, this and that, this and that.

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I’ve been binging 1980s action flicks lately, and as I have, I’ve realized something. The perfect length for (almost) any movie is 90 minutes. 97 minutes with credits. So, shoutout to Game of Thrones for capping off their seventh season with a perfect-length film.

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Game of Thrones is winding down, folks. Yesterday (I think?) we got a trailer for the seventh season. Today, we have found out how many episodes the final season shall be. Six. Fucking six. There, now you know. Six.

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Here’s the first official trailer for the seventh season of Game of Thrones. As much as I bag on this show, I really want to watch the final two seasons as they air, surfing the zeitgeist with everyone else.

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Go figure: HBO is exploring potential spin-offs for everyone’s favorite mediocre display of dragons, tits, and violence. Yup. That’s right. Fuck Winter. Game of Thrones spin-offs are coming.

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