#November2016
Tuesday Evening Commute: Born Of The Bomb
It’s Tuesday, Tuesday Evening. I’m writing what was supposed to be Monday, Monday Morning Commute. The clock ticks towards quarter of 6pm, Eastern Seaboard of the Empire Standard. I have approximately 23 minutes to file this, to fart it, to fecal-blast this shinformation onto your digital face. Before! Before my next obligation. I’ve been wearing the same dress pants for ten hours, I’m tired, my caffeine levels are precariously low, and I have so much goddamn wood to chop before I sleep.
But I’m happy, happy to generate this minuscule bubble of textual diarrhea. This minuscule raft in the shitty seas of oblivion that seem to constitute this year, this 2016 A.D. Come friends, come quickly. Ignore my purple-headed boner, I merely have to pee. Come friends, come quickly. Ignore the wild look in eyes, I’m merely between my past caffeine fix and my next.
Come friends, come quickly. Join me on this raft, cling to it with me. Nay, cling to it for me.
This is Tuesday Evening Commute. This is what I’m looking forward to this week. Please, I implore, I beseech, I cajole. Please, join me in the comments section. Let me know what you’re indulging in this week.
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Monday Morning Commute: You Are Always Home
Monday Night, another Monday Night. Less hectic than most, more hectic than some. But I’m here, and so I type, and so as I type the sands of time drain. Both towards the moment of imminent slumber, and the moment of eternal slumber, the eradication of order on a cellular level for one Ian Omega. What’s weird? On this autumnal night, less hectic than most, more hectic than some? What’s weird is that I fear the former more than the latter. The former brings the siren screech of an alarm clock, the latter brings at worst Nada and at best Something Else.
All of this is neither here nor there, though, neither here nor there.
For this right here is Monday Morning Commute.
Weekend Open Bar: Holiday With The New Scum
This is Weekend Open Bar.
I’ve got a cold this weekend, folks. This is how bad of a cold I’ve got, I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya. My cold is so fucking bad that I couldn’t even finish my chimichanga. How’s that for a fucking cold? My cold is so fucking bad that my farts are thick, hateful, nightmare blasts of Theraflu chemicals and phlegm-gut. How’s that for a fucking cold?
But the Theraflu does its job, oh yes. I knew the Theraflu was doing its job earlier tonight. I knew it while I was walking the Snowbeast and out of nowhere came the thought, “Man, I’m damn comfortable, I could just lay down.” Now mind you I may live on a rather comfortable, middle-class street. But at no time should a gangly man with a SpaceX hoodie be laying on the damp concrete sidewalk, a confused Great Pyrenees alternating between lapping at her owner and struggling to break free and run into the woods for a Vision Quest.
After I had that thought, after I processed that potential consequence, I thought to myself. Well golly, I’m straight fucked-up on Theraflu!
Monday Morning Commute: I’m Broken! And Having A Good Time!
Another dosage of the Monday Blues antidote for you, fellow OL garbage folk! Right here! Right now!
The wind whispers of blood and ill intent! Monsters on podiums, clowns in streets!!! Tedium, tedium, tedium surrounds us! Our distractions betray us, but they’re all we have. Our politicians betray us, but they’re all we have! Our bodies betray us, but they’re all we have!
Feeling down? No worries!
Another dosage of the Monday Blues antidote for you, fellow OL garbage folk! Right here! Right now!
This is M-O-N-D-A-Y M-O-R-N-I-N-G C-O-M-M-U-T-E! And so long, so long as I continue to pump blood (HOT BLOOD) and suck wind (DRY WIND), I’ll be here. Commuting physically to the indoctrination clinic that I try and subvert. Commuting electronically to the space-oasis aboard Space-Ship OMEGA via the shuddering pipes of the I-N-T-E-R-N-E-T. Bringing you my own personal panoply, baked, shredded, and snorted, that gets me through a particular week. My distractions! My anticipations! Hark, we must stare at the Tube, the Screen, the Page. Lest we stare at the corners, at the shadows, at their encroachment.
Oh, Plato! I’ll take the fucking cave. Thanks for the fire. The sky outside is a dank pall, and the folks that gaze up at it find only horror. Yes, yes, I’ll take the fucking cave.
You know how this goes, oh, you know how this goes. Follow up my own weekly wanderings with your own assortment of distractions and existential deflections in the comments section.
Monday Morning Commute: You Are Here
A boom, boom, boom, let me hear you say the World is On Fire and All Effort to Correct Its Faults are Futile so Let’s Dance as the Palaces Burn!
Can I hear you say it? Are you saying it? Screaming it?
Screaming it as your white-knuckled rage is consuming you, screaming and screaming and screaming. Screaming as your throat rips, as your lungs burst, as your eyes dilate beyond capacity.
Can I hear you say it? Are you saying it? Screaming it?
Screaming it as your heart explodes, as your moment in time-space rips, as the Void collapses in, on, around, within you.
Can I hear you say it? Are you saying it? Screaming it?
No? You’re just sort of sitting at your computer? In your sweatpants? A thick, honeyed malaise slathered over you?
Hmm.
Me too.
So let’s embrace this rejection of the rejection together. Let’s share what we’re enjoying this week, these enjoyments specifically designed to keep us from screaming.
This is Monday Morning Commute.
‘Gears of War 4’ Launch Trailer: Lock and Load and Chainsaw Guns and Mechs
Microsoft and its Cabal have released the Gears of War 4 launch trailer ahead of the game’s upcoming release. The motherfucker is everything you’d expect from a trailer for the franchise. You know, big guns. Big people. Big monsters. Big action. I’m ready.
Run The Jewels debuts ‘Panther Like A Panther’ in ‘Gears of War 4’ Horde Gameplay Trailer
Yes, the lead of this paragraph is decidedly Run The Jewels and not Gears of War 4. That said, I’m excited for both the new Gears and RTJ3. Moreso RTJ3, but I’m sweating that more than most things.
‘Game of Thrones’ composer is handling ‘Gears of War 4’ score
Some epic as fuck music is coming to the epic bro-fuck as fuck Gears of War 4.
‘Gears of War 4’ Gameplay Trailer: Father, Son, Mucho Murder
Marcus and his kid, man. Just straight killing things together. Quality bonding. I’m jealous. Not how I bonded with my dad, this right here. Generally we “boned” by him defeating me in some physical activity while demeaning my existence for the audience in his head. Man, that, uh, got dark quick. Enjoy the trailer!
