They tryta tell ya not to worry.
“Don’t worry about it, everything will be fine.”

They tryta tell ya that it’s not really fuckin’ weird.
“What you’re feeling, right now, it’s perfectly normal.”

They tryta tell ya that what — or, I guess, who – you’re seein’ is familiar.
“Look! There he is! He’s opened his eyes! See, he’s waving to you! Wave back!”

But I’ll be goddamned if I ain’t never seen nothin’ less familiar.
“Go ahead – go into the room and give him a hug!”

And I’ll be good goddamned if there ain’t nothin’ I’d ever wanted to destroy more.
“Here, let me bring you in! I can only imagine what waiting for The Reuniting has felt like.”

Unfortunately, turns out that paperworkin’ and payin’ and waitin’ all felt like shit, and that shit felt like gold compared to this shit.

Unfortunately, turns out that bein’ Reunited with your once-dead son don’t feel so good as they tryta tell ya.

Unfortunately, turns out that seein’ your once-dead son openin’ his eyes and wavin’ at ya don’t feel so good when ya could only afford to upload his mind into a bootleg clone.

They tryta tell ya not to worry.
Worry.

—-

Come one, come all, step right up, folks: this is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

First, I spit prose-nonsense at you (that’s the stuff at the top). Then, I try to apologize for it by sharing a list of pop culture detritus I’ll be chewing on all week (that’s the stuff you’ll see after the jump). Finally, you hit up the comments and tell us what you’ll be entertainment-consuming this week.

Right this way, hombres!

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Come one, come all!

Step right up to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the carny freakshow extraordinaire, spectacular spectacle  for all of us disposable zeroes who’ve climbed aboard Spaceship OL. What’re we doin’ here? Well, we’re goin’ to show off the various ways we’ll entertain ourselves throughout the course of the workweek.

`Cause without music and movies and television and comics and action figures and greasy burgers, what’s the goddamn point?

Let’s do this!

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On the first Good Friday, Jesus Christ was nailed to a cross. He went down. Epic-style.

But he’s spent the last one thousand, nine hundred and eighty years training. Rebuilding himself. Fashioning himself into a Eucharist-shootin’, rocket-boot flyin’ bad ass. He’s ready for a rematch.

I’ve got my money on Robo-Jesus.