What’s up, you grease-covered, slickened pieces of shit?! Or, rather that’s how I imagine your body. ‘Cause like most people, I can only imagine others bound by my own circumstances. You see, it’s hot as fuck out here in the Northeast. And that’s how I would describe myself. Greasy. Slick. Horny for air conditioning and ass. Hungry for cool breezes and caloric depravity. And most importantly? Feeling half-decent. With the semester winding down, I can feel my mind-anus unclenching. I’ve found myself sleeping a bit more deeply, and awakening a bit more carefree.

All of this explains why I’m actually writing an MMC on a Monday evening! Ha! Wowzers! Take a carrot, shine it with petroleum jelly, and stick it in my ass! Watch as I scream in delight! Cover the eyes of small children and other innocent passersby!

Anyways, what the fuck, let’s do this shit!

Here’s the detritus swirling up against my life-hole this week, tempting me, plugging me, encouraging me. I hope you’ll join me in the comments!

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My wife turns thirty this weekend, Saturday to be specific. It’s a weird sensation, knowing that she has shacked up with me for life, and been with me since she was literally twenty. Spent her golden years with a guaranteed Garbage Lord. It’s nice though, to chart our progress together, to check off life events together, and even more specifically to get high, eat cookies, and watch Workaholics together.

It’s nice, it’s quaint, it’s quiet.

I like spending time with her, and I like spending time with you folks, you denizens of the Space-Ship Omega. So let’s hang out at the Weekend Open Bar. Pass some marginal time within our comfortably marginal existences together, as we are lucky enough (or not lucky enough, the grape press of industry is whittling away our off-time) to have the next couple of days off.

So comrades, what are you doing this weekend? What are you watching? Eating? Reading? Thinking about? Anything and everything goes, so long as you adhere to the sign above the Tavern entrance: Thou Shalt Not Be A Douche.

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Ohhh, it’s hotter than a mofuckah’ out there. (There being the Eastern Seaboard, Empire Proper.) How are you friends and foes of the site doing today? I hope you’re doing well. This is Monday Morning Commute. Ya’ll know how it goes down around these parts. Unless you’re an innocent passerby. In which case I say: RUN! But if you’re not going to run, I should probably explain it to you. Within these virtual walls, we explain what we’re up to this week. Share the arts, farts, and life activities carrying us through the next 24×7 hours or whatever.

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Came across this today at Slashfilm. It’s one of a bunch of posters, all of which make my balls swell.

Via Slashfilm:

Joe Corroney has been providing Lucasfilm with official Star Wars artwork for books, games, trading cards, comic books, posters and magazines since 1997. He recently created a set of propaganda posters which he’s selling the original art for $250 a piece.

I can’t afford $2.50 for one of these, let alone $250. But if I had the money I would be totally fiscally irresponsible.