Goddamn, if I don’t feel like MacReady these days. Like, my body may very well lay in bed for eight hours every night. Maybe more! But, fuck me sideways. Whatever I’m engaging in certainly isn’t restful sleep. Probably getting in some good core workouts though, whilst I slumber. Motherfucking tossing! Motherfucking turning! Just fucking tired, man. And while I can wear my faithful baseball cap to cover my bedhead, I can’t hide these bags under my eyes from coworkers and students.

Eh, fuck it! It’s a pandemic. If bags under my eyes are the greatest of my physical concerns, I’ll jot myself down as blessed.

Anyways, this is Monday Morning Commute! You know the motherfucking drill! I’ll share what I’m partaking in, to distract and titillate myself. Then, you’ll join me in the comments. Sharing your own distractions, distinctions, and diatribes.

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In short, because I’m fucking busy! This is Monday Morning Commute. The cavernous post at the end of the Internet where we all share what we’re up to during a given week. The arts and distractions that are helping us Mind The Grind. Spittin’ about our anxiety-laden lives because of Said Grind. Maybe a random anecdote about the time your donger got caught in that chalupa (is this a euphemism? I don’t know!) in the Taco Bell bathroom.

I’ll go first.

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Hey friends! Pull up a stool. Pound your beverage of choice. Be it monkey urine, which is empirically proven to make you stronger, and run faster. Like the Reebok Pumps of liquids. Or be it alcohol, which will make me more appealing, and less annoying in your eyes! Whatever you drink of choice, slam it down and then enter this column. Weekend Open Bar. Where we shoot the shit for the 48 hours that The Man lets us have to pretend we live fulfilling lives. Or, if you have to work, bitch in here about how the Weekend Grind is a condemnable offense in the Eyes of the Lords of Kobol.

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Crack open a pint of your preferred Esophageal Lubricant and stay awhile. For many that’s some bougie hard alcohol on the rocks. For others, unrefined and pinned to the Great Wall of Dementia, it’s seventy-three Diet Dews with a splash of Heart Palpitations. Whatever way the arrow of your taste bends, you’re welcome here. ‘Cause this is Weekend Open Bar.

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About fucking time, Netflix! You’ve signed a traffic deal with both Comcast, and now Verizon on the tattered ashes of Net Neutrality. I could be more bitter about this, but whatever. I’m a consumer-donkey at heart, and really all I care about is being able to watch the new seasons of Trailer Park Boys with no fucking stuttering.

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I cannot be more excited about the new seasons of Trailer Park Boys dropping on Netflix. Sure the quality of the show waned over its initial run, but in some completely unhealthy way I grew to love and intertwine myself around the souls of my fictional fellow Nova Scotians. Their return makes whole some broken sector of my rotting psyche. This preview had me losing it, and if you don’t like it you can plunge a stick of dynamite up your ass and go throw yourself to the Winds of Shit.

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In the words of Bubbles, this is one beautiful cocksucker right here! I’ve been painfully obsessing over Trailer Park Boys for the past couple of months. Maybe a half a year. Whatever. Fuck you. The mockumentary set in the Canadian province of Nova Scotia details the degenerate, hilarious, usually depressing lives of a local trailer park. It speaks to me on a more specific level, since my family hails from Squirrel Eatin’-Inbred City portions of Nova Scotia. The show itself has been around for a long fucking time, debuting in Canada back in 2001. Now thanks to a spreading popularity courtesy of Netflix, it LIVES AGAIN ON SAID SERVICE.

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