There’s a pain in your stomach that can only be cured with Russian magic.

Go ahead, clench the side of your abdomen. C’mon, admit it already! Y’know that you feel an inflammation somewhere in your gut! In the darkest recesses of your tummy! Maybe it feels like a itch at the bottom of your cecum. Or maybe it throbs like a patch of warts in your large intestine. Hell, some of you might even have a burning in the colon, and you’d damn well better pray that it doesn’t keep runnin’ down your digestive tract.

The truth is that you’re afflicted with a goddamn existential bezoar.

Fortunately, the Russians have been attacking these motherfuckers for years. Although Rasputin’s mystical sojourns are well-documented, it’s not often mentioned that he was simply trying to remedy the bezoar ailing Russia’s collective unconscious. Later, during the dark days of the Soviet Empire, the mystic arts would be forfeited in favor of science. But even with the root of these explorations being the same desire to destroy all that ailed, these efforts would also fall short. As such, Mother Russia, proud and noble and willing to die trying, would forge ahead in search of a new solution. And it would be found.

The solution? Beer.

To be precise, tonight’s curative elixir is Raspberry Russian Imperial Stout `12.

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Welcome to Friday.

After the shitstorm that is the workweek, there’re plenty of ways to unwind. If your favorite sports team is in town, you could head to the game and cheer on the athletes. After all, sports heroes love their fans! Or, if sports aren’t your thing, you could go to the theater so as to bask in the relaxation of a concert. And if worst comes to worst, you could do your chores and then waste time with your friends.

But when it comes to end of the week refreshment, there’s really only one perfect accompaniment. Whether you’re playing video games or shredding on an eight-string, there’s a surefire way to make your experience more enjoyable. This means of party-amplification is, of course, sippin’ on a fine-ass brew.

This Friday sees me sampling Bannatyne’s Scotch Ale.

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Rodrigo’s eyes went skyward, following the rocket as it pushed against unseen forces. Gravity. Defeatism. Self-appointed moral barometers. The seven-year-old was watching magic incarnate, and although he knew this to be the case, he couldn’t find the words to express it.

“It’s…it’s…it’s…” was all that Rodrigo exhaled when his opinion was polled.

Once the rocket had disappeared, Reggie tried to pull his kid brother towards the car. Unsuccessfully, of course. Rodrigo kept his neck craned, concentrating on the fading wisps of purple exhaust. Imagining the strange world the crew was going to explore. Contemplating how wonderful it’d be if the planet’s inhabitants actually accepted the offer.

From what the scientists said, they could be quite stubborn.

“D’ya think the aliens are going to come back with `em?” Rodrigo inquired through a gap-toothed grin.

“Well,” Reggie began, pausing to take his brother’s hand while crossing the street, “for their sake, I certainly hope so.”

“Why’s dat?”

“`Cause they’ll never get here on their own. And they’re hurtin’ for certain – more people than resources, more hatred than love. Sometimes even the brightest of rainbows can’t shine through the storm clouds. Doesn’t mean the rainbow ain’t there, jus’ needs a sweet breeze to clear out the air. Get what I’m sayin’?”

“Uh-huh,” Rodrigo mused, idly scratching his scalp. “The rocket-men are gonna go help the aliens `cause the aliens are in big-time trouble.”

“You got it, buddy.”

The seven-year-old pushed his legs into double-time to keep pace with his older brother. Other days, he’d dawdle behind. But at this moment, there was an electricity in the air and Rodrigo’s inquisitive mind was surging. So many details to consider and questions to answer.

“Hey Reggie, how long’ll it take the rocket-men to get to Earth?”

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Welcome to MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot where I rummage through the entertainment-debris that’ll be occupying my mind during the workweek. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be doing to survive the 9-5 life. It’s like a show-and-tell cocktail with a nerdcore garnish.

C’mon, let’s give each other some bad ideas.

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