Uh. Miley Cyrus. Starring in Woody Allen’s TV series for Amazon (which I didn’t know was a thing)? I mean. Okay? It’s sort of enticing to me in a “what could this possibly look like?” sort of way.

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It hadn’t been my intention to light the mailman on fire.

I’d just wanted to give him a good scare. A shake-up. A reminder that I’m entitled to nothing less than the respect granted to all employers. `Cause love `em or hate `em, it’s the employers that give us the money for bill-payin’. Don’t believe me? Well, get caught screwin’ your boss’ husband and see how long you can keep payin’ for cable television and discount lapdances and beer and horny-videos and everything else worth livin’ for.

But seriously, I never thought the mailman’d actually go up in flames.

The way I sees it, I’m the mailman’s employer. Why’s that? Well, the mailman’s paycheck comes from taxes. And since I pay taxes most years, it’s my money that becomes his money. Sine qua pro bono. As his employer, it frustrates me to no damn end to see him royally bangin’ the job up the `ole keister. Parcel-delivery is one of the foundations of our friggin democracy! Without it we ain’t more than savages! There’s no excuse for the job bein’ done haphazardly!

And there’s no ignorin’ the fact that the mailman’s been stealin’ my goddamn TV Guides!

So yesterday, I waited by my mailbox. As the mailman approached I asked if he had my TV Guide. When he told me it must’ve been lost in the shuffle, I politely informed him that he was going to lose all of his “filth-riddle ass hairs.” Seizing his moment of confusion, I pushed him into my bushes, sending letters and packages all over the sidewalk. I quickly pulled down the back of his state-issued shorts and covered his buttcheeks with hairspray. As he screamed and squirmed and protested, I kept sprayin’, followin’ the cannister’s instructions to “apply thoroughly.” As I lit the match, I told him that I believed in poetic justice and his theft of my TV Guides had really been chappin’ my ass.

It hadn’t been my intention to light the mailman on fire. But I can’t say I regret it. Where’s my TV Guide?

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to list the activities that’ll keep me entertained throughout the week. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share your own suggestions for fun-havin’!

Rock! Roll! Lose control!

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Hey you!

What’re you doin’ here? You’re lookin’ for beer reviews? Well, why don’t you hit up one of those aggregators that treat brewing as a time-honored art and present user comments with averaged scores? Oh, you’re not really interested in muddling up beer-drinking by quantifying it? I can appreciate that. Huh? You say that you’d put more stock in the opinions of a stark-raving lunatic? More than a well-informed opinion, you’re seeking a heartfelt knee-jerk response?

If that’s the case, I’d say you’re in the right place.

My name is Rendar Frankenstein. I am quasi-fictional, enthusiastic, and ready to drink beer. Fasten your seatbelt, return your tray table to the upright position, and prepare for the hyperspatial-jump.

Today, I’m going to detail my experience with Walker’s Reserve.

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The trailer for the next Woody Allen joint (he’s calling them that now) has dropped, and I’m embracing it with arms wide open. If I’m being more specific, I’m trying to embrace Penelope Cruz’ character from the trailer, but I’m not sure I can wrap myself around her…glory. Oh yeah, the rest of the movie looks pretty jazzy, too.

Hit the jump to check it out.

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Hello there, fellow drone-bees! The workweek is upon us yet again, and we once again find ourselves hiding our true desires behind dead-skin masks. For forty hours a week, even the strongest and most original amongst us assume the personae of the tired and damned. In these times, we are nothing if not the hollow shells we’ve worked so hard to fill during off-hours.

Gatsby is jolted in the middle of the night, awakened by the American nightmare that sees him whimpering ,”Gatz…Minnesota…Dan Cody…”

Draper drinks and screws and sells himself into a life of luxury, and yet cannot shed the skin of Whitman’s despondency.

Kent writes the headlines that Superman inspires, but Kal-El will never get over the fact that he is the last survivor of a doomed lineage.

In spite of our most transcendental aspirations, there will always be forces working to keep us tethered to the material realities. And the most formidable of these forces is the bastard-thief known as the workweek. So there’s any hope of saving ourselves, we’ve only got one option.

We must remove our entertainment-swords from their scabbards and use them to slit the throat of the bastard-thief.

–-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to show you the various bits of entertainment I’ll be using to preserve my spirit during the workweek. Your task, should you feel up to it, is to hit up the comments section and show off the ways you’ll be keeping your heart alive.

Let’s do this!

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[toby cypress]

When I opened the door this morning, it hit me. Hard. Fuck the scientific calculations, I know damn well when change is afoot. And you can, too. Tomorrow, when you leave for work or play or prison, tilt your head back and suck in deep. It’s bound to tickle your nose.

The smell of summer.

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