Bring on the zombie apocalypse, I'm ready.
How, you ask? What irrefutable logic could I possibly have that would all but guarantee me Elite Zombie Slayer status in the face of a Hellish legion of the undead?
Well, for onesie, I've played enough zombie shooter games to convince me I couldn't possibly be anything less than a Bruce Campbell-esque demigod graced with a shotgun for an arm.
Secondarishly: I've logged hundreds of hours flying helicopters on this super realistic flight simulator program (available for PC, Mac, and Abacus) which, I might add, I legitimately paid for with a fake student ID to enjoy a $2.00 student discount. And, as an added bonus, by having achieved the coveted piloting rank of Fearless Pussywillow, I have been granted the esteemed privilege of entering a special 16-digit numeric key (they used a weird term to describe it: Credit Card Number or something) to get a real-life printed certificate of a Commercial Helicopter Pilot License, valid in, like, four countries, including Kiribati, Nauru, Kyrgystan, and Yougoslavia, the latter of which I have been repeatedly informed every time I ask, is totally still a legitimate country.
Besides, come apocalypse time, is anybody really going to be checking for proper documentation?
So, short of trying to make friends with an actual chopper pilot, whom I've heard are sticklers about muddy footwear in their machines and will make you hang off the skids until your boots dry off, I'm the next best choice to fly your neighborhood whirlybird when the flesh-eaters get the munchies.
And thirdliness: My culinary diet for the last twenty years has primarily consisted of spicy foods, from curry chicken to five-alarm chili to questionable home-made hot sauces. The last six weeks in particular, everything I eat is smothered in hot Mexican salsa laced with habañero pepper flakes, dunked in tongue-melting aged cayenne pepper sauce. Why? Simple: my goal is to marinate my cell-phone-signal-reduced brain in a ridiculously spicy bodily environment for months, rendering it completely unpalatable to any self-respecting member of the undead, ensuring my immunity as I slay my way into a hero's Hall of Fame. My head itches constantly, so it must be working.
Now, although I am certain (I'm sure you'd also agree) that my first two attributes above would easily rank me as "number one desirable" to any post-apocalyptic group of survivors, my third still leaves some people questioning my overall credibility as a free-thinking human altogether.
Problem is, zombies have changed.
When I was growing up (and I hope never to fully reach the pinnacle), zombies wanted brains, that was it. If you've ever watched Return of the Living Dead, arguably one of the most educational movies to come out of the 1980's, you'll remember it's clearly explained that zombies craved only brains, nothing else. And you really do have to treat the film as more of a documentary than anything, especially given the many times characters were trying to "scientifically" theorize why it was that zombies incessantly craved human grey matter for their gastronomical fare.
A noteworthy scene from the movie:
A freshly turned Freddy tries to sweet-talk his girl Tina into letting him nibble on her brains because "They smell so sweet and cinnamony!", or something to that effect. It's been a while since I've seen it, I really should go re-educate myself. With popcorn.
Anyhowitzer, somewhere along the way somebody decided to speed those fuckers up considerably and make them far less picky about what human bits they chose to consume. What the hell? You can't just go changing the rules!
And while I'm at it, when did vampires and werewolves turn into misunderstood fairy-tale wusslings fraught with inner turmoil, angst, and feelings?
And before you think yourself clever, yes, I do realize that comment above is probably a little dated at this point. Have I mentioned my internet access was a little threadbare for a few months at one point during the last year? No? Still not a good enough reason for tardy commentary?
Well, too bad. I haven't written about it before, so there. And, I'd like to think, should this blog have been active during the height of that horrid book/movie franchise (you know the one, it rhymes with "Twilight") maybe the head licensing agent would have been among the ten poor souls that follow this refuse of the internet you're currently following and seen the error of his ways in regards to tinkering with classic monster lore, prompting him to immediately enlist ruffians to orchestrate mass book burnings of the entire series and shutting down theaters mid-screening, leaving clueless teens and misdirected young adults in pitch-black confusion to sort out the remainder of their silly little lives.
I have it from a very reliable source, a fortunate soul who saw the light before the twilight turned to night (like what I did there? Me too. Nice.) and would go through life advocating the rights of vampires to include separate public bathrooms and extended maternity leave. As a once-upon-a-time Twilight insider who tragically experienced direct exposure from the franchise's absurd otherworldly assumptions, she informed me that 1) a Vampire's skin merely "glittered" when exposed to unfiltered sunlight, and 2) they labelled themselves as vegetarians because (get this) they only drank the blood of animals (wtf??) And, apparently, werewolves had more to worry about than just silver bullets doing them in. Turns out the "new and improved " touchy-feely human/wolf hybrids could be killed by pretty much anything, including but not limited to: normal bullets, fire, incendiary grenades, nuclear fallout, ACME brand anvils, pencil sharpeners, and fleas. FLEAS! According to my source, they actually made reference to that little werewolf slayer in one of the books!
So now I'm not sure what to do in the unlikely (but not impossible) event of a classic monster/creature encounter. Can I pet it?? Do I have to shoot it to save myself or can I just snort some pepper and sneeze on it? 'Cause it seems like it wouldn't take much to do in one of those monstrous embarrassments.
Guess I'm not as monster-Apocalypse ready as I thought I'd be. Or even hoped.
Best to just go put in some more time playing video games and hope the gateway to Hell will open up directly below my feet when the time comes so I won't have to worry about it.
Don't be a monster! Share this blog with everyone you know, regardless of restraining orders. Thanks for reading!