We Hate Zombies

Scenario:
Like a badass, you have a game room in your basement oddly situated next to a bunch of tools across the room, including a crowbar, hacksaw, and some battery powered shit. Maybe you have a garage in your basement, maybe your wife just hates your things and wants it trapped in the downstairs, whatever. Also, you have a computer down there too, which you only ever use just for watching pr0n while you play a game of pool. Which is what you’re doing.

But then something in the back of your mind triggers a heightened sense of awareness, and you begin to hear the sounds of distant screaming. Oh baby, this is what you’ve always dreamt of, time for some action! Except you can hear they’re already in your house. And they’re already infecting your wife. Holy shit! They’re already coming down into your man cave and are between you and all your possible weapons! What do you do?

What you should do:
Pull your pants up and fasten your safety belt, cause it’s time to rock! As a reminder to everyone who doesn’t remember every word that I’ve ever preached, there’s no such thing as being separated from all possible weapons. As soon as you stand up, you should immediately become aware that all your junk no longer has meaning beyond what damage it can inflict on an infected rotten turd muncher.

At your desk, you understand the world is over and that the computer will soon lose power forever. First weapon: the computer. Without a computer, the desk is nothing. Second weapon: the desk. Then you realize you don’t have time to sit down anymore. Third weapon: the chair. And you never really played pool anyway cause you suck really bad at it. Fourth weapon: pool sticks, the cue ball, America.

Without knowing the meaning of fear, you should smash that sticky keyboard into the teeth of the first blood-thirsty zombie, knocking him backward onto his ass. Then throw the chair across the room and trip up the three zombies still coming down the stairs. The pool balls are worthless to you, but grab two pool sticks and overturn the table onto the toothless downed dead bastard still struggling to get up.

Two wooden spears in hand, all that’s left is to dance a dance of everlasting death, spearing the lifeless eyes of those cursed fuckers until you reach your wall o’ tools. I won’t even list the different weapons you’ve suddenly found for yourself, but I think you won’t have any trouble cleaning up this mess and getting the hell out of Dodge.

What I would do:
No ex-Major League pitcher turned nine ball pro would be able to resist spinning onto the pool table and beaming zombies straight in the face with a rack of balls…which is exactly what I would do. For a little bit anyway, because it would be fun, like Shaun of the Dead throwing records at zombies kind of fun. I guess what I’m trying to say is Family Fun. Unlike what was on the computer.

After having my bit of fun, the rage would inevitably settle back in, and there would be nothing left to hold back my wrath. Any zombie still standing would immediately get a face full of CRT monitor, followed by a desk full-body-slamming. Keep in mind that none of these things are likely to put a zombie down for the count, at least not like poking them through the eye with a wooden stake, but it helps me control my penchant for burning fury — by adding gas to the flames.

Immediately I would begin dismantling my stairs one board at a time, taking each one and beating the moving corpses until it splintered into fragments and the sons of dead, motherless goats really stopped moving for good. The blood and gore would be epic and fascinating, the kind of phenomenon mathematicians might someday study for fractal splatter analysis.

I would probably need to take a shower, then run to the nearest Taco Bell and see if they had been overrun yet. Booyah! Say hello to my Burrito baby.

Thanks to Tyler for submitting this scenario.

Scenario:
You’re walking aimlessly in a park.  It could be any park, it could be your park, and this just happens to be every normal day you’ve ever had.  The sun is sunning, the birds are chirping, the world is spinning, but slowly, relaxed.  Shit!  A herd of zombies appears out of no where, grunting, groaning, moaning for brains.  They reach toward you, and you have 1 second before your IZRM rocks the world.  What do you do?

What you should do:
This is what you should be thinking: “NOOOOOOOO!!!!  STOOOOOOOOPPPPP!!!!! Those aren’t zombies!”  Duh.  Everyone knows those aren’t zombies, because zombies don’t mother fucking talk god damn son of a bitch.  How many times a day do I hear zombies cry for brains?  Never, because zombies don’t talk, but a lot of posers end up with broken arms and no sympathy from me.  If you want, let your IZRM take over and wipe out the world; otherwise, bite your lip or break your finger or shit your pants.  Just do whatever it takes to stop yourself from killing a gaggle of teenagers (if you care enough).

What’s going on here?  Cosplay, the name of a movement for people who never let go of Halloween, for people who didn’t get invited to the costume parties everyone else was going to, for people who think they look better in someone else’s clothes than naked.  For these people, dressing up in costume isn’t just a once-a-year thing, it’s an everyday thing.  Why live your own life when you can act like you’re living the life of an imaginary character in some Japanese storyline?  No!  Don’t answer that!  It was a rhetorical question, I don’t want to hear bullshit about scantily clad women and huge weapons of ultimate doom.  Cosplay is not real life, and that’s what’s important here.

Unfortunately for those dumb enough to dress as a zombie, if you die in Cosplay you die in real life.  That’s why they are a real danger to themselves and you are the ultimate danger against them.  Fortunately for everyone, they can’t infect you if they bite you, which pretty much means you can drink their blood with impunity.  Still, I wouldn’t recommend it.  

What I would do:
I can smell Cosplay a mile away.  I knew those zombie look-alikes were coming my way like a fart on the wind.  Thanks to me, they were safe from a case of mistaken IZRM and get a chance to do something great with their lives.  I should be considered a hero, but teens these days can’t recognize heroes anymore; it’s been too long since they’ve had a good hero.  How can you tell?  Why else would they dress up like a zombie?  It’s disgusting.

Which brings me to the point.  I really hate some god damn zombies.  I hate them so much, I don’t even want to let imaginary zombies live.  That’s what drives me to find a Cosplay zombie hunter willing to take down a crowd of unsuspecting demons.  And I don’t just find some dork off the street willing to say “bang bang” or “lightning bolt! lightning bolt!”  I find a damn hot chick with enough gunpower to shoot down a fully functional mecha.¹  Whoa….  I think I just had a funny feeling.  Down there.  This is the shit dreams are made of people, so you gotta enjoy it while it lasts.

Yeah, I hate zombies that much. No, I didn’t get invited to a costume party either. Yeah, it does have something to do with what happened last year. No, it’s a long story and I’ll save it for another time.

¹ I’d apologize to the ladies for the sexism, but I’ve gotta be true to myself, and that’s the truth.

Scenario:
You’re a tourist down in Hollywood, enjoying the scenes and hoping to catch a glimpse of a real Hollywood star. You’ve taken a wrong turn and end up in parking lot 6E of some shopping complex when you stumble upon them. Hundreds of zombies just lying around in the parking lot. You are perplexed and unnerved by the fact that they just seem to be resting which is uncharacteristic. All of the sudden, they start up towards the streets. What do you do?

What you should do:
They are coming your way and you have to think fast. Ask yourself, what would Simon Pegg do? He would act like one of them in order to reach safety. Brilliant!! As the zombie mob comes around the corner, you being to saunter and lazily roll your head around in such a way that you blend in perfectly. You just have to make it outside where it will be safe to run.

As the crowd approaches the surface, you see a young couple heading your way. They are in incredible danger and don’t even seem to notice, but you can’t risk yelling out a warning because you will instantly be covered in hungry zombie mouths. Obviously this couple is not deserving of such a sacrifice because of how dumb they must be, so you watch in horror as they are surrounded by the zombies. You throw up in your mouth, not a little but a lot, but swallow it all back down to make their sacrifice mean something.

The crowd starts to disperse and you know that the couple is dead. You actually see them saunter toward the front of the group when it happens. Suddenly the entire zombie army that you have gotten trapped in breaks into a song and dance. In fact, you can even hear Michael Jackson’s Thriller playing somewhere in the background. You panic because you don’t know the moves and run for your life. The zombies are too caught up in the dance to follow and you live to see another day. How odd.

Later, you find out that there were no zombies, but just a bunch of idiots dressed as zombies, putting themselves at risk, just to do a stupid dance in the streets of Hollywood. You shake your fist at the video.

What I would do:
Whenever I come across a horde of zombies that happens to be unfortunate enough to be located underneath a building, I always know what to do. I have a specially designed bomb hidden in the lining of my stomach for just such an emergency. It is about the size of a grapefruit and I keep it safe in a latex glove.

After throwing up the bomb I keep hidden, I located one of the major support beams of the garage. Just a quick punch through the beam and there is enough room to fit my bomb snuggly in the middle for maximum destruction. I set the timer for thirty seconds and hit the road. If I don’t make it out alive, at least I got the bastards.

Thirty seconds later I am safely in the Cuban bakery down the street enjoying a fresh natilla when the bomb goes off. The entire building is destroyed and so are those dirty, stinking, zombies. God bless America (and Cuban pastries).

Scenario:
Woooooweee!  You just blew up a bus full of decrepid, stinking zombies, and the exhilerating rush of adrenalin is still pumping through your veins as you commence slamming a Red Bull.  Man, those zombies didn’t even see what hit em!  And the looks on their big, dumb, old, uncomprehending faces…  Ah, priceless.  Just as you start thinking that some of those zombies were pretty far along in their decaying process, the cops bust onto the scene and start dropping elbows on your spine.  What the hell?  Arrested.  Now you’re charged with the murder of a couple dozen oldies who will never love their grandchildren again.  You made the priceless mistake: old people might not be zombies.  What do you do?

What you should do:
Play it tight lipped and get your lawyer.  Clearly there’s nothing wrong with your senses, you were just a little over-zealous in your defense of mankind.  You did your best, but apparently your best was too good: those old people weren’t dead yet, let alone undead.  Being that as it is, you need a good lawyer to convince the jury that you’re certifiably insane.  Look for one that has taught acting classes, because acting a little crazy never hurt anyone who was supposed to actually be crazy.

Next, when you get a chance, pull a big clump of hair right out of your head.  When you’re hair looks crazy, people start to think you’re crazy.  Then, whenever there’s a moment of silence, ask someone if your hair is ok.  I don’t know if crazy people do that kind of thing or not, but it sure sounds hilarious.  The hair will grow back if you live long enough.  

Lastly, stick to your guns.  Don’t tell people that you “thought they were zombies.”  Tell them that “they were zombies, zombies in waiting.”  Then tell the courtroom about the life of a happy go lucky caterpiller named Steve, and how one day he got all fat and puffy and made himself into a coccoon, and how after a while Steve popped out as a very fragile pointless winged thing and got hit by a car.  Old people do that too.   If we wait too long to bury them, they start to stink, and it’s not far between stink and zombie.  After that story, they might let you go free, but they’ll more likely send you somewhere to get psychological help, which is kind of the idea even though you don’t need help.

What I would do:
No one is going to believe that it wasn’t pre-meditated when I tell them I just happened to have that rocket propelled grenade in my pocket.  That means something to some people, and some of those people may be in the jury.  Now, I’m no lawyer, I don’t know how the system works, or why a concealed explosive is illegal when a concealed firearm isn’t, but I do know one thing: zombies.  Which brings to bear the question of why I mistakenly fired crucial artillery upon a bus full of non-zombie old cruddy duddies.

Answer!  I didn’t, that was a bus full of zombies, but the world is too blind and ignorant to see that.  It’s too sensitive, not yet ready to see the truth, and even though I saved it there will be no victory parade with garlands of sweet smelling flowers or Cuban cigars, no tankards of ail or tequila on tap.  Nothing but a cell and a shoddy pillow that reeks of genitals and genital sweat.  Such is my fate.

Now, I’m not one to tell you what kind of man I am or amn’t, but if there’s one thing I am it’s a just-in-case kind of guy.  Every couple days or so, I actually swallow an entire hand gun made of plastic.  You heard me right, a plastic gun, like in that move “In the Line of Fire” or somesuch.  You see, the plastic gun will help me get through the x-rays that check for concealed weapons.  Then, a day or two later, I poo it out, clean it, put it together, fire a round, and then take it apart and eat it again.  It’s a vicious cycle, but one I’ve accepted as part of my life.  Also, I had my sternum crushed as a child and in it’s place I now have a chunk of metal.  I keep the bullets there.

All of this is to say that once I get in the prison, I’ll be able to craft my weapon to take into the courtroom.  Why?  Theatrics mostly.  I think it’ll help me make the news, because I’m not going to play all crazy and harmless.  That’s not my style.  Instead, I’m going to force the world’s eyes open, to show them what they do not want to see.  I would say, “World, it’s tough out there, and that’s because of zombies.  Sometimes it takes people like me doing things you’d rather not know about to keep you unknowingly safe.

“You see, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for those old people, and you curse me and my actions. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That old people death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. I use words like honor, code, loyalty. I use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a world that rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way.”

Then I would launch into my preaching about zombies and the dangers we all face on a daily basis.  If my words couldn’t move the world to shake off the veil of ignorance it so comfortably swaddled in, then I would be left to the wolves of a harsh justice system.  Undoubtedly I would be convicted of something not rewarded and utterly unrelated to zombies, and they would likely punish me most severely.  I would be punished for this great cause that I fight for day in and day out, the cause for which I struggle to enlighten others, and in the end I would stand as an example of an unacknowledged hero who did something great, did something grand, selfless and pure of spirit, and was destroyed for it.  

I would become as a prophetic martyr symbolizing the world’s need and complete inability to recognize the true threat of zombiism.  And so it would be up to those who followed me to spread the word, to make the world see the truth, to convert the masses into a mobilized force against the coming undead.  Would suffering without recognition be worth saving the world of a grisly fate?

Scenario:
You are cruising around IMDB one night when you stumble upon something so horrible, it makes your skin crawl. The little hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up with terror and your blood chills to an ice cold 93 degrees. Uwe Boll, director of House of the Dead, is making another zombie movie. The first one was bad enough to kill. This one almost guarantees to be bad enough to kill again. Except this time the victims don’t stay dead…

What you should do:
For starters, I would remember the name of this new film and remember it well. You cannot get too excited about a movie with the name Zombie Massacre without remembering that it is visual death and damnation. (I mean, honestly. This guy’s movies are so bad they could kill a fucking rhino with rabies.) There would be nothing more tragic than to have your love of the hatred of zombies become the reason you yourself are turned into a zombie. Not only that, but you would be supporting Uwe Boll’s career by doubling his box office take. Don’t do that!

Now, I would remember to put it on your calendar. Right now it is slated for a 2010 release date, so you have some time to prepare for the apocalypse. Get some Molotov cocktails ready because you are going to want to burn down every multiplex in a one million mile radius to be sure that nobody sees this film. Also, if people are currently seeing the film, they too will be burned and there will be no zombies.

Also, have your protective fort ready. Unfortunately, you are not Santa Claus and you will not be able to deliver your package to every theater in one night. By the time you are finished, your first targets will have rebuilt. I suggest going for the small town theaters first. They are more likely to take the insurance money and run. God bless the small town.

What I would do:
I’m not saying that I would end Mr. Boll’s life or anything, but I’m just saying…

http://stopuweboll.org/

Plus I might shoot him in the face. J/K