{Thoughts From A Not Entirely Deceased} Hollywood.

Hollywood. Hollywood sucks. Do you know why Hollywood sucks? They perpetrate all kinds of ridiculous lies and fairy tales on people, constantly. You would think that occasionally, just occasionally, they'd want to try and make a film which was based in some kind of normal reality. But no, not these piss swishers. Nothing but lies, lies, and lies dressed up as feel good messages.

Take all these god damned love stories they make. Are you fucking kidding me? You must have to be estrogen driven in order to appreciate this crap. Let's face it guys, if you're the biggest geek on the block, the hot girl isn't going to all of a sudden lose interest in her own completely superficial existence and find the splendor that is you. And no, that geeky girl who is actually superfine under her insecure exterior is not going to end up loving the fact that you've brought out the beauty in her either. She's going to figure out she is actually hot, and she's going to start fucking her way through the football team. My friends and fellow geeks, it just doesn't work that way in real life. There is no Elizabeth Shue for Nicholas Cage's pathetic drunken ass either. So, if you're betting on the whole bad boy, live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse thing, you're kidding yourself. I'll give it to you, you might catch some fine snatch here and there until you're about twenty-one, and then they're going to get tired of your stupid ass. Unless, you get one of those really fine chicks who's completely and totally fucking bonkers. Think Fatal Attraction, The Crush, or Play Misty For Me, and you're just about there, except they rarely try to kill you in real life. Women are much more cruel than that, they want you alive so they can torture you for the rest of your natural life. If you're Sleepless in Seattle, you'd better catch on to Spankwire, fast, because calling some radio show and pouring out your heart over your dead wife only makes you cute to women who spend an inordinate amount of time looking through Pathologist Quarterly. But, I guess if that's you're thing, then hey, why not? The only Notebook we're ever going to get is either the one we write our own pathetically obsessed lives down in or the ones they write in about how incredibly pathetic we are for obsessing over them. I'm in Richmond VA, and the only way you're getting to Pretty Woman through a hooker here is if you're so drunk, coked up, or meth melted you can't really tell the difference between a pretty woman and a pretty handsome she male anyway. Just let it go guys. Let the dream die, for all of our sakes.

Be happy. Make comic books, design computer games, read books, write books, do science projects (or what ever the hell it is you science geeks do), do math problems, whatever your thing is. Later on in life, you'll be happier for it. You'll go further. The blond hottie down the street who says shit like, "Learning is hard," is going to end up popping out five ungrateful, vicious little puppies, her tits are going to drop, her ass is going to sag, and no amount of plastic surgery can save the pitiful creature which is a former prom queen who refuses to grow old gracefully. You, you'll probably get some fat corporate job with a bunch of other geeks like you, land a fat paycheck, vacation in the Bahamas, and live it up as you get older. You could be the next Alan Moore, Frank Miller, Quentin Tarantino, Ben Harper, Jeff Tweedy, Martin Scorcese, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King. George Lucas or Steven Spielberg or something. These are all really hard core geeks who made it big, on their particular brand of geek. Then you'll get a real shot at the twenty-year old who's only interested in fast cars and shiny things, and it'll be ok, because you'll only be interested in her perky little tits and her tightly wound ass. Have no fear, age is the great equalizer.

Now let's be fair here. Love is not the only thing Hollywood tends to lie about. There are lots of cute little ideas and fantasies they drop on the poor unsuspecting, media addled minds of Americans. There's that whole, good triumphs over evil thing. You know what I'm talking about. The Happy Ending. And no, I'm not talking about the Happy Ending at the Vietnamese Massage parlor either. I know it's tough, but for a little while, let's think about something other than sex. I have faith in you, you can do it. The good guys don't always win in the end. They end up being the worker bees to all of you pissed off geeks who become career obsessed corporate robots. They don't end up leading revolts which topple The Man. They don't end up using the force and destroying the Death Star. They end up using a jack hammer and keeping your shit flowing down hill by taking care of the sewage lines. They don't end up over turning the death sentence for that really innocent man. They end up as public defenders, working eighty hours a week to keep drug dealers who make more money in three days than they do in a year, out of jail. Sometimes, they do actually end up being war heroes, I'll give Hollywood that. War heroes are usually regular people who do incredible things. But, in today's day and age they then go on to be exploited and humiliated by the media and the politicians. It's good for ratings, both television and approval.

Then you've got your horror movies. Every one's dying everywhere, and instead of getting the fuck out of the camp, the town, the house, whatever, they go looking for an answer. The answer comes most often at the end of some very sharp object. This is probably some kind of perverse pleasure for the particular kind of geek who is obsessed with horror films though, because it's usually some big titted, bubble brained co-ed (like the one down the block who learning is so hard for). It's got to be some kind of fulfilment. I'm not so particular, I find all manner of people fucking offensive and annoying, so I certainly enjoy the carnage. Anyway, it's either the madman on the loose or the monster in the closet and every one's got to figure it out. Figure it out? Why? Run. Get the fuck out of there. If nobody believes there's a mad man trying to cut you to pieces, leave town, forever. Never come back. And how on God's earth do none of these people never know the killer isn't dead? How is it that these people all live in a universe in which horror films do not exist? If you actually are the one to knock him out or kill him, chop his fucking head off. Use a butter knife if you have to, but cut that damned head off, because you're not going to make it through the first reel in the sequel.

Then there is my absolute favorite, zombie films. Zombies, always portrayed as some kind of mindless, bloodthirsty creatures either running or trudging about trying to eat people. In the case of the slow zombie, how the fuck do you not get away from the zombie? How are you not able to hit directly in the head something moving at the speed of your great grandmother after a colonoscopy? I have never been able to understand this. This is what makes me quite sure we aren't teaching enough military history in our schools. Cover a field, a parking lot, any open space with some flammable liquid and wait for the slow stupid bastards to start walking towards you. Light it up, and bang! You've just wasted at least twenty zombies, even if you're on the unlucky side. Put down your baseball bat and pick up a Molotov Cocktail. You can get at least three zombies. The characters in zombie movies are always trying to find a "safe place", which also happens to have no way out, and even if it does, can easily be surrounded. Fuck that. Take the fight to them. Get your car, run as many of the horror genres Jerry's Kids down as you possibly can.

Anyway, I can go on forever about that one. On to the fast zombie, lately popular. If for some reason, you can not hear some thumping, screaming mess of what used to be a human being running full speed in your direction, in complete and total mayhem mode, you're probably doing the future generations a favor by removing yourself from the gene pool anyway. All you need is about fifteen cases of beer, twenty rednecks, then break into the local gun store for ammo, and find a high vantage point. There are red neck beer bellies all over this country who own enough firepower to assault a small nation. Put them to work. They're used to sitting in trees and watching for quick but stupid prey, so put them in a third floor office with a view of the street. Put them on a roof. Hell, fill up the back of a pick up truck with them and drive them around while they pop off on the unsuspecting walking dead (some of them probably have a very good idea how this works as their grandfathers have told the tales of the old days when they Klan ruled the land. They'd probably be quite happy to get a chance to carry on the heritage. Though it might take a few of their friends and family to be ripped to pieces before they get the idea that you have to kill all of the dead people. Most of them do turn white after a while. Romero did get that part right.) You could also just tell everyone it's the latest plot by terrorists to take away our freedoms, and then they'll just let the government handle it all (though you may want to keep an eye on how exactly the government starts to define zombie, or you may become one).

Hollywood did get remarkably close on one occasion. If you haven't seen the film An American Werewolf in London, you're really screwing the pooch. Yes, the pun was intended, I couldn't help it. In the film, two college age Americans are backpacking across Europe, they are attacked on the Moors by a vicious canine creature (kind of like what will someday be popping out of the blond your lusting after). One is killed, the other survives. The survivor begins seeing his dead friend, in different states of decay. His friend though, is still for all intensive purposes, much the same guy dead that he was alive. He's not some lumbering, Liberty University student wannabe. He's the same guy, just dead, and starting to rot. Well, that's what zombies are really like. The rate of decay in An American Werewolf in London was somewhat advanced, but I can give that to John Landis as gore is good for ticket sales and they got the rest of it right. Zombies aren't crazed maniacs running the streets trying to tear apart anyone they see either. They're just trying to get by, that's all. Some of us are trying to figure out what happened, how we died, and all of us want to know why we came back or how we came back for that matter. But all in all, zombies are just like you.

There are a few differences. We're not really interested in dining out. Sushi's not too bad, and steak houses are ok, if they are willing to hand over the really rare cut. All the nutrients get cooked out otherwise. It tastes terrible. I'm not sure how I ever used to eat the hard cooked crap you all eat. All I smell is roasting flesh. Not pleasant to the zombie palate. We're more hunter gatherers really.

If you're a newly dead, start looking around the more affluent neighborhoods. This country loves it's animals, and feeds them well. You can eat a Great Dane for three days. A Saint Bernard can last as long as seven days if you're frugal. I've heard of the occasional horse, but the logistics of it are too much for me, so I can't really tell you how to go about that. If you live in or near a city, there are plenty of stray cats around, and they're good for a nights morsel. Rats can always be dug up too, but they're a little on the gamy side. I'm considering moving out to the country and raising pigs and chickens. I figure it will solve many problems. I'm spending a fortune in make up right now. I'm also starting to worry that some one's going to catch on to my unusual tastes and call the police. I'm not sure how they would react when they take me for my prison physical and find that I'm dead. Not well I'm sure. I could spend the next fifty years being autopsied while I'm still alive. Just because I'm a zombie doesn't mean I don't have feeling. That shit would hurt.

Anyway, this is the first official blog. I'm going for it and breaking the silence. I'm not ashamed of it. I'm a zombie and I'm damned proud. It's not much different than when I was alive. I go to work, I come home, I eat, I sleep (I'm not going to get into the bathroom stuff just now, people aren't ready for that. I sure as hell wasn't). I've even been able to bag a few of those hot women I'd have been too afraid to talk to before. I mean, when you're dead, a little rejection is nothing. For a little while there it was great. Rigor mortis does wonders for your sexual reputation. It doesn't last though, and women get a little nervous when you're in bed and you whip out a tazer. Even if you promise your only using it on yourself. Some of them were not really into the electric blanket in the summer either, but hell, so what. I might be dead, but at least I'm still above ground and having fun.


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