Slow Blog Day, or What Would YOU Do in the Event of a Zombie Apocalypse?

Deny it all you'd like, but I guarantee you that at some point in your life, aware of it or not, you've contemplated just what you would do in the event of a catastrophic zombie/robot/alien apocalypse. We've all got our different ideas; I'm partial to a more laid-back approach, holing up on the roof with a small cistern, plenty of honey, a carbine named Vera, and a sledgehammer (the latter in the event that the defecation hits the fan).

But I've always had my irritation with the logistics of a zombie apocalypse. Assuming we're contending with your run-of-the-mill, T-Virus esque infection, that's still a whole lot of bodies--the meat, so to speak, of any good zombie incursion--stuck some 6 feet under a huge hunk of dirt, rocks, and stones that isn't going anywhere. Factoring in the hyperactive ferocity of the creatures, if 28 Days Later or the like is to be believed, it all adds up to little more than a good amount of vibrating cemeteries.

That said, it leaves a good number of morgues, mausoleums, and basement corners unaccounted for, but fear not! The judicious application of landmines solves this problem. In fact, the judicious application of landmines solves most problems, but I digress.

As you can see, I'm running low on creativity at the moment, and like any good writer, I've established a complex web of other people, ideas, and things on which to blame this. The bottom line is that Daylight Savings Time has robbed me of an hour, and I take that as a personal insult. All I've seen is daylight killed, for the walk to the bus stop has once again become an apprehensive, nervous gait towards the shimmering light of the street lamp, hoping that whatever is growling in the bushes stays damn well put. I feel this would certainly qualify carrying a taser, at least to the bus.

So there, your belated serving of fish entrails. Enjoy the hell out of it, and I'll be back when something strange happens.

Lice or YOU'RE ALL INFECTED! BURN THE CROPS! MERCY-KILL THE CHILDREN!

Unless you've been living under a rock (or I have, miracle of miracles, managed to accumulate a reader outside of UM), you'll notice that there seem to be some lice running around our school. You may have also noticed the mass hysteria, perhaps that one chick running through the halls screaming around 10th period?

Well here's to ignorance. In this spirit, I'd like to spread around some facts about lice, to better prepare you to deal with the coming plague.

• Lice are transmitted by contact. Any contact, including fingers, bumping shoulders, or looking a carrier directly in the eyes for prolonged periods of time.
• Lice can smell your fear.
• If left unchecked, lice can burrow into the brain and exhibit mind control to a certain extent.
• Lice feed on human babies, and reproduce by latching onto the victim's face and implanting an egg in the stomach. The egg will burst from the victim's abdomen upon maturity, and emerge as a highly dangerous predatory creature.

That said, there are ways to prevent this seemingly unstoppable pestilence. Shaving your head will not do; fire kills these creatures. If you suspect that a friend is infected, do not hesitate to jump on him or her with a kerosene torch and burn the vile creatures from their dermatological crannies. Your friend will thank you after the skin grafts. Use caution when engaging these creatures; if necessary, contact the nearest contingent of S.T.A.R.S. Below is a photograph of a fully matured specimen.



Remember, trust no one.

Except me, of course.

Snow days are cool like that

Ladies and gentlemen, it's a snow day. It's not one of those cute li'l snow days, either, where the street looks like a powdered doughnut. It's a hardcore snow day, and as I look out the window, the branches are morbidly obese and it's actually snowing sideways in three different ways.

It's a hardcore snow day, one at which our Viking ancestors would gaze from their pelt-draped mead halls, laying in bed with a hardy wench in one arm and a battle-ax named Fasfiefingirnizenhaust in the other. They would--so the legends go--take one look outside, shake their great, meaty, bearded heads, and quietly, sleepily proclaim: "GUUUUUURAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHNIRFARGIN!" which is old Norse for "That looks pretty bad...what did KYW say?"

It is indeed a hardcore snowday, which is saying something: most people are off. I'm off, which I believe happened once before. It was an historical occurence; our superintendant is a Cossack warrior named Rolf who usually doesn't see the ground beneath the permafrost of the Motherland and is amazed at the concept of green leaves, so you'll understand the scarcity of snow days.

Now the fact that my brother has off is bordering on hillarity, seeing as he's home on spring break. He also works about 300 yards to the left of me, although it is a damn steep hill. My mom's closing of the restaurant for the day is more understandable, though both lend creedence to the raw power that the snow day wields. My dad, of course, is at work. I think they got a half-day during the Cuban Missile Crisis, but anything DEFCON 3 or higher is simply laughable.

To digress, and lead into my shameless plug of every second post, I'm passing the snow day like anybody should: by catching up on the first and only season of Firefly. For yorn purplebellied folk what ain't got a clue about this show, look it up on Hulu. Take the world's-end feel of The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly, then mix it in with the space-grit of the Star Wars trilogy (for the love of God, episodes IV, V, and VI).

Then take a 2x4, write "Die Hard" on it, and smack the mixture on the head from around a corner. As it's reeling from this blow, take a generous pinch of that powerful and insightful spice that is the directorial touch of Joss Wheadon and sprinkle it on. Then give it a kick in the ribs for the sake of posterity, and set it loose on the bad side of the (space) tracks. Long-winded as that may have been, you'll see what I mean. Now it's a not-so-nice day out, so get out there, get knocked over by our gale-force winds, nod once, and head back inside for a nice elk-skin and a mug of frothy ale!

Blast! (Or Why I'm Going to Play The Riddler in the Next Batman Movie)

I've discovered that Frank Gorshin's viridian-toting, punctuation-clad schizophrenic terrorist may have been on to something in taking up the moniker of "The Riddler".

Allow me to elaborate, for those of you who haven't had the obtuse experience of engaging me in philosophical debates centered around our beloved Caped Crusader. The Riddler, I had until recently decided, is unique in his absolute failure as a masked villain of any kind. Devoid of such trifles as matter-freezing cryoguns, smile-inducing barbituates, or the proportional acrobatic skills of a housecat, The Riddler seems to have three particular abilities:

• Drawing question marks on high explosives
• Pulling off a derby at least half a century after he should be able to
• Giving Robin something to do by proposing apparently solvable riddles (which seems to have died out after the Adam West version)

In short, the Riddler has...well, nothing. His nerfarious schemes are comprised of spraypainting a question mark onto a few pounds of plastique, strapping it to *building, landmark, or vehicle*, and taunting Batman for the remaining twenty minutes of the show. The Department of Homeland Security calls this terrorism, and it's not even the fun kind with...yknow, thrilling conclusions, exotic locations, and Jack Bauer. It's the ugly kind, with Kalashnikovs and firebombs. Because he's never really strayed too far from the formula; blowing up bridges sounds alot like most modern terrorism--spraypainted bombs don't explode too differently from non-spraypainted bombs.

But I think I understand where he's coming from. This came from the past few episodes of Cash Cab, and a Jeopardy quiz or two, in which I've had a veritable bank of answers residing on the tip of my tongue that refused to divulge themselves until it was far too late. I've decided this agonizing frustration is enough to drive anybody crazy. Granted, it might still require a case of schizophrenia or two, and certainly the tenacity to go into the business of...well, firebombing, but it's certainly a good start. Ever wonder where Ken Jennings went? Check the latest roster of the Shining Path, it's a distinct possibility.

My apology takes the form of a book recommendation...

Well it's been two months now, and for the life of me I can't remember why I named the damn thing 'fish entrails' in the first place. Something to do with spewing out the enormous quantity of crap floating around my head, and how it personified itself in my imagination as a bucket of fish entrails. You know the kind; unassumingly resting in a random corner in some salty wharf between the bait shop and the restaurant that appears alarmingly similar to said bait shop. It can't serve any practical purpose beyond alienating us landlubbers (great word). Strange folk, we are, always demanding our animal entrails...well...inside the animal.

At any rate, I invite you all (hah!) to read a spectacular series called A Song of Ice and Fire, by George R.R. Martin. To spare you an agonizing psuedo-history lesson, it's like Lord of the Rings, except all of the elves are dead and gone, the dwarves are actually people, what little and random magic there is in the damn thing actually isn't taken in stride by anybody who sees it, and there's enough irrelevant, anachronistic profanity and needless graphic detail to rival the third Alien movie. The current (overseas) publication date is April 6, 2009, therefore we can expect it to be finished shortly after the International Space Station reaches fruition.

Welcome

Welcome, my friend! I do, of course, not impart that epithet to you with any tangible sincerity; to do so on something so exposed as a blog would be an intimate invitation of camaraderie to all of you homicidal maniacs, serial rapists, schizophrenic arsonists, and just plain mundane people out there. This isn't to say that you don't have potential! The aforementioned (notably the schizophrenic arsonists, but let's not digress) have every bit as much as the rest of you. Ah, the anonymous nature of the internet, that you could be reading this from an Azerbaijani slum just as easily as from a high-rise apartment in Midtown. Perhaps you're developing a cure for cancer in your basement's freezer, or maybe you have the neighbors cat stuffed in there; I know not, and care as much.

The point is, of course, that the entire reason you're reading this is to integrate somebody's opinion into your life, and that is admirable these days. Go on, pat yourself on the back. Now don't you feel better? The aspiring schizophrenic arsonist hopes so.

I'm sure you're wondering why I called this blog "fish entrails". In fact, I'd be duly alarmed if you didn't. The answer, incidentally, waits for another day.

There's something to be said for suspense.