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!