In honor of July 4th for you Americans (of which I am one) I've chosen the totally appropriate (but actually NOT appropriate since she's not an American...WONDER WOMAN!
Obviously there is a nearly infinite amount of great Wonder Woman art out there...so I had to limit myself.
In case you’ve been living under a rock lately, The Mayor of New York is a huge dumb-ass.
So tonight I went down to 7-11 to get some candy and soda out of pure spite and picked up the XL Can of beloved Sweet Nectar. However, as I sipped the forbidden sweetness, a terrible change happened in me. As Mayor Bloomberg’s words echoed through my brain, I decided to tweet him as my life underwent a terrible, horrible change. The following are the actual tweets I sent.
So yeah, listen to Mister Bloomberg, kids. He knows what’s best for you. Not you nor your parents, but some incredibly rich white dude whom you’ll probably never meet.
Oh and did you like what you read? THEN WHY AREN’T YOU FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER, HUH? YOU SOME KINDA SOCIALIST, PUNK?!
Folks, it’s pretty clear we are living in dangerous times. Don’t believe me? Just look at this sampling of news articles:
For years now I have been like John the Baptist, a lone voice crying in the wilderness. I have preached the truth about the undead and yet no one listened. And then came The Miami Face Eater (that’s also the name of my new emo-core band, please don’t steal) and suddenly, everyone was concerned about zombies!
Now if I were a jerk, I’d leave you all to your doom. As the zombies feasted on your fleshy innards, you would look up and say “Save us!” and I’d look down and whisper “No.”, but I’m not that type of guy. Yes, I have warned you for years and, yes, I have been primarily ignored but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop preparing for the ghouls to rise up and tear chunks of reality from your still quivering body. I’m here to help. I care, because you do.
For starters, we need to know what we’re up against. Let’s channel Adam and Jamie here and bust some myths:
- Zombies are not created via demonic spell books
- Zombies are not created by ‘space radiation’
- Zombies cannot burst through their graves to walk among us
- Zombies do not dance in carefully planned routines lead by Michael Jackson (though it would be pretty damn cool if they did!)
So now that we know what zombies AREN’T, let’s discuss what zombies ARE. Zombies are the reanimated corpses of the dead, a shambling, blasphemous abomination that has an insatiable hunger for the flesh of the living. No one is quite sure why, as the digestive system and taste buds are completely devoid of any activity. In fact, some recently declassified military documents show that some zombies were to have partaken of so much flesh, that their very stomachs ruptured. There are theories on how they are able to tell the difference between living flesh and dead flesh, but none of it has been proven. Theories include smell, sight, or even a sort of ‘psychic bond’. Again, nothing has been proven so it’s all speculation.
As to what causes a zombie, the answer is fairly simple. Zombies are created when a virus known as Solanum enters the body. Though historical records may point to zombie instances dating back as far 60,000 B.C, the Solanum virus was first discovered by Dr. Jan Vanderhaven shortly before WWII. Originally stationed in the Netherlands, Vanderhaven was captured and transported into Nazi Germany (some say by Hitler himself) to investigate an outbreak of what Der Fuehrer thought was malaria. Though the Reich destroyed most of Vanderhaven’s work in the waning hours of the war, some fragments from his personal journal have surfaced.
“I find myself more and more perplexed by these poor souls. Day in and day out, Hitler’s men bring them in on soiled, bloody stretchers. How they moan! My god, it’s like the very soul of Satan inhabits their eyes!” ~ From the personal journal of Dr. Jan Vanderhaven, DATE UNKNOWN.
Thanks to some limited amount of research he was able to smuggle to some US spies, bits of his ground breaking work became the backbone for what we know of the Solanum virus. For one thing, it’s 100% communicable and 100% fatal. There is no antidote or vaccine. Once the Solanum virus enters the blood stream, that poor soul is on a train ride to hell. Oddly enough, despite attempts dating back to Nazi Germany, it’s impossible to “weaponize” Solanum. It cannot be inhaled or swallowed, but has to be introduced into the blood stream directly. Secondly, Solanum seems to only ‘turn’ humans and not animals of any kind. Declassified documents from Operation Iraqi Freedom have shown that Saddam was planning on using Solanum infested dogs on his enemies, including unleashing a potentially zombified pitbull on Bin Laden himself!
Where does Solanum come from? Good question. No one is quite sure, as Solanum has never been discovered ‘in the wild’, so to speak. The only traces of Solanum that can be found are in actual infected humans. Outside of the body, the virus dies rather quickly and cannot sustain itself in water, dirt or mineral.
So let’s say a poor soul, we’ll call him George, is infected with the Solanum virus due to a zombie bite on his upper left arm. What exactly happens? Well, the Solanum virus immediately destroys the complete frontal lobe of the brain. From there, it “re-wires” it, almost like tugging the strings of a marionette puppet.
The actual patterns on how this is accomplished are still a mystery to science. We’ve seen the beginning and the end, but the middle is still the greatest puzzle of the undead menace. But let’s go back to George, who’s just been bitten by a ghoul. What happens?
Without going into too much detail, you can expect the following symptoms:
Hour 1 – Pain and discoloration (brown-purple) of the infected area. Immediate clotting of the wound.
Hour 5 – Fever (99-103 degrees F), chills, slight dementia, vomiting, acute pain in the joints.
Hour 8 – Numbing of extremities and infected area, increased fever (103-106 degrees F), increased dementia, loss of muscular coordination.
Hour 11 – Paralysis in the lower body, overall numbness, slowed heart rate.
Hour 16 – Coma
Hour 20 – Heart stoppage. Zero brain activity.
Hour 23 – Reanimation
Again, there is NO CURE. The best offense is a good defense. Study the art of undead prevention (I’ll suggest some books in a bit), practice with your weapons and pay attention to the news!
Finally, we get to the point I’m sure a lot of you are interested in: weapons. What exactly can we do to fend off the shambling hordes of the undead? ’Killing’ a zombie is actually quite simple: severely damage the brain. Nothing else will work. You can hack, slash, smash, maim, burn, chop, slice, dice and they will keep on coming. In fact, a dismembered zombie head is still just as likely to try and bite you as one still attached!
We can break weaponry down into two basic categories: Long-Range and Close-Range. There is a whole horde of weapons one could use, but instead I’ll just suggest my personal favorites for each category
LONG RANGE: You need a weapon that is both reliable and accurate. For this I would suggest a high-powered, bolt-action hunting rifle with a zoom scope.
Remember, the only way to stop a zombie is to damage the brain permanently. A handgun or an assault rifle is messy, inaccurate and will waste ammo. You need one shot, one kill capabilities.
SHORT RANGE: Movies and popular culture have glorified things like a chainsaw or even a lawn-mower, but both of these will get you killed faster than you can say “They’re coming to get you, Barbara.” Both are heavy, cumbersome and require extensive amounts of gasoline. If you run out of gas, you’re basically stuck with a very large paper weight. When the undead are clamoring at you, you need something that’s damaging and doesn’t need reloading.
Yes, the crowbar is perfect for hand-to-hand combat. Do not get one of those cheap light-weight ones you can find in auto stores, but the old-school heavy iron bars. The curved head is perfect for smashing and the prying end is perfect for stabbing, especially through a zombie’s eye socket and right into the brains.
There’s plenty more we can cover, from ways to fortify your house, coming up with an emergency zombie plan and more, but instead I’ll just point you towards this wonderful book.
Buy it, read it, study it, enjoy it. Be prepared, my friends. The undead are coming. They do not feel fear, so why should we?
Pretty awesome blog. This gal drops some fashion knowledge, Assembling (see what I did there?) outfits based on the Avengers.
It was said that Yoda had three sons to carry on his legacy after he merged with The Infinite. To his first son, he bestowed upon him The Gift of the Chin and this boy grew up to be Bruce Campbell. His second son, he gave the gift of The Roundhouse and that young man grew up to be Chuck Norris.
But his third son, his most prized and precious child, he bestowed upon him The Gift of Pity. Granted, his brothers had chainsaws, boomsticks and Legs of Justice to fight evil and indeed, his third son had amazing strength, so fighting evil would not be a problem for him. But yet, sometimes in life, we run across fools and fools don’t deserve death, but rather they deserve pity. The third son was Mr. T.
Born at the age of five years old, young Mr. T (SIDE NOTE: The ‘T’ is actually shortened for his real name, which I shall not post here. Legend has it that to evoke the full name of The Pitying One shall bring about End of Days.) was taken to a remote temple in the furthest jungles of Northern Michigan. There, he was trained by Yoda, Xena: Warrior Princess, RoboCop and the disembodied ghost of former US President Teddy Roosevelt. Four long years passed as Mr. T was trained in the most deadly of martial arts and mastered the art of Pitying.
On his twelfth birthday, he left the temple to hike the deadly mountains of Titicaca and challenge the mighty dire-dragon, Fing Fang Foom. The battle was legendary and lasted for seven months, but in the end, Mr. T defeated the villainous dragon by hitting him with a Reverse Inverted Dragon-Snap Suplex into a volcano, thereby banishing from the world the foul beast. At that moment, his facial hair and deadly mo-hawk grew on his head, signifying that his journey to manhood had come an end. As he walked down the side of the mountain, he was met by the Force ghost of his proud father, Yoda.
“Ready you are,” he said. “Complete your journey is. Take this. Remind you, it will, of me.” and with that he put the very first gold chain around his neck. Legend has it the each gold chain is actually the soul of a fool who refused T’s act of pity.
Now a man, T left the temple and wandered the country side, blessing those who needed pity and throwing sucka fools hella far. Knowing that the forces of darkness may seek his destruction at any time, he cloaked his activities by filming them with a camera and passing them off as a fictional series. You may know this as The A-Team.
Though he lacks the presence he once had, rest assured that Mr. T is always wandering the countrysides and cities of America, pitying fools, drinking milk, respecting his mama and just generally being awesome. So remember children, the next time you disrespect your mama, fail to say your prayers or do your homework, you’ll have to answer to this man.
And be ready to be thrown hella far.
I’m a pretty clean-cut guy, for the most part. I rarely drink, I don’t do drugs, and I still have a “Gee, shucks” mid-Western mentality in the ever-cynical New York City. But one of the few vices I allow myself is an almost Behind the Music-esque addiction to energy drinks, or more specifically, Monster. This is a story about my first taste of Monster and the magical, life changing can that made me a better human. It was 2009 and the world was a wild and crazy place. Facebook was just starting its global domination conquest, Obama was enjoying his first year in the White House and I was desperate for something special, something powerful. I was tired, lethargic and needing a powerful roundhouse kick that would set my life to The Next Level. And one day in a Columbus gas station, my eyes laid upon the glory.
I’m really not sure what drew me to it first. The large, green M? The gargantuan Goliath can? The BFC initials? To this day, I’ll never know. But I knew, I KNEW I had to have it. As I opened the glass door to the cooler, bathing in the crisp, cool waves of the industrial sized refrigeration unit, I wrapped my fingers around this liquid Mjolnir. Almost immediately I felt a spark of energy charge up my arm, sending my brain into ecstatic vibrations of anticipation. The money couldn’t leave my wallet fast enough and soon I was in my car. Now for those of you who have never graced The Buckeye State, it’s about an hour drive from Columbus to my old stomping grounds of Mansfield and the drive was an agony filled, joyless ride. I was not foolish enough to drink this mighty beverage in my car, for the highway can be a treacherous mine-field of thundering metal and squealing rubber. No, I would need all my reflexes to see through the twilight haze that was quickly darkening, for the sun was setting and soon the Bad Drivers would be out.
The headlights seemed to be cruel, jeering eyes that peered from the eventual inky-blackness of a Mid-Ohio Summer Night, their halogen evil casting taunting flashes of dread and worry. My soul ached to return to my apartment. Finally, like the poor soul in Plato’s Cave Allegory, I was freed from my shackles and no longer had to endure the wicked shadows that danced upon my tender soul. I was home. How quickly I opened the door! How swiftly I bolted my small studio apartment door, shutting myself out from the sinful world outside! With reckless abandon I plopped down in my office chair and held the can aloft before my eyes.
The thin metal was sweating beads of glorious perspiration, the touch of the can so smooth to my fingertips. My hands trembled with emotions as I popped the tab and the delicious aroma of Pure Liquid Satisfaction wafted to my nose, tickling my senses with the highest measurements of euphoria. Nearly breathless, I hoisted the can to my lips and took a sip. And then another. And then another. And then another. At first, nothing happened and my soul ached in despair. Could I have been deceived? Could my hopes have been dashed like the mighty Titanic? I was prepared to weep silently into the deep, dark night when something happened. It was like a rush, a powerful explosion of gamma radiation. As if a thousand screaming eagles were let loose in my blood stream, I felt alive! Colors and sounds approached me with a depth and clarity I had never experienced.
And at that moment, I heard the voice of Odin whisper into my head. “Fear not, my child,” he said “for I am Odin, ruler of Asgard. You have drunk from my royal blood and are One with the Cosmos. Rejoice! For today, are you are among The Worthy”
I finished the rest of the bottle and received very little sleep that night, for I knew my life had been changed. Now, several years later, I find myself loyal to the Monster brand. In fact, I have harvested enough tabs from my conquests to send away for my first Monster shirt. Soon I shall bear the logo of The Sacred Fluid and share upon the world The Truth. For lo, I am but a voice in this Concrete Jungle, but this voice shall ring true and just and spread the glory of Monster. Such is my calling. Such is my destiny.