I did another little jig when someone hacked into a road sign on the interstate here in Little Rock to post "Beware! Zombie's Ahead!" in the middle of the night. Nothing breaks up the frustrating monotony of morning traffic quite like a zombie warning flashing where you'd expect to see a "Click It or Ticket" sign, right? Right. While highly illegal, it was still pretty funny.
Equally as hilarious to me are end of the world tales. My husband has this theory that I'm insane, but what does he know? I mean, really. Who didn't cheer when Yellowstone exploded in fiery chaos and John Cusack had to run like he stole something to make it to the relative safety of the plane? Or how about when the Titanic-like ship went bobbing through NYC while Jake Gyllenhaal and Co. burned books (tsk, tsk) to stay warm? And don’t even get me started on the cheering (and crying) that happened during Battle: Los Angeles.
So naturally, when I heard that AMC was about to air The Walking Dead, I was one happy girl. Zombies and the apocalypse seemed like a sure bet. Right up until I remembered my absolute inability to watch anything remotely spooky or gross without having nightmares, anyway.
Remember the movie Sarah Landon and the Paranormal Hour? Yeah, the kids' movie. I watched it a few weeks ago and woke up in a cold sweat to find the person shaped vacuum cleaner looming ominously in the corner. Scooby Doo freaked me out as a kid. I slept with a butcher knife the first time I watched Nightmare on Elm Street. For the record, not a plan I would recommend.
I still hide my eyes during the Hush episode of Buffy even though the first song I taught my niece when she was born was the rhyme from that episode. I still don’t know what happened to that kid in Slum Dog Millionaire or what the dead girl in Sixth Sense looks like. I stopped watching Aliens as soon as I saw that creepy looking sucker explode from the man’s body. I skipped half of Phantoms when I read it, and I’m still not quite sure if the villain was a demon, a man, a blob or something else altogether. The first time I saw a scorpion, I sat on the kitchen cabinet in the fetal position, begging it not to eat me for an hour until The Husbinator came home from work in the middle of the work-day on his noble steed to slay it (read: release it back into the wild so it could go about it's little scorpion life).
To make a long story short... I'm a chicken, so I've spent the time since The Walking Dead premiered in this confused state of "I wanna see this!" and "OMG, I'll never sleep if I watch this!"
I finally worked up the nerve to start the series and sat down with The Husbinator (so named because, as described above, he comes home from work to capture and/or kill things for me) this evening to watch it. Naturally, we got on the subject of Zombie Apocalypse survival plans. Everyone knows you need a Zombie Apocalypse plan because, hey, no one wants to be sitting there looking like a fool when the zombies come, right?
My plan is fairly simple. I’m going to sit on the roof with a flamethrower, a bottle of Stoli vodka, and what remains of the world's supply of cookies. By the time the flamethrower is out of flames or gas, or whatever magic the elves put in it to make it work, I'll have consumed enough of the vodka and cookies to die happy, thus negating the requirement that I run anywhere or watch rotting corpses walk around nom'ing on whatever limb they happen to stumble across. To me, any plan that involves me not running (or watching a rotting corpse walk around nom'ing on human limbs) and a last meal of cookies and vodka eaten over the toasty flames from a wickedly cool flamethrower is a winner.
The husband disagrees.
In his not so humble opinion, “It sounds like a good plan now, but just wait and see; when the zombies come…you’re going to freak out and forget all about the vodka and cookies.” Since this comes from the man who denies the existence of tiny elves who make all of the cool stuff in favor of believing the total fantasy spouted in shows like How It’s Made, I decided to take offense to his scoffed retort.
And so started the Great Zombie Debate of 2011.
I have no idea if I like The Walking Dead or not because, instead of watching it, I ended up having to defend my superior position to the clearly inferior mind of The Husbinator. And let me just say…he’s going to be sorely disappointed when the Zombie Apocalypse comes and I’m blissfully drunk on Russian goodness and enough calories to feed the entire state of Arkansas for a month. And if I have nightmares tonight and they feature a lack of cookies or vodka, he might want to sleep with one eye open for a while.
Despite our vehement disagreement over what constitutes an acceptable Zombie Apocalypse survival plan and my newly found fear of nightmares involving a cookie-less world, he did promise to shoot me if I’m unfortunate enough to be turned into a zombie.
Now, that's love, right?
I thought so, too.
For the record though, he’s still insane...and I’m still not sharing my cookies and vodka when the end comes.
Until Next Time,