Zombie Holocaust

October 9, 2009 Leave a comment

Picking up on a thread initiated in today’s film review on Mayo’s R5 show, how indeed do you kill what is apparantly already dead?  How do you kill a zombie?

Let’s list the usual flip – you can redead them, discontinue the pesky gits, negate ’em, oblivate them or maybe whisk them up with a helicopter.  You can even go biospherical and state in a matter-of-fact way that you’ve reintegrated them into the carbon and nitrogen cycle.

Consider this though: a zombie is not powered by voodoo or magik, the zombie is a biologically reanimated corpse.  It’s not the same individual person raised through supernatural circumstances to reinhabit the hold host, plot and backstory withstanding.  The zombie is a vegetable – a lump of dead flesh optionally killed by and then hotwired by a super-evolved cellular gestalt or a bespoke bioweapon to provide a vehicle to furnish itself with rich, creamy brain proteins.  The zombie is a machine used to feed and promulgate the parasitic puppeteer.  Enough to jumpstart the reptillian and mamillian brains to autopilot the husk, feel hunger and recognise the airborne chemical cues of fresh, unoxidised meat; restart the heart and liquify congealed bodily fluids to re-establish bodily circulation of anaerobically-released oxygen and sugars to bootstrapped tissues and organs; enough – just barely enough – to sustain and spread the infection.  The parasite is a virus, human bodies their one big subverted cell.

The zombie is alive – in the same way that slimemould or fungus is alive.  The zombie is a bipedal mushroom.  The zombie is exactly what it’s imagined to be: undead.  The zombie is a disease vector, a walking mouth and stomach to locate and digest protein succour.  The zombie is alive, and it can be killed.

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Yo Mamma…

October 9, 2009 Leave a comment

…is sooo fat, she went on safari in Africa and caused a collapse in bushmeat prices.

Yo Momma…

October 9, 2009 Leave a comment

…is soooo fat, she went on safari in Africa, and now she’s been impounded at Felixstowe ‘cos it’s illegal to import ivory.

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Zooeylogical Fieldnotes nth.

October 9, 2009 Leave a comment

I don’t know, I just don’t know.  She has got the whole big-eyes/fringe thing going for her I suppose.   Tell you what though, Mark Kermode’s impression of her is spookily accurate.  And now all I can think about is Kermode waffling about The Smiths.

Great.  At least I’ll be chuckling to myself like a crazy person on public transport all day thanks to that.  Maybe I’ll drag out the Three and Out podcast again, for old times’ sake.

Your papers…

October 9, 2009 Leave a comment

…demanded the nazi stormtroopers of Obi Wan, just as the Swiss border hove into sight.  No amount of ewoks jumping security barriers on motorcycles can save him now.

In much the same way that the Licence Fee Stasi presume that all addresses possess TV receiving equipment – very accurately.  No ewoks.  No hoverbikes.  Unwillingness to provide immediate access to premises triggers immediate guilty judgement and posting to Tie Fighter/Stuka school to provide dead biomass for target practice, or at the very least ten thousand years of servitute as a sexual drone on Grand Moff Himmler’s super star-destroyer the Bobba Tirpitz.  And there goes the legend of how furry latex glovepuppets defeated the might of the British Empire.

Which takes me to my first point.  Top slicing.  Whatever that is, it sounds viscerially hideous.  Replace the phrase ‘top slicing’ with the phrase ‘lupine fist sodomising’ and there’s exactly no modification to the final outcome of any sentence constructed with lupine fist sodomising as a central component.

I would rather know all my money’s being wasted in one place by known incompetents given to in-jokes about the corporation’s no-doubt incomparable catering services than wasted keeping ITN limping along just until the next general election.  And C4 limping into the next commercial break.  No amount of Peep Show could justify that.  That’s a lie.  A small amount of Peep Show would easily justify that, but I digress.  As bloody usual.

Lupine fist sodomising the licence fee is bad voodoo.  Sure, maybe people don’t like the Beeb, maybe Alesha Thingy Dixon is a fine-lookin’ ball of fluff out of her depth as a judge of quiantly antiquated dance-bobbins.  Maybe the BBC is evil for trying to compete with the intergalactically self-possessed rich, filthy-rich, bitch-ass bumhole Cowell.  Maybe lupine fist sodomising Auntie, I mean Auntie’s inflation-pegged net income, is exactly what the Evil Powers demand of serious candidates for high public office if theywant patronage.  It’s easy to bash about the BBC.  I object to the entire production of Strictly Come Whatmay from the word go, not the schedule-juggling thereof.  I object to huge cakehole on legs Tess Thingy’s employment in the first place, let alone if it is morbidly cruel to suck her vital life-juices out to keep her undead co-host from decomposing on live television.  I object to her husband and his little gimlet eyeballs and his stupid hair.  I object to John Humphries.  I object to Question Time, which seems to me to be the televisual equivalent of an underground cockfight with loaded odds.  I object to Eastenders as a matter of basic human principle.  I pretty much object to anything that isn’t BBC4, Radio 7, iplayer or Rachel Burden.  Or Lucy Porter.  I wouldn’t for a second contend that this means that the BBC should be shafted and all it’s money be given to charlatans.  No sir.

So, I suppose what I’m saying is this really.  Pay the damn licence fee.  We all know it’s Enforcers have carte blanche to suspend all rights and priviledges, given that they are the dictatorship’s tax collectors, we all know that the World Service is funded directly by the Foreign Office and you’d rather listen to that than anything on Radio 2, which self-evidently isn’t funded by a top-tier cabinet executive agency.  Just knuckle down and make that thirty-second or less phone call to arrange the direct debit.  You can even use your own bank account if you want, though I’d not run that risk myself.  Once that biscuits been bitten, you can get back to the benign face of British reality, the BBC, and use it – as many do – as a institutional punch-bag, or as I do, to provide a voice to think dirty thoughts about, especially if the owner of the voice is a tiny little token-female thing from Croydon.  Certainly not Sue Perkins.

And what happened to Mel?

Breaking the news…

October 9, 2009 Leave a comment

Other: You know what?

Fog: What?

Other: No you don’t know what.  You never know what.

Fog: Know what?

Other: Why do you never know what?

Fog: What don’t I know?

Other: You don’t know why you never know what?

Fog: I never knew.

Other: You never know why you never know.

Fog: What’s not never not to know?

Other: You don’t know why you’ve never known why you never know?

Fog: Do you know why I never know why I never knew why I never know?

Other: You don’t know if I know why you’ve never known what you never do?

Fog: Don’t you know if you know why I’ve never known what I never knew not knowing?

Other: You don’t know if I know why you never knew what you didn’t know?

Fog: I’ve never known.

Other: You never do.

Fog: I know.

Other: I’m pregnant.

Fog: What?

Other: I’m pregnant.

Many buns in the oven (pt2/2)

October 7, 2009 Leave a comment

Jumping back on the trailer horse for a moment, as much as to commit myself to actually finishing these things as to give anybody else an indication of what’s coming up – although there’s nothing wrong with doing that either – here’s the final part of the teaser.

The Funniest Joke I’ve Ever Told Anybody

…Being the aforementioned monumentally bloated joke of the millennium, arrives at it’s moneyshot through an extended tour of many a strange backwater, weaving jovially between a zombie Joe Pesci, the Cadbury Mafia and Mad Frankie’s Smethwick Mob, the pros and cons of either the nuclear obliteration of Birmingham or it’s more comprehensive surgical removal from history and other acts of governmental conspiracy disguised as existencial mercy.  There’s thrills, theres spills, there fun and romance and there’s the impersonation of a deceased sailor.  There’s a big letdown, most likely.

Captain Googleplanet!

The bastard offspring of a well-meaning ’90s kids cartoon and everyone’s favourite – and in no way Orwellian – all-powerful, omipresent internet colossus, Captain Googleplanet is going to make all our dreams come true, by ‘taking pollution down to Zero!’, if we like it or not.  And how could we possibly complain, it’s only bloody Captain Googleplanet for Chrissakes!  To moan about it would be churlish.  And wrong.

Taking the Nuclear option in Scrabble

Ever wanted a googolplex-sized score in scrabble?  No?  Me neither, but I’m telling you how to do it anyway, simply because I can.

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