Golden Years

It may as well be a million years ago, if it were a day.  Memories of my youth are fleeting at best.  They were scarce when I had a fully functional brain, but are mostly gone since my accident.  What I've learned about memories, recently, is while they may be gone, they're not always one hundred percent disappeared.  Some glimmer of them remain, secluded in some dark passageway within our minds, just waiting to emerge into present day, once again.  Earlier this week, I happened to glance over onto 2nd Avenue, downtown, noticing a pile of rubble where the old Baldwin Hotel used to stand.  Then it hit me with a wallop -- Andre the Giant.

There's not much written about the old Baldwin Hotel.  I was unsuccessful in digging up much dirt on the location, short of actually visiting the Saskatoon Library to dig through old archives.  I believe it was built in the early 1900s, stood for nearly a hundred years before falling into disarray and finally demolished.  As a kid I remember going to the restaurant in the basement of the once distinguished hotel, to visit my aunt, Jacquie.  There she'd share tales about her encounters with wrestlers when they'd wander over from shows put on at the old downtown arena.

As a kid, I remember going to the old arena when it was located downtown on 19th Street.  Long since gone, it's footprint looked tiny compared to the incredible size of the arena.  Then again, I was a tiny child, so everything looked gigantic.  I recall going to Blades games with my grandpa.  I remember going to the circus with thousands of other screaming kids.  Seemed like our parents weren't there.  Just dropped us all off to run amuck within it's overwhelming confines.  I remember having full reign over the premises, roaming through all the halls, past the dressing rooms.  I remember encountering a dressing room where all the clowns were, applying their various facial designs.  This is where I came to realize that clowns aren't necessarily a happy bunch.  Many are only as happy as the makeup they apply.  Most are sad, miserable or angry, all characteristics well masked by coloured grease paint.

In addition to the circus and various sporting events and concerts, the Saskatoon Arena would also cater to the cavalcade of professional wrestlers who'd travel throughout the western provinces via Calgary's Stampede Wrestling.  The owner, Stu Hart, was born and raised in Saskatoon, before joining the army and rushing off to World War II, when he returned home, he took up residence in Calgary, Alberta and founded the infamous wrestling company and it's many stars.

Before folding up and closing it's doors in 1984 after being sold to Vince McMahon of the (then) World Wrestling Federation (WWF), there were many big stars who cut their teeth in the infamous Stampede Wrestling.  The British Bulldogs, Davy Boy Smith and the Dynamite Kid, Bret Hart and Jim Neidhart, as well as a few appearances of Andre The Giant.

After nights of bashing the hell out of one another, a gaggle of wrestlers would clean up and mosey on down the street to the Baldwin Hotel and grab a bite to eat.  My aunt, Jacquie would often find herself working on many of the nights with this motley crew of performers would conglomerate for food, drink and wild conversations.

My aunt would marvel us kids with stories of chatting with, chumming around and sharing laughs with the wonderous personalities who'd grace her with their presence.  While I don't recall any of the stories in detail, I do remember Jacquie sharing her amazement with one wrestler in particular, who would nearly eat the restaurant out of every morsel of food they had in stock.  He was a colossus.  Hell!  He was dubbed the "Eighth Wonder of the World" for good reason.  Andre was a bona-fide giant and was billed as such.  Pictured here with Bruce Hart (L) and Dynamite Kid (R), Andre stood at a towering 7'4".  His hands, I'm told, were the size of catcher mitts.  When he shook my aunts hand, it disappeared well within his gentle grasp.

My aunt would pass away in the late eighties.  A brain aneurysm, which put her in a coma for a very long time before my grandpa made the difficult decision to remove her from life support, thus ending her suffering.  I remember him making that decision, speaking to the doctor over the phone in my very own living room.  The sorrow on my grandpas face on having to make that choice, but it had to be done.  My aunt suffered from migraine headaches for most of her life.  I do, as well, which always had me concerned for my own well being.  I don't suffer as frequently as I once did, having undergone an experimental treatment which had the headaches virtually disappear completely.  That is until I took that fateful tumble and completely destroyed my brain as it once was.  The migraines have returned, thankfully not as frequent as they were.

My aunt passed away quite young. Still in her thirties, if I recall correctly.   Andre the Giant would pass away young, too.  Only 46 years old when his heart finally gave out.

Gone are they, just as the old Baldwin is gone and the Saskatoon Arena.  Many of the aspects of the downtown area of the city is gone or reimagined.  There are towering business buildings where "The Barn", as it was affectionately referred to as, once stood.  Across the street from there, used to be a car dealership, if I remember correctly.  My dad bought a car from there, but now it's only an empty parking lot.  Where the parking lot is in the photo above, now stands the Scotia Center Movie Theater, formerly known as The Galaxy Theater.  I wanna say that "Folks", pictured in the lower right of this photo, still stands, but I think my memory is pulling tricks on me.  I can't remember. 

We, as a society, are so quick to destroy, rather than refurbish, replenish and reserve.  Built in 1937, I'm sure the arena couldn't be saved, just as the Baldwin Hotel couldn't be saved.  All that once was prestigious in the downtown district has now gone to ruins.  Plagued by the homeless and the downtrodden.  Seems like the city would rather throw money at new development rather than take care of it's lost citizens.

As a transit operator, I've been witnessing the city in a brand new way.  Like shining a black light on a hotel room, I'm discovering hidden truths about our fair city and it isn't looking good.  I've watched "The Walking Dead" since it's debut in 2010 and viewing the folks who line the streets in the downtown isn't too far from the atrocities seen on the television program.

So many memories, lost to the annuls of time.  Was it a better time, then? Were they truly golden years? Who can say for certain?  It was different.  More innocent.  Or maybe it was just me.  Viewing the world through rose coloured glasses.

X-Bow

According to Wikipedia, the crossbow is a type of weapon based on the bow, consisting of a horizontal bow-like assembly mounted on a stock, which shoots projectiles called 'bolts' or 'quarrels'.  The crossbow, as it's come to be known, has played a significant role throughout history, especially in the greater European and Asian continent, as well as the Mediterranean region.

The traditional bow and arrow has been a common tool since the dawn of recorded history, which required considerable strength and skill to master.  Comparatively, the crossbow possessed much of the same accuracy, but required much less training and expertise.  In ancient and medieval times, the bowmen were considered to be of a separate and superior caste, while just about anyone could be drafted to use the crossbow.

In the modern day, the crossbow, like it's cousin, has transformed and evolved many times, still as common and popular as ever.  Today, it is used primarily in sport and hunting, and with the popularity of The Walking Dead's Daryl Dixon, played by Norman Reedus, a whole new interest in the crossbow has been sparked.

The crossbow has always proven it's worth throughout the annals of time and I'm certain it will continue to do so, long into the future, whether there's a zombie apocalypse or not.  Where it seems to be a useless weapon, in my humble opinion, is sometime long long ago, in a galaxy far far away from our own.

In the Star Wars universe, Wookiees were a civilization advanced enough to have developed modern tank-like weapons and the ability for space travel, yet many of their hand-to-hand combat weapons in their arsenal, were still of a primitive-based design.  Bow staffs and spears were used in addition to laser blasters and cannons.  The crossbow is also a popular weapon used by the Wookiee armies.  It seems peculiar, to me, that the Wookiees had the foresight to develop stronger more destructive weapons, but still avoided casting aside their more inadequate weapons.  Though I never looked real close during the war on the Wookiee planet in Episode III, Revenge of the Sith, I'm sure there were still some Wookiee soldiers using rocks and stones.

The most prominent Wookiee of them all, Chewbacca, eventually left his home planet for a life of adventure, skipping around the galaxy with his companion, Han Solo, and though there were many instances that occurred in the time in between, the Wookiee never cast aside the main weapon of his people, the crossbow.

An impressive weapon to look at, intimidating in some instances, overall the weapon is bulky and inadequate.  For one, the crossbow (as it was used on the planet Earth) was designed for the ease of shooting ballistic projectiles like bolts and/or arrows.  In all of the times that I've bore witness to the use of the crossbow by Chewbacca, never once have I seen a quiver or any ballistics of any sort, being flung out by his trusty crossbow.  Hell! If you look closely at Chewies Bowcaster (pictured right), you'll notice that there's nowhere for a projectile, of any sort, to be launched from this outdated weapon.  

Filmmakers are in such a rush to design unique looking weapons for their sci-fi movies, that they set aside practicality for whatever looks cool and dangerous.  As stated before, Chewbacca's crossbow, looks impressive and even intimidating, to some degree, but it's better served as a museum piece.  An artifact worthy of spectacle and storytelling, rather than heated combat.  An outdated relic of ancient weaponry has no place in the  future, a long long time ago.

Day Three - 300,000 plus

The first person I spoke to at the Expo on Saturday, informed me that there was an estimated 300,000 people attending the Comic Expo on that Saturday alone.  That's roughly the entire population of Saskatoon, crammed into the small Calgary Stampede site.  It's no wonder that parking on the grounds was filled before the venue even opened for the day.

Our trek to the convention was without much drama.  We'd traveled the nearly straight line for a couple of days, so my co-pilot didn't need to consult her GPS, which I believe was conspiring against us in the days previous, often feeding us wrong turns 'n' such.  On this day, Saturday, it was already speculated that the influx of people would be incredible, but I never expected that traffic would be lined up as far back as it was.  Blocks upon blocks!

When the Stampede site was within visual distance, is when the stupid f*cking drivers started trying to dart in ahead of me.  I may not be the best driver at times, I still stand by my proclamation that I am better than most drivers.  There was a train track that dissected the street leading to the entrance.  Having seen the transit trolley pass frequently in passing days, I chose not to park my vehicle on the tracks.  It's the safe thing to do, after all.  There is very little that I take pride in more than my truck and having it smashed by a train would not make my day (or life) very enjoyable.  However, this dumb bitch, yes I know I shouldn't use the term, but it's deserving, bypasses all who have been patiently waiting behind my rear bumper, and darts into the space between me and the car in front of us, parking her lazy ass on those tracks.  Oh how I reveled at the idea that a train come and smash the f*ck out of her little SUV.  We'd be late for the Expo, sure, but what a memory to take home with us.

Unfortunately, no train.  The traffic pulled ahead, but not by much.  Enough that I could pull ahead, clearing the train tracks.  The dumb f*ck behind me, failed to practice the same safety as I, and pulled up right behind me, blocking the tracks.  Why do I mention this?  Why, the lights began to flash and bells sounded, indicating the train was fast approaching.  Suddenly, asshole starts hammering on his horn for me to move ahead, but I couldn't move ahead.  It wasn't my fault his parents raised a stupid child.  Sadly, the light changed to green, allowing us to move forward and dumb shit's life to be spared.  Yet, I'm the bad guy?

Long story short, parking was filled and we were instructed to try the north end of the complex.  Ultimately, we found alternate parking and for a cheaper price.  It was a little further to walk, but it was a nice day, so I didn't mind, although one of my companions was dressed in a great big gown as a "punk version" of Beauty & The Beast's Belle.  I can't imagine walking all that distance, hiking up the gown, was all that much fun.  Just one of the perks of being a guy, I guess.

Me and the kid with the stupid bird hat attended a Q&A with some of the "deceased" stars of The Walking Dead, which was okay, but the questions people asked these guys was borderline retarded.  I can attest to the fact that nervousness can be overwhelming.  I experienced some of that the day before in meeting Mick Foley.  At one point, I almost broke into tears, but I don't think I said anything overly stupid.  I made a couple jokes, which Mick was quick to respond to, in classic comic fashion.

After the Q&A, we met up with our friends and soon parted ways again.  It was around this time that I spoke with a couple folks running booths in the pavilion, one fella who worked with leather making masks and helmets.  He was quite interesting to speak with.  A part of these shows that I do enjoy.

I will never be one of those kind of people who will dress up for one of these conventions.  Not unless I was extremely passionate about something, but the only thing I like that much, aside from my cat, is wrestling, but I don't have the body or commitment to pull of a look so bold.  On the other hand, I do appreciate some of the effort put into other costumes.  I saw a guy dressed as Starlord from the Guardians of the Galaxy.  I wanted so much to go up to him and ask:

          Me: Who are you supposed to be?
          Him: Starlord.
          Me: Who?
          Him: Starlord!  Awe, come on, man!

It would have been classic, just like it happened in the movie, but I doubt these nerdy f*cks would have the audacity to recognize the scenario.  Hell, I ran into a giant of a man dressed as Groot and when I requested a photograph, he nodded, instead of muttering the words, "I am Groot."  Three simple words, but no.  Some days I wish I could walk around and only mutter three words.  Life would be so much more simple.

The guy pictured above was an incredible Batman, in my opinion.  He was more than happy to pose for a picture, giving me not just one stance, but a couple.

I grabbed a couple T-shirts that day, but it was SO god damned crowded, I kept getting knocked about and I was growing more and more upset with each blow.  It was at this time that I was informed by how many people were on the grounds.  "Three hundred thousand." I was told, which I thought was an exaggeration, but given the crowds inside were literally elbow-to-elbow, and outside wasn't much better, I'd estimate that the figure was pretty dead on.  I was so relieved that I'd got to meet Mick Foley the day before.  I never ventured into that hall, but I can only imagine the crowd waiting to meet him was staggering.

After only a couple of hours, we decided we had enough and departed.  Walking back to the truck, it felt like an incredible weight had been lifted off.  I actually felt stress falling away from my body, like smoke and embers floating away from a campfire.  On the way back to the hotel, we stopped for ice cream beverages.  I had a chocolate shake, while my passengers indulged in rootbeer floats, and all was well with the world.  That night, we went for supper at my friend's sister's house, where I met for the first time, friendly Calgary people.  I could hardly believe the contrast between how pleasant and welcoming they were to how stubborn, rude and ignorant the rest of Calgary seemed to be.  Oddly, though, what I found most memorable about the visit, was their cat.  This spry little cat came up to me a few times, looking for attention, which I was more than happy to give, being that I missed my cat.  He was small and energetic and to my surprise, SEVENTEEN years old.  I was floored.  I couldn't believe this cat was seventeen.  What was most memorable, for me, was the actions that the cat did next.

Everyone was distracted by the hockey playoffs on the television, but I don't really give two shits about hockey (an odd thing for a Canadian boy to admit, but nonetheless true), so my attention was on the cat and trying to coax him back so I could pet him some more.  Instead, the cat chose to bathe himself.

Now allow me to paint the picture.  I was seated on a small sofa, with my friend M_____, her boyfriend, D____ was on the stairs next to her, and the rest of the family was spread around the outer wall to his left, all looking at the action on the television set.  My eyes are on the cat, whose leg is propped back behind his head and he's washing his "manhood".  Suddenly, I noticed a little reddish-pink nub growing.  It's growing and it's growing and it's pulsing and it's growing.  I'm not staring at it, but at the cat's eyes who has stopped licking and his stare is fixed on my friend M_____ seated to my left.  His nub is in my peripheral, my eyes locked on his, his fixed on M_____.  It was like a beastly show 'n' tell.  He never got her attention and frustrated, he kicked his leg down and left the room.  Probably to go rub one out, but that's purely speculation on my part.

We stopped for an (expensive) ice cream cone at Dairy Queen before retiring to our hotel.  At some point that evening, we'd all agreed that we had enough of the Calgary Comic Expo and removed the wristband that allowed us entrance to the festival.  Day Four we would come home instead of dealing with the masses of nerds and freaks.

Day Four began with our packing shit up, (and my forgetting shit behind).  Then we went to a thrift shop and McDonald's then one more stop along the way.  A massive mall outside Calgary, near the town of Airdrie.  It seemed nice.  It had everything you can imagine.  Even a bear.  I don't ever plan on (realistically) moving, unless something truly extraordinary happens to me, but if I did, Airdrie, might be a nice destination.  It seems like it has every amenity I would require to be a recluse.  But I'm happy where I am, for now.  No plans on moving.  Plus, I don't think I could be the asshole behind the wheel that seems to be required to live in Alberta, anyway.

I have to admit, though, the best part of Calgary was my pretending I didn't know who or what the Calgary Flames were.  Calgarians would mentions something about the Flames, who were in the playoffs at the time, and I would play dumb and bewildered by what they might be.  "Are they some sort of sporting team?"  I would ask and watching the blood drain away from their faces was priceless.  At the Expo, there was a lady selling license plates with the Flames logo on it.  I asked what the Flaming C was all about, adding that I'd seen it in a number of places, but had no idea what it stood for.  "The Calgary Flames", she told me proudly, to which I responded that I'd never heard of them.  Among all the A-holes I'd encountered during my brief stay in Calgary, these few folks were the least dickish, probably thinking I was retarded for never having heard of the Calgary Flames.  Whatever.  I get my fun from where I can find it.

The Zombie Apocalypse

A short while ago, I watched a "science" show on a zombie-like virus that would eventually infect the entire world.  The show was on a science channel and spoke mostly of "what ifs", but much of the speculation was based in actual science.  The premise, essentially, began with a breaching whale, of all things, that lands atop a small sailing vessel.  The survivors are beaten up pretty bad, but are rushed to a nearby hospital.  Unfortunately, their injuries are far too severe and they succumb soon after arriving.  Unbeknownst to medical staff, however, is the unseen virus that exists.  Acquired from the whale that struck their boat, the two victims of this maritime tragedy are also infected with the rabies virus.  Even though they are deceased, medical staff contract the deadly virus and soon begin showing symptoms.  At this point of the science program, the pandemic really begins to snowball.  Eventually, the world is over run and humanity, as we know it today, is lost to the annals of time.  The program was a thing of pure fiction.  A form of accepted adult entertainment, but real enough to leave a grain of sand in the back of your mind, just large enough to make you think.., "What if?"  

Fast-forward to today, where there's word of a major viral outbreak in West Africa.  Formerly known as 'Zaire ebolavirus', it's now known simply as the Ebola Virus.  (Zaire was dropped, I suspect, because the stigma of a deadly virus really hurt the tourism of Zaire.)  Without getting into the thick of it, the virus, in it's simplest of terms is: It begins with an onset of influenza-like stage which includes symptoms like chills, sore throat, headaches and pain in the joints, muscles and chest.  The central nervous system is majorly disrupted with the development of confusion, seizures and sometimes even coma.  And that's the mild part.  Eventually, lesions form on the skin, followed by major bruising and eventually hemorrhaging.  The actuality of the disease is much more in depth than this, obviously.  Suffice it to say, it's not a cool way to be taken out in this world.  Having a vending machine fall on you after it steals your quarter.  Now THAT is a way to die, my friend.  Currently, according to Wikipedia (where I obtained this delightful description) says that there is no known cure for this affliction.

So I'm laying in bed this morning, sleeping very lightly with the TV on in the background.  I have it set to a news channel and I repeatedly hear a story about two aid workers in West Africa who contracted the deadly disease and are now in peril.  They've been quarantined in Africa, but are now being sent back to America for treatment.  According to the news story, the Ebola virus has never existed in the western hemisphere, but soon it will.  The patients are being flown, one-by-one, under triple layered protection, to somewhere around Atlanta, Georgia. (This is the same area where "The Walking Dead" takes place.  Coincidence?) (Yes, actually.)  Each patient will be on a gurney surrounded by a protective plastic tent, which will exist inside another protective plastic tent.  Caregivers will be wearing hazmat-like suit and treatment throughout the transit will be given via thick rubber gloves that are at the side of the initial protective plastic tent.  Great care and attention has been given to the seriousness of this situation and anyone who is familiar with horror and tragedy movies, you know that so much attention to safety and prevention is just aching for failure.  Someone's going to tear their suit, be too ashamed to admit to it, rush home to kiss their wife and play with the kids and eventually, everyone in the greater Atlanta-area are f*cked, and eventually even me, way up here in Saskatchewan is going to be inflicted...  Selfish motherf*ckers...  But I digress.

I'm sure the reasoning behind why these people were volunteering in West Africa was of noble intent, but it's unselfish acts like this that are usually the most selfish.  Just because they wanted to stand out as being "heroic", supplying aid and rescue to those unlucky enough to be born into a shitty life, these people may eventually cause the end of the world.  With so much aid to be given at home, why fly half way around the world, placing the rest of us in jeopardy?

When asked why these two aid workers deserved to be given treatment in America, it was stated it was because they were Americans and because they gave so selflessly to help those in need.  I call bullshit!  By bringing them back to America, you're stating that the level of medicine in West Africa pales in comparison to that of Western civilization.  Of course, this IS true.  I doubt dancing around a fire, chanting incoherent rants will rid anyone of the hiccups let alone the Ebola virus.  At the same time, though, by bringing them home, you're proving to the world, that being an American is superior to everything and everyone else.  Maybe that's true.  I'm not to judge the validity of that belief.

The Ebola virus is contracted by contact with infected monkeys, fruit bats and pigs.  How someone comes in contact with two of these three things, is beyond me.  Pigs, I understand, because bacon is f*cking awesome.  Fruit bats confuse me.  They are only a few inches long and what fruit they eat, is hardly enough sustenance for even the hungriest of Africans.  I mean, what the f*ck is one grape going to do for ya?  As for coming in contact with infected monkeys...  You'd think people would've gotten the hint after catching AIDS from these motherf*ckers back in the 80s.  Now people are f*cking them again?  Is the gene pool so limited in Africa, that men have to take to the jungles for some sexy time with promiscuous monkeys?

It's written that to contract the Ebola virus, one needs to come in contact with the bodily fluids of an infected creature.  Blood, mucous & urine.  Semen, I've read is another example...  Other examples include, contact with contaminated medical equipment. (It's like nobody knows they can boil water with fire to sterilize this shit!)  The lack of usage of protective clothing like gloves or surgical masks.  The virus is not an airborne contagion, but you get some dumb motherf*cker sneezing in your face, and you're f*cked.  And given my, albeit limited, exposure to foreigners, considerations like "covering their mouths or noses in the event of coughing or sneezing, is not among their strong points".  I caught many colds from face-to-face conversations with the Filipino folks I used to work with.

The outspoken Donald J. Trump tweeted out a couple of comments via his Twitter feed, and though he's full of shit most of the time, I have to agree with him on these points he's made.

1. "Ebola patient will be brought to the US in a few days - now I know for sure that our leaders are incompetent. KEEP THEM OUT OF HERE!"
   
2. "Stop the ebola patients from entering the US. Treat them, at the highest level, over there. THE UNITED STATES HAS ENOUGH PROBLEMS!"

They're both valid points.  Why tempt fate by bringing this shit to North America.  You're just putting the rest of us in jeopardy.  Why punish us for doing the right thing and minding our own f*cking business?  You watch.  Some kind of shit will go down.  No one will own up to it right away.  The virus will get out.  People will die.  The government will label the virus some other media-savvy name, so as to divert attention away from the strain being identical to the Zaire ebolavirus.

I think this statement sums it up the best...

The Los Angeles Times reported that sixty-three percent of American families are now considered dysfunctional. Good. 'Cause that means when Armageddon really happens, thirty-seven percent of this population is going to "lose their minds". "Oh my God, the world is over!"  Us sixty-three percent?  We're going to go, "Hey... there's no one watching the Lexus dealership!  We're going to the Apocalypse with leather and a CD changer!"

- Christopher Titus, Norman Rockwell Is Bleeding

Tainted Meat

I live in a 4-level split home.  It's in a nice neighbourhood, with very little or no crime.  I live near a couple of schools and a high school.  There's even a church or two down the street, if the urge ever comes to me to go pray or something.  I love my home very very much, but in recent weeks and months, I've begun looking at my home in a very different way.  My house is NOT "zombie-proof".

The main floor has a big bay window facing the street and patio doors to the rear, both providing great visibility to the undead, if they ever decide to reanimate and roam the earth.  As well, the living room and spare bedroom, also have large windows, which would provide a determined zombie, with brains on the mind, to gain access to my home.  These are the things that freak the shit out of me, late at night when I'm watching "The Walking Dead" or any of the "Resident Evil" movies.  What the hell would I do, if such an event were to occur?  I don't own any weapons, not that I'd be a very good shot anyway, as I found out last year when taking target practice with a f*cking BB gun.  I seem to shake too much, while holding the heavy instrument.  I'm such a chick!

My sister's house is perfect.  A one level home with limited windows facing front, excellent window coverings on all, and best of all, direct entry into the garage.  So if escape is necessary, no one is placed in danger of being ravaged.  As for me, I have to leave my front door, then fumble with keys to get into my garage, all the while fighting off hungry zombies.  I'll have my work cut out for me, if the occasion should ever arise.  Perhaps I should have "zombie drills" in the meantime, to get myself in proper preparedness.

The thing I don't completely understand about zombies, though, is what drives them to crave human meat?  Does it taste like chicken?  Or more specifically, brains!  Why do so many zombies crave human brains?  And I also wonder, has there ever been a zombie who bore into a human brain, only to sit back and grunt, "Aaargh.  Thisss isss terrrribllllle...!  Wherrre'ssss a Mickey D'ssss?"  And what if a person was a vegan before they were a zombie?  Would they rather carve into a head of lettuce?

The entire idea of a Zombie Apocalypse is so preposterous.  In watching the season finale of "The Walking Dead", there was a production note saying that on the night of filming, the air was so cool, that the breath could be seen from the actors playing the zombies.  So post-production had to go over every frame of film and erase the breathe via CGI.  This raised some questions with me.  If a zombie does not breathe,  how are they able to grunt and groan or in some movies, speak the word "brains".  In order to squeak, squeal, grunt, groan, howl or holler, air needs to pass over the vocal chords.  If the undead don't breath, how are they able to do all of these things?

This isn't the only question to cross my mind, either.  Another logical conclusion seems to be eluded from every zombie-esque type film of television show.  I'm not sure if the subject has been broached in the comic book, that "The Walking Dead" is derived from, but:  With all the meat and brains that zombies take in, do they shit?  Why is it you never see a zombie squatting in a street or an alley or next to a bush, pinching out a soft gooey loaf of shit?  I doubt that they'd wipe off any excess.  They're rotting corpses, after all.  The smell of shit, might be a blessing in comparison.

If zombies do indeed shit, it is possible, I suppose, that they'd do it right in their pants.  Proper hygiene seems pretty low on their list of priorities.  Most of them, don't even comb their own hair.  What they do do, however, is maintain a, somewhat, healthy wardrobe.  Of all the zombie movies I've had the privilege of watching, the zombies have always kept their private parts private.  I'm not some kind of sicko hoping to see naked rotting titties, but one has to wonder.  The clothing always seems to be tattered and torn, but never enough that zombies are left roaming the countryside, au naturel.  It's like the Incredible Hulk, in the sense that Bruce Banner is a smallish man, yet when he loses his cool, and becomes the behemoth man-beast, all his clothes tear away, except for his trousers which stretch to accommodate his incredible size.  Just as the lowly zombie tears and rots away, his trousers (or her pant suit) stays intact just enough to cover the necessities.  I suppose this is a good thing, as zombies tend to "live" off the land, just as beatniks and hippies do.

So that being said.  In the end, I haven't anything to be afraid of.  I can sit idly by in the comforts of my own home, watching my television set and drinking from my glass, safe in the fact that even if a Zombie Apocalypse were to arise, there's nothing to fear, because who's afraid of a f*cking hippy?  Not this guy!