Along came Rod-ney

Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Rod shows up. He doesn’t just show up, he appears like some asshole out of a harlequin novel. Lock of hair falling over an eye that makes my eyes look like they belong to a jellyfish. Blood splattered wife beater T barely covering his Hollywood physique. You know the type.

I hate guys like that. They’re so full of themselves. On his own, Rod couldn’t level past ten in WOW without forking out cash for Asian gold.

And no, I’m not afraid he’ll read my blog and know what I’m thinking. If my blog isn’t about him, I doubt he’ll pay it any interest.

Ludovico technique apparatus.

Ludovico technique apparatus. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

All right, maybe I am insecure. Sue me.

Play nice, that’s my motto. This post isn’t to rail on Rod. Allow me to move on.

How’d Rod chance upon our humble abode you ask? Goes back to this morning when I went to check on Shelly and asked her to turn off Dr. Strangelove on the TV so we could talk. She about took my head off at the suggestion and it was then I noticed her not-quite-right look, sort of what I imagine Gollum would look like on LSD. Interesting but not pretty.

What did she do? Nothing all that strange by today’s standards, I suppose. She vacated the den–where she could have easily locked me out–and set up the TV and DVD player in the living room and declared it her personal space. Death to all trespassers, i.e. me. End of story.

Or it would have been, had there not been a fireplace. Shelly decided that the furniture in the living room—which I must mention, was willed to me by my beloved, deceased mother—was more suitable for burning than for sitting on or setting things on as was my bent.

Seriously, I don’t know what the weather’s like where you are, but this is California. I sleep with only a sheet over me 364 days out of the year. The 365th night, the sheet is in the wash.

So long story short–fire, smoke, signal, hello, somebody lives here, hi my name is Rod and I just happened to be in the neighborhood and saw your smoke, I hope you don’t mind.

Asshole. At least he cleaned up the zombie mess he made around the house before he came to steal my woman.

I wish he were a rapist. I find rapists are so much easier to deal with.

I need to stop being like this. Put on a happy face.

I wonder if Rod likes Beethoven?

Just Desserts

Stupid turkey had the last laugh. Shelly and I suffered from food poisoning for two days after Thanksgiving.

English: Major T. J. "King" Kong (Sl...

English: Major T. J. “King” Kong (Slim Pickins) riding the bomb in Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film, Dr. Strangelove. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was so stoked over our success. Almost like a miracle, it seemed as though God had smiled on us and offered up the bird as a peace offering. Like Lucy offering to hold the football for Charlie Brown,  it seems he only wished to set us up.

Shelly says she’s over it, and she has taken to watching Doctor Strangelove over and over. I suppose I’m not able to cope with things as well as she is, so to deal with my depression, I’ve returned to writing my novel. Why, you ask, am I writing something that no one will ever read? The truth is, had the world not ended, it’s just as likely no one would  read it. But what the hell, I’ve got nothing better to do with my time. Besides, writing about zombies is so much better than actually living among them.

Operation: Turkey–11/20/12

We made our way down to the creek by following the old horse tails that wind through the hills. We’ve had little rain this year and the water is only ankle deep for the most part. Shelly searched the sandy shore for bird tracks and gave me a withering look when I laughed at her. To her credit, she did find some tracks, though they were those of some mammal and not a bird. The tracks of a coyote, dog, or raccoon I reckon they were by gum, by cracky.

Daniel Boone Painting

Daniel Boone Painting (Photo credit: amslerPIX)

To my discomfort, there were also some odd scuff-like marks that looked to have been left by a rotter. Then again, the tracks could have been left by some small animal dragging its prey over the sand. I’ll be the first to admit I’m no Daniel Boone. I’ll also admit I never believed there was a turkey running around these parts, but there is. I heard one with my own ears towards sunset last night. Even I know what a turkey sounds like.

We saw no sense in trying to hunt the bird in the dark and called it a day. We made our way to a house we’d checked out earlier and deemed safe for the night. Safe or not, we slept in an upstairs room and barricaded the door for good measure.

It’s now the morning of the twentieth and we’re getting ready to bag us a turkey. Now that I know one exists, I’m actually raring to go. Our only problem: how do we finish the job. All we have are a couple 9mm handguns, and neither of us are expert marksmen. We can probably get away with a shot or two without attracting a horde of living dead down on us, but to just start blasting away is out of the question. I guess we’ll play it by ear.

The internet’s not presently working. I’ll post this when I get the chance.

Operation: Turkey–11/19/12

PAINTER WORKING ON CHAIN LINK FENCE - NARA - 5...

PAINTER WORKING ON CHAIN LINK FENCE – NARA – 549962 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Shelly wouldn’t discuss Operation Turkey until we awoke this morning. We had breakfast––mostly coffee––and I stated my objections to which she responded like a mother dismissing a monster under a child’s bed.

Shelly decided to travel light, taking only our weapons and a few water bottles. The deserted houses scattered about the countryside were to provide us with whatever food and shelter we might need. It all seemed like a lot of bother to me. The houses are some of the worse places imaginable. So many people boarded up their widows and died of the plague only to arise as rotters trapped inside their own homes.

Anyhow, our first order of business was to get out of the house in one piece. Courtesy of Derik, we have about a dozen rotters residing on the property who perked up as soon as we opened the upstairs window. We needed to not only get away in one piece, but we needed to get far enough ahead of any pursuit so our scent couldn’t be followed.

Our plan was simple. Taking a low tech approach, we tied rope and sheets together for our departure. Shelly manned the rope while I skirted the edge of roof, hollering and waving at our unwanted quests, luring them to me. There’s an L shaped section of chain link fence buttressed against a corner of the house. One of my many unfinished home improvement projects, the fence is wide open at one end but was adequate for our purposes.

I started drawing attention to myself while standing above the fence. From there, I made my way around the house until every rotter in sight wanted a piece of me. By the time I got back to where I’d begun, Shelly had lowered the rope to the ground and the rotters pressed against the closed section of fence as we descended. They could have been on us in seconds if they’d thought to walk back to the opening and around.

The plan would have worked out like a dream, if not for my skill as a fence builder. What I hadn’t considered was the pressure of a dozen adult bodies pushing against the meager depth to which I’d planted the fence poles. I see now I should have dug the holes deeper and used more cement. Live and learn. As you’ve guessed, we were barely on our way before the first fence pole ripped from the ground and the chase was on. We ran like hell until we(I) couldn’t run any more. I can only hope we pulled the rotters far enough away from my home that they’ll get lost and not return.

An internet window just opened and I want to get this posted before it closes. I’ll send more if I get a chance.

Operation: Turkey. Over and out.

Death of a turkey

Male wild turkey in Brookline, Massachusetts, ...

Male wild turkey in Brookline, Massachusetts, United States of America. He frequents the area on Beacon Street between Washington Square and Cleveland Circle. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love Shelly. Yes, it’s true. She’s as fun as one of those old sitcom heroines, always ready with a new adventure that’s sure to get her in deep doo-doo. I’m being harsh. Shelly’s not all that funny, but that’s okay because I’m not with her for the laughs. Unlike those cit-com husbands, I’ll do what Shelly wants, if it will buy her time from her depression.

So here’s the low-down. Thanksgiving is only a few days away. For my friends living outside the USA who don’t know about our American Thanksgiving holiday, it’s one of our more nationalistic and less alcoholic driven celebrations. (Despite what you might think of Americans, ugly is primarily what we become when you try to deny us our freedom or booze)

To move on, Thanksgiving is basically a celebration of the birth of capitalism in the New World, although it’s politically incorrect to speak of this these days.

Here’s the History of Thanksgiving in a nutshell: Some early English settlers, known as the Pilgrims, were essentially amazingly daring socialist hippies who made the new world their home in 1620. These people should not be confused with the Puritans. The difference between the two groups is immense. The Pilgrims were driven by spirit; the Puritans, by religion.

The Pilgrims, finding that their communal system produced less than was necessary to support the community, made an extraordinary transition and gave up socialism in favor of capitalism. Due to that decision, the community survived. They not only survived, they thrived. In celebration of their new found bounty, they threw a feast which came to be known as Thanksgiving.

Central to the feast is a cooked turkey. For those who don’t know, a turkey is a large bird that tastes wonderful when it’s baked with bread crumbs crammed up its ass.

So where am I going with this post? Here goes. In a couple days, Thanksgiving day will be on us. Do I care? Absolutely not. Does it matter what I think? Absolutely not. So who does matter? Shelly.

Shelly wants a fresh turkey for Thanksgiving diner. Says she’s going to leave tomorrow morning and will return by Thanksgiving day with a turkey, cook it and serve it or die trying.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’ll not be letting her go on her wild turkey chase by herself. I’ll take my cell phone. In case I find a spare moment, I’ll keep you informed as to our progress. Don’t count on it though. If I know Shelly, she’ll probably have me build her a Taj Mahal with any free time I might find.

I have to admit I feel like an idiot. I’m going to die for a stupid turkey. Heck, I’ve never seen a wild turkey around here in my entire life. I’m a loon for going along with this. I really truly don’t expect to return home this time. I mean it. I’m only doing this because I love Shelly. I guess I’ll do anything for her.

God save me.

On a Lighter Note

Life has been growing darker by the day for both Shelly and me. To snap myself out of my funk, I was going through some video files I’d archived during better times. It was there I came across a You Tube video I’d saved. I played it for Shelly and it seemed to raise our spirits somewhat.

At first, she found it depressing and refused to watch. She was disturbed by the thought that most of the people in the film are now dead. I finally got her to view it by reminding her that movie classics like her favorite, Gone With The Wind, were filled with dead actors by the time she first watched them. It’s the nature of art to outlive its creator.

This video was a hit before the world came to an end. This is the last in a series of three films I know of. I wonder where the hell Matt is these days. I’d like to believe he’s out there still, this time getting zombies from around the world to dance. Now that would be a video.