Posts Tagged ‘zombie’

Note:  This has been in the works for over a month, and at least 10 attempts to tag/post/etc


I know I swore that I’d pay more digital attention to this undertaking of mine– but I lied like a freaking politician during an election year. That is, I had the intent to do something– or said that I did– and had about as much follow-through as [insert similar witticism here]. What can I say? Shit hit the fan in giant, stinky, corn-laden chunks– and I did as any respectable maniac would. I got the Hell out of the splash zone.

Anyway, with that halfassed lip-service apology out of the way (that I’m sure none of you believed at all in the first place), I finally got my badass zombie hunter costume “done.” Yeah, the quotes went up there because I had no freaking idea what a royal Roman whore leather is to work with. Rosie still lacks the experience to sew effectively– and Jill lacks the strength to punch through jack shit. Needless to say, I had to 86 the freaking reinforced forearms. Trying to get that shit done got put into the category of a balanced government budget– it’s looks pretty on paper, but it’s pretty freaking obvious that it’s a pipe dream.

Regardless– check this shit out.

And the sarcasm headdie...

And the sarcasm headdie...

All things considered, the hidden shotgun holsters, and the hidden prybar holsters worked out perfectly. I can’t complain.  I could complain about how WordPress’ interface has been the bane of my posting existence, or I could complain about how Cortana seemed to take personally how I couldn’t modify her coat in a way that she found suitable– but that would (in order) gain me nothing, or a punch in the dick.   I’m all for gripes that couldn’t ever result in anything besides wasted breath (like my constant middle-finger pointing at politics), but I am not all for a punch in the moneymaker.  What kind of sicko do you take me for?

Ok, back to the chaos at hand.  I never found the hat that I really wanted for the getup– like a wide-brimmed fedora-esque kind of thing, ala Doc Holiday or Van Helsing.  Yeah I know, don’t get on my ass about it, I tried everything.  On top of the shortchanging of the outfit, I realized at the last second that I forgot something key.  I didn’t even think about what to do for a shirt.  I was lucky that I had a random, plain, white shirt that worked.  Considering the stupid amount of work I put into everything else, something this trivial easily slipped my mind.

Don’t even get me started on having to disassemble and repair one of the shotguns— twice— within days of getting it.  Mind you, I’ve never even held a freaking airsoft shotgun in my life before– let alone cracked one open to see how the sucker works.  I am officially all that is man.  Except that I can’t do a push-up yet…  anyway….  (Update:  yes!  I can do  three whole push-ups as of last week!)

Oh yeah, severe props to Cortana for the scrape effects on my face– and these:


Pity/Fool. Love/Hate. Yeah. I got my point across, and my own twist on the knuckle tattoo concept.

The costumes were  a hit, all aggravation aside.  On the upside, I didn’t get arrested when walking fully armed into a liquor store to buy rum for one of the parties.  I also got the guilty pleasure of blasting a zombie and watching him drop like a ton of bricks.  Clearly, he’d been drinking far more than I had… and I’d shot him in the nipple with the shottie.  Needless to say, I was laughing so hard– I would have been a happy meal had this been the real Zombpoc.

Oh Halloween, how much I adore thee.  Let me count the ways.



Some kids love Christmas, those materialistic bastards.  Some kids love Thanksgiving, and we see the folly of those ways rolling around Wal-Mart on power chairs.  Some kids love Valentine’s Day– and if we threw people to the lions in celebration, I would too.  I, however, love Halloween– because it’s carte blanche to do whatever the Hell you want, and the only viable scale of judgement is how well you pulled it off.  That is, of course, if you’re sober enough to notice or care.

Halloween was a kid’s holiday– the older I get, the more I realize that (regardless of its origin) this holiday hits its peak of awesomeness when celebrated by semi-sane adults, often accompanied by holiday-justified levels of liquid libations.  Drinking incentives aside, which is more entertaining (and let’s be honest here):  an 8 year old dressed up as Tinkerbell, or a 28 year old Tinkerbell who’s kinda dressed?  How about a 5 year old Transformer that has a mass-produced quasi-plastic costume, or a 30 year old Transformer that made that shit themselves?  Now, put that into the mindset mentioned previously– when pulled off right, the adult versions are always going to win– unless you’re talking about an infant dressed as a teddy bear, that brat wins everything.  Don’t freaking judge me.

So yeah, I’m kinda overboard for Halloween– and we’re not just talking liver abuse.  I mean, I used to merely like it– and pulled the same old semi-undead crap a few years in a row because it was easy and made up of stuff I already had.  It worked because Halloween means you can just dress like a freak and nobody cares.   After one costume that will forever be left to the annals of myth and booze-haloed folklore– I realized that Halloween could be so much more fun than getting tossed in zany attire.  Hell, last year’s Halloween getup was so epic, it’s what first caught the eye of my girlfriend.

Yeah, the hair and the scythe are real.

This is perhaps the best picture of the detail of costume that I could dig up, and unfortunately it doesn't do the make-up justice-- nor show the blackout contacts. Notice how there's a black wrap around Jill-- she was broken three days before this party. By the way, that's not Guy Fawkes in drag, I crappily photoshopped in an image from deviant art to conceal the identity of the bearded lady... I didn't think she wanted his identity revealed. (Before you ask, it was an evil circus. Death had to be there, because there are no safety nets. Duh.)

So, this year’s theme– as stated in prior entries– is a zombie theme.  With the friends throwing said party, and the crew that attends every freaking year, this is going to be pretty sweet.  Not to mention, it’ll be the first anniversary of when the girlfriend and met— so we are going as epic zombie hunters.   I do not screw around when making costumes, and these are probably going to be my best yet.  We’re talking like ridiculously over the top like some diabolical hybrid of Tallahassee from Zombieland crossed with Punisher— only farther into the realm of DIY badassery.  Since it was requested, here’s a shot of what I’m starting with– and why I’m dedicating an entire entry before October blindsides me.

It begins.

Yes, I realize my carpet is a color akin to puke and/or baby shit. No, I do not care that the diagram looks like it was done by a drunk five year old. You get the point, and get to see the "before picture."

As if my inner geek wasn’t already showing by now, and it wasn’t already agonizingly obvious that I’m more than just entertained by the concept of a Zombie Apocalypse (shit, I’m hoping for it, I’m not kidding anyone here)–  well there you are.  I’m making a combat duster that isn’t just going to look bad ass– it is probably going to be classified as a weapon just by itself.  Not to mention, it’s going to have reinforced seams, as well as a ridiculous amount of carrying capacity.  Thank you, Halloween, you’ve provided a “justifiable” reason for creating this.  Don’t argue with me, it is!

Damn, rough crowd today.

Thankfully, the coat cost like $39 bucks, so I don’t feel bad about perverting it from a fairly nice coat– to something that screams, “Expect something insane.”  Pair that up with an array of improvised prop weaponry and concealed alcohol reserves (No, I’m not packing the scythe again this year, but I like where your head is…), and you’re gonna have a matched pair of awesome costumes for the two of us.  After all, it’ll be great physical therapy, doing the small work to get everything right.  It’s not like I’m able to work yet.  Maybe I should actually do something productive, like actually write some prose.

Maybe after I hit the gym.


That’s right, 29 posts, and 56 days later, I cracked the 1000 hit mark sometime this morning!  That’s not too shabby for a guy who’s typed over half of his posts left-handed (read: one-handed), and hasn’t a single publication to his name.  The majority of these are from close friends of mine, I’m sure, but I’ve seen signs of others– curious others wondering exactly what the Hell this quasi-gimp is raving about.  If I haven’t already made it abundantly clear, I encourage all kinds of freaking responses– whether it’s questions, commentary, or just snide remarks.  Special thanks to those who’ve swung with me from day one, through snot-nosed whining, and beyond justified wrath to where I am today—  still recovering from wrist surgery.  Thanks for making this, at very least, entertaining for me to keep doing.

I promise that I, as a jadedly cynical blogger, will never again use following the terms (aside from naming them here) ever again:  blogger, blogosphere, blogspace, bipartisan, netizen, trending, or hater.  Of course, the word “or” is an understood exception required for proper use of the English language (something I know several people have difficulty with), but I had to clarify the list due to several known wiseasses who read these shenanigans.  I also promise that I will continue the upkeep of this monumental waste of time as long as my fingers keep working.  There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, do what you want with it.

Anyway, with that said, on to today’s entertainment.  It’s no secret that I’m not just a “zombie enthusiast.”  I’m psychotically enthusiastic about the inevitability of a zombie apocalypse, and now that Zombie Jill is no longer a possibility– I’ve gotta get me back to being my friends’ go-to guy for Z Day.  Considering that I am still dealing with rehab, this means one thing, and that’s gaming (now that I can freaking aim).  I don’t play CoD (because I am not a regular gamer), and Duke Nukem would easily tear through a horde of rot popsicles on one of his textbook roid rages.  I’m too cheap to pay for broadband internet (I piggyback off my Droid like a good technocheapskate), let alone Xbox Live.   I’m talking about something new:  Dead Island.


Eleven on one? Please. I don't even need a gun for this.

Unlike with Duke (where I had been waiting 12 freaking years for the game to come out), I did not run out and buy this game new.  I hit up my good buddies at Redbox.  I wasn’t even going to get the game, but thanks to a friend of mine ditching me for reasons ambiguous, I got the game to myself all night.  Not many things make me jump, but this game is genuinely creepy.  I have no idea whether that’s due to the sunny resort setting, the gore factor set to eleven, or the fact that you don’t get a freaking usable gun until late in the first act.  It’s not like any game I’ve really played before.  No joke, where Left 4 Dead (among other titles), rely heavily upon creepy settings (and employing the classic “shoot the living shit out of a freaking horde” mentality), Dead Island is seriously different.  You gotta get personal, which means a whole different ball game.

This game is so heavily reliant on melee, it almost qualifies as a first-person fighter.  The developers were brilliant when they actually forced you to repair your weapons, as they take damage during use.  Not to mention, you can modify your stuff to be even more bad ass– from putting nails through a baseball bat, to making a burning plank, to electrifying a machete, and even more that I haven’t unlocked.  Yeah, how’s that for the ultimate dick move?  Sure, you’re allowed to diabolically DIY stuff that’d be clearly in violation of the Geneva Convention.   However, you’re not allowed to MacGyver anything without a set recipe– and you have to find and earn those.  Yes, they’re worth it, and yes, I totally geek the hell out every time I got a new one.  Don’t judge me.

Not to mention, another break from the genre–  there isn’t an endless sea of doddering carrion.  I mean, yeah there are zombies of various types just littering the stunningly gorgeous maps.  There are plenty of potential targets for which to get your violently bloody murder on.  That said, there are few true “horde” situations that I’ve encountered (Take into account that I’ve put some serious time in on it, and I’m not even 25% into the single player plot line)– and you’re forced to think like a survivor that doesn’t have a military arsenal at their disposal.  You have to be wily.  You have to loot, and loot, and loot, and launch a guerrilla campaign against the maggot marionettes that are trying to eat your face on a completely open world environment.  Can you say my style of game?

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...

Light the barbecue!

All gameplay awesomeness aside, this game actually made me jump on more than one occasion.  Zombies can grapple you, and sometimes you’ll be looting your way around, minding your own business– and bam, you’ve got something rotting and drooling trying to teethrape your brain jelly.  Even I shat rocks the first, oh, dozen times one of the living impaired thought I’d make a good to-go snack.  Like I said before, I have no clue as to exactly why— but this game actually made me give a shit about not getting killed.  That’s pretty much a feat in and of itself.  Add into the factor that it can repeatedly make me jump like a six year old watching Nightmare on Elm Street, and this game has officially got my attention.  Sick, sick bastards, you game makers.  I want to hump your legs for this one, even if the gameplay employs a serious learning curve.

Yes, Redbox, we shall meet again soon– unless I find it in a bargain bin somewhere first.  In the meantime, I guess it’s going to be “Hail to the King, Baby.”  For some reason, I don’t consider that a bad thing.  I wonder why?  I’ve got balls of steel, that’s why.


So only a few days ago, I had noticed what I had mistaken for leprosy on Jill.  With effort, I had believed that I had overcome the disgusting mystery affliction that was growing on my first love.

I was wrong.  To my horror, the nightmare wasn’t over yet.  The hand  was back, with a vengeance.  This time, the off-white, flaky, ubiquitous crud seemed to go even beyond the cast line.  This meant one thing:  whatever it is– it was spreading beyond my fingers and thumbs.   It was going in.   Jill was giving up the fight, as it seemed.  That made me sad.

It got into my hand, and it went bad...

Never in my life have I felt so close to a man named Ashley...

Quickly rewind everything here.  Due to what was supposed to be an exploratory surgery– that repaired a hell of a lot more damaged cartilage than the doc suspected was there, I am unable to perform a great many basic tasks.  I will be likewise handicapped, and re-learning to live lefty, until at least September 1.  Now, what began as a disturbing anomaly on the afflicted hand is appearing to spread, in spite of my previous attempts to thwart it.

Never fear, though, Rosie came to Jill’s aid– and proceeded to use a cuticle file like a potato peeler for the better part of a half hour.  Next time I decide to tear the decaying layers from my afflicted hand, I should just get a belt sander.  Or maybe I may have to get a bit more drastic.

Let’s see, most of my friends have me in their top 5 people to find in case of Zombpoc.  In case of Zombie Apocalypse, find me, and hope I’m not still in full-out “kill anything/everything that moves” mode.  However, as of right now, I have one usable arm, which nullifies any effective usage of a firearm, and I’m sure Rosie’s wicked ability with a fencing foil is going to net me exactly jack shit in the kills category.  The armor plating (aka the cast) on my right arm may provide some protection from gnawing teeth, but without use of the elbow…  I’m pretty much as much of a free-kill as Rachel Ray on a Comedy Central roast.  I have never felt so vulnerable.  Seriously, this is worse than those dreams as a kid being naked in school.

This all wraps back to one thing.  Zombie Jill.   She goes, I go.  If Rosie’s frantic scraping of Jill stops yielding results, or this mystery affliction goes farther into the cast, where I can’t get at it…  Do the math.

You're all screwed.

This is where it all begins. You've all been warned. This'll be the last thing you see before the horde gets you.

Strangely, I find this whole scenario far more comforting than the alternative– going and getting a half-manicure.  First it was buttering toast.  Then it was cutting steak.  I refuse to let this gimptastic state take away my last vestiges of manhood as I know it.  Sorry, Earth, I’d rather doom you than doom my self respect.

I’m sure you’ll all understand.


Ahhhhhh! Leprosy!!

Posted: July 30, 2011 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

Oh the adventures of being a right-handed lefty have come with many a tribulation.  I realized that due to the nature of the cast, I’d have some serious atrophy of the right arm, and some gnarly funk within the shell.  I’ve gone out of my way to minimize the itch and subsequent stank by being as lazy as possible, hiding in air-conditioned glory for the heat wave.  Oh the sacrifice I’ve had to make in the name of my infirmity.  My convenient application of sloth as a hygienic aid was working smashingly until I took a look at Jill.  In retrospect, I should have seen this coming awhile ago.

The fingernails on my right hand haven’t grown damn near at all since surgery.  I should have known from that point that something was amiss.  But no, I figured that poor Jill was just stunned from the surgeon’s scalpel.   I started noticing the cuticles around the inactive nails were starting to look odd, like I needed a manicure or something of that ilk.  I have better things to do than that… like come up with semi-clever masturbation allusions.  All the while, I didn’t see what was really going on under my nose.  Jill… was changing.

Oh. Shit.

If this isn't a reason for a grown man to cry in terror and despair, I don't know what is.

At first, I thought it was just a little dry skin.  No biggie, right?  Then I realized it was much, much more terrifying.  I could scratch at the patches, and it would reveal more.  It didn’t end.  The well-earned callouses were about as hard as the cast around my arm, and almost all of the exposed skin on the fingers/hand was seemingly flaking off.

No wait, it gets worse.  Yeah, worse.  I ran a test area under water, and started to scrape.  Skin started sloughing off like I was a goddam leper.  What started as curiosity quickly became a maddening compulsion, tearing layers and layers of flesh from Jill.  The Hell was going on, and why has my night quickly degraded to a shitty transformation sequence from a B horror flick?!  Almost an hour went by of frantic rinse-scrape-repeat went on until I felt like I’d torn the last horrible layer from me.

However, I still have no idea what has happened to poor Jill– or if I should ever let her near my moneymaker again.  More importantly, I have no idea if this will be a recurring issue.  Could it be the dreaded leprosy that I’ve heard about in the annals of history and various religious texts?  Or is it something far more sinister?

Zombie Hand!

That's right. We're all screwed and you know it.

I sure hope that freaking antiseptic crap works.  You’d better hope so too, because Rosie isn’t relishing having to take a chainsaw to Jill– lemme tell you.