We start this week’s episode with a simple scene. Shane is shaving his head like it’s his first day in Leavenworth and he wants to suck up to the white supremacists. Its short, it’s concise and it sends a clear message; “This is where the episode will end up.” Then we are greeted with another voice over. Rick is telling Lori a story about how Shane was a pimp in high school and he got all the ladies. Great, he was O’Bannon, we get it, stop with the voice overs, you’re not Michael Westin. This episode dealt with more storylines than any previous ones, so there was a lot of jumping around. Because of that, this write up will also be jumping around, try to keep up.
I had a terrible realization on Wednesday night. I was catching The Crazies with a friend, and there is a part where the good-looking guy and the good-looking chick need to get the fuck out of some place quickly. But here’s the thing? The dude was totally hauling ass in some big-rig zillion-wheeler. I’m sitting there, and I’m like sweet, burn rubber motherfucker! Get the fuck out of there.
But then I had a less sweet epiphany. When the zombie apocalypse finally hits, I’m totally screwed. I can only drive automatic. Seeing that dude save his own life in car with a manual transmission was portentous of my own dumb ass once the flesh-eaters rear their ugly heads. In a way I almost appreciated this coming to understand my lack of ability. While we’re probably only days or weeks away from the first brain-rot knuckledragger biting the first unsuspecting person in a dark corner somewhere, I’ve been given a second chance.
I need to start practicing driving manual. Like, soon. I’ve been slacking on a lot of my zombie survivalist techniques. Mainly, the only thing I can really do in any situation, zombie apocalypse or not is make people laugh and pen juvenile prose. So I mean, maybe there will be some sort of tension-breaking websites once they arrive and I can derive my usefulness from them. Do you really think we’re going to stop tweeting and checking websites after the first zombie rises up?
Or perchance sages and orators will once again take preeminence upon the world stage. Forget Homer, I shall tell of the Mouth That Launched A Thousand Zombies, and other awesome shit.
But more than likely, I’m just fucking dead. Or I guess undead. Rimshot! Groan! Eyeroll! I need to start taking my Dad’s truck out in the middle of the night, honing my driving skills. I need a steady diet of manual transmissions, and learning how to drift. Nothing says effective way to zoom yourself to safety like downshifting or uh, upshifting, or uh, something around a corner powersliding while you mash the kneecaps of zombies with your sweet whip.
You’re all welcome for this immeasurably valuable wake-up call.