Night of the living dead-heads

the walking dead

Perhaps zombies are real.  There is no reason that brain-sucking, walking corpses can’t exist, especially if I have seen them in real life.

It just so happens that every time I go to my local bar I seem to be attacked by hoards of these brain dead, slothenly dressed ghouls that stumble and stagger around the bar trying to “consume my brain” with their mindless drivel.

It could just be that Halloween is upon us, or that the new season of The Walking Dead has just started that I am more susceptible to believing that zombies are among us.  But really I am just going by the evidence that has been presented to me with my dealing with these folks at bars.

Let us examine the evidence by comparing the two creatures and see if they share any similarities with one another.   Zombies are walking corpses that smell bad, aren’t very smart, and if they catch you, will eat your brains.   People I meet at bars are smelly, have caused their own brain paralyses through continued abuse of alcohol, and whose ramblings are so nonsensical they threaten to devour my brain with the level of unintelligible rhetoric they spew.

It appears the similarities are too obvious to ignore.  And based on those facts, I would say the evidence speaks for itself.    Zombies are real!

So if you have been following my blog, you would know that a few Sundays ago I came face to face with a series of goblins, ghouls, and zombies, and managed to escape unharmed.   Armed with only my wit and a pint of Guinness, my friend and I made our way outside in an attempted escape to get away from  Stabby Mcgee and the tire man who were inside ready to vehemently explain to me, using pointy objects I might add, how native Americans love to be called Redskins.    We made our way to the safety of the fire pits outside, sat down and breathed a sigh of relief.  But a clean escape to safety was not meant to be, apparently this night had something else in store for our hero.

As my friend and I sat there talking about how I almost was stabbed to death over the “tradition” of the use of the word “Redskin,”  an older blonde woman staggered over to our fire pit and stood there in front of it.   She didn’t say anything at first, she just stood there swaying back and forth in front of the fire.  The shadows danced around her already wrinkled and weathered face, the fire reflecting off her dull flaxen hair.  I couldn’t tell if she was thinking, if she was confused, perhaps even having a stroke, even though the most reasonable assumption was that she was just drunk.   She just stood there as the flickering shadows contorted the features on her face into even more gruesome looking shapes.   Finally it spoke. “Can I ask you guys a question?”

My first response was to say the obligatory, “You just did,” but I wasn’t in the mood for the confused conversation that always seems to ensue after that comment.  So I said instead, “Of course sweets, what can we do you for?”

To which she slurred “Whatcha you think of me and him?” pointing to a young guy about 25 years old sitting in front of the fire pit next to ours.  “Do you think we make a good couple?”

What kind of question is that?  How am I supposed to answer that?  “No you look like a desperate aging cougar and he looks like a douche bag hipster.  We are strangers at a bar lady.  I don’t know anything about you two.  Nor do I care to.  My friend and I are attempting to have a conversation here and would like to have it, minus any of your crazy.” But of course none of that was actually uttered.

What I did say was, “Yeah, you guys seem like a cool couple.” Nodding my head and looking back and forth at the two of them, hoping it would draw this uncomfortable situation to its proper conclusion.  But it didn’t.  The next thing I know the guy had now joined us at our fire pit.  The two of them stood there swaying back and forth, with me sitting down looking up at them.

It was like a scene from a 1920s horror movie with the shadows across their faces and the fire raging with only their heads visible above the flames as they got closer and closer signaling their imminent “attack.” And like the movies, I should have run away screaming bloody murder.  But I didn’t.  Something about the warmth of the fire, the cool Guinness in my hand, and the foolish belief that my wit and humor would protect me staid my legs and left me vulnerable to their impending zombie attack.

The woman launched into this diatribe about how everyone gives them dirty looks and how she can hear the whispers about them when they walk by.  She was upset that people think she is a cougar and that he is just her boy toy.  Then she asked us why people are like that.  But before giving us a chance to answer, which by the way,  I had no intention of answering anyway (the sign at the zoo says don’t feed the animals, so I try not to), she tells us that she doesn’t care what people think.

Then she asked us, “Does our relationship make you guys uncomfortable?”

To which I quipped, “Not as much as uncomfortable questions make me uncomfortable.”

Now at this point I had forgotten about Senor Douche Bag in the ironically worn Member’s Only jacket next to her.  He came back at me with a little nugget of information of his own. “Nah, man, nah. It’s because of my race, yo.”

I then realized that by responding to them I had only encouraged them to keep talking to me, so now I have no other choice but to engage the walking dead.  So I say, “That sucks man.  So, ummmm, what race are you?”

He answered with his lips pursed and nodding his head with a quick slurp of air thru his teeth, “Muslim.”

All squinty eyed, and rubbing my goatee, I say, “Umm, isn’t Muslim a religion?”

“Yo, yo, yo…man.  Yo, it’s a religion too.”

I start furiously clicking my heels together chanting under my breath, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”   When I open my eyes and see that I am still at the fire pit, I resign myself to the fact I am stuck in this situation and now must fight my way out.  With words, fight my way out with words.

He then sits down next to me,  places his half finished Midori sour on the ledge of the fire pit in front of us, and says  “Yo man, yo, yo.  Listen, yo, I’m about to blow your mind, yo.  I’m from Lebanon.”  Then silence.

I just sat there looking at him nodding my head waiting for him to finish his point.  Apparently, that was his whole point

Then he stands up and holds up his hand and says, “Lebanon…,” there was a long pause, “um Syria, Jordan,” He puts  a finger up every time he can remember a name of a country.   The teacher  gene in me kicks in and I want to give him a gold star for remembering all these countries, but I feel that will only exasperate the situation.  He continues, “Israel!”  He was really proud of himself when he said Israel.  So I say, “Don’t’ forget about Turkey, it’s right there too.”

“Yeah, yeah man.”  He nodded his head, took a sip of his drink through the skinny red straw and asked me, “Are you ready, for this?”  I just continued to look up at him waiting for him to blow my mind and he said triumphantly, “They are all the Middle East.”

I look over at my friend to give him the look like, “Dude, this guy is pretty crazy too.  I think this might be a stabbing for Anthony kind of night.”  But I see that he is stuck in  conversation with the old blond about how she is divorced and how it’s her turn to have fun now.  Damn it. I didn’t want to get involved in that conversation either, but I’m not even sure if what was going on with my guy was even considered a conversation anyway. It is more like he is just throwing words together and hoping they make a sentence.

Having no other choice, I rejoin the conversation that is already in progress.  “That’s cool man.”  I said agreeing with him, “They are all part of the Middle East.”

“Yo, Yo man.  No they aren’t.  They are all Damascus.”

What the frack?  He just made a huge point of telling me they were all the Middle East now he wanted to tell me they weren’t?  I let out an audible sigh and took a big pull of my beer.  This guy is fifty shades of an idiot and I needed to remove myself from the situation for fear that his stupidity might be contagious.

“Cool man, but isn’t Damascus the capital of Syria?”

Why did I say that?  Why couldn’t I have just kept nodding my head and drinking my beer.  This guy started to have a malfunction meltdown.   It was like when you click your mouse too many times on your computer.  Everything freezes, then all kinds of windows and pop-ups start happening letting you know that your computer may now explode, turn off, or both.

“What? No, no that’s not what I said about Damascus.  It’s Damascus.  I’m from Lebanon, not from Israel.   And Syria is Muslim.”  Uh oh, now I’ve broken him.  He is just saying random words now.  “Listen yo, listen.  I’m Muslim.  And the world doesn’t like Syria.  Do you know what that means?”

Instead of answering I just shake my head from side to side trying to hold in my fear and laughter at the same time.  This suckers about to blow.

“It means that the Middle East is Muslim. And I’m Muslim.” Then silence once again.  Nothing is said for a minute, while bits and pieces of my friends crazy conversation th a t he is stuck in drift over to me.  I guess it decided to shut down instead of blow up.  Whew, crisis averted.

Normally I am cool with a comfortable silence, but while I was working out my exit strategy I decided to ask him another question.  “So how do you like living here in the United States?  Is it much different than Lebanon?”   Which I think is a valid question.

To which he responds, “Nah man, I was born in West Covina, yo.”

Okay, that’s it, I grab my drink, grabbed my friend, said a quick good bye and walked back inside.  I would rather be stabbed to death then have to listen to any more of this brain mashing, semi intelligible craziness from the two of them.

And that is my proof that zombies are real.

About thedailyheard

Just a guy with an opinion and some time on my hands trying to find out where the sidewalk really does end.

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