Bon Appétit, Zombies!: Skip the Cranberries

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Prefer a leg, thigh, or perhaps a breast?

As Sunday’s nine o’clock hour nears (and rears both its fears and tears), I fidget and squirm with unbridled anticipation. It has been a long wait for the premiere of TWD’s season 5. Yes, I am hooked and AMC is strong-arming my legs.

Hell, they “had me at” the reveal of Merle’s hand, which he played fairly well. At least such was so while he lasted … which was season’s longer than The Walking Dead’s writers should have allowed. At least that one-handed redneck found redemption before he became a teatime treat.

It would just be gravy if Lori’s shell of post-natal mortem were to turn to Shane (in all his manliness) and offered: “You complete me. Really. I’m not kidding!”

The Late Night Ashes of Sundown’s Burning Issues

This evening, I stepped outside to feed the cats. Jon was napping and the house was still. As the pusses circled my steps and scurried for what precious orts they might corner, I eyed the stoop. I hadn’t really watched them for a while and, as is true every day, I indeed have as my mother used to say a “gracious plenty” of unredeemed time. I happily sat down, oblivious to the moss, dirt, and feline residue.

I do believe that all creatures seem capable of being content, if they: know love, are well-nourished, and remain safe from harm. I guess that’s also true with Jon and me. That would be true even in spite of life, death, taxes, and U.S. Senate seats.

I looked up at the sky and, as the last drops of sunlight quietly cascaded, the day disappeared into the strewn leaves. For a while, my ponderances got the best of me again. Keep in mind, Gentle Reader, my very best would likely rival the world at its most mediocre.

For at least until the cats finished their version of the “Chew” and returned to their nightly toilette, I was an unfortunate child of the Universe’s three-way with both time and regret. An “egads” bounced off of the fig tree onto the jeep’s hood, finally landing in an ancient weed-filled birdbath.

I attempted some pitiful resolve to two of the issues that are always on my short list and, for that matter, my long list as well. These concerns have bothered me for years. They now provide a perverse familiarity as well as a rope-bridge to the Forest of the Lost ’70’s.

First, foremost, and quite simply, how in the Hell did Chuck Norris become a movie star, and a swishy swashbuckling action hero at that? No offense to Mr Norris but, when cruising TV land with Wanda the remote, I grimace and cower when I pass “Walker, Texas Ranger”. In fact, aside from “The Price is Right”, there is probably no other small screen program that evokes frustration, disgust, and indignation. Case in point: imagine a hangover from the naughtiest of pre-Reagan nights about town and waking to Mr Barker’s theme music and voice. (Please note a second “egads”.)

Secondly, and this is the one that periodically resurfaces as our collective interest in comic books waxes and wanes. Are orphans more likely to become super-heroes than their classmates that have two or more parents in residence? Are super-heroes more likely to lose their parents at a young age than their lay and relatively powerless counterparts? In this world of “it makes no never mind”, my money is on the unsung Alfred, those faultless Kents, and that Aunt Ben/Uncle May duo (or the like).

So you might laugh, as I surely do, or at least crack a wee smile. I am always sill when surrounded by the cats, especially these Noble and Apostolic Pusses.

At dusk, I stepped inside and returned to the quietude and reality of Marklewood.