In all the literature we have read, along with the movies we have watched their have been some characters that make it through the zombie apocalypse and others who don’t. This brings me to the question “would I make it in a zombie apocalypse?” Obviously there are several factors that play a role, such as, “Where I am located? Who am I with? The type of zombies I am up against? What weapons I have?” If we were to say I have moderate resources with all these and going up against moderate speed zombies I think it would be very difficult to survive. I would say I am fairly clever and a good athlete, which are both major proponents in survival but during a zombie apocalypse there is just too much potential for things to go wrong. The fact of the matter is, the zombies so often predict what you are forced to do. Whether you are on an island or in a school, the zombies create situations of isolation which lead to lack of resources and problems within the groups. In order to be successful I think the group is essential, if you are around people you trust and are helpful it brings up ones chances of survival immensely. With that said, during an apocalypse if you are not with your loved ones (usually the ones you trust) there is always going to be that want to go out and find them, which creates extremely dangerous situations. A zombie apocalypse I think comes down to cleverness and luck. I think some individuals can create schemes to make it through but there is a huge proponent of just being lucky.
[...]
In all the literature we have read, along with the movies we have watched their have been some characters that make it through the zombie apocalypse and others who don’t. This brings me to the question “would I make it in a zombie apocalypse?” Obviously there are several factors that play a role, such as, “Where I am located? Who am I with? The type of zombies I am up against? What weapons I have?” If we were to say I have moderate resources with all these and going up against moderate speed zombies I think it would be very difficult to survive. I would say I am fairly clever and a good athlete, which are both major proponents in survival but during a zombie apocalypse there is just too much potential for things to go wrong. The fact of the matter is, the zombies so often predict what you are forced to do. Whether you are on an island or in a school, the zombies create situations of isolation which lead to lack of resources and problems within the groups. In order to be successful I think the group is essential, if you are around people you trust and are helpful it brings up ones chances of survival immensely. With that said, during an apocalypse if you are not with your loved ones (usually the ones you trust) there is always going to be that want to go out and find them, which creates extremely dangerous situations. A zombie apocalypse I think comes down to cleverness and luck. I think some individuals can create schemes to make it through but there is a huge proponent of just being lucky.
[...]
Categories:
SCENE I
[A forensics laboratory in Northern Ireland. Two anthropologists stand over an operating table. The light is interrogating. The backdrop is dim and the bay windows dark. One figure is male, the other female. The decrepit mass on the table resembles a skeleton hide.]
SCIENTIST Scalpel.
ASSISTANT Doctor?
SCIENTIST Yes, Laura?
ASSISTANT The spec. data indicates dairy and meat digestion, which corroborates our highborn hypothesis.
SCIENTIST Further testing is needed for conformation Laura.
ASSISTANT Rory, we are so close. It’s all here. God willing--it’s all in front of us.
SCIENTIST Have you read Aeschylus?
ASSISTANT Don’t lecture me Rory. The nails are filed. The hair is gelled with French oils. The skin is laced with lavender extract. The bowels are ritualistically dismembered. This man was a Brahman, or a Druid, or even a King! A King Rory! Imagine that! The implications--think of the implications.
SCIENTIST Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
ASSISTANT I don’t believe in God.
SCIENTIST Do you know why my parents named me Rory?
ASSISTANT No I’ve never known.
SCIENTIST My namesake was the last of the Irish Kings. Long after the high kings at Tara--long after the extinction of the giant wolves--and long before my lineage could possibly be traced. We are the descendents--the bastards--of god-kings who spat in the face of Christian Gods and worshipped the bogs they crawled out from.
[The scene fades to black.]
SCENE II
[The stage is suddenly illuminated exposing a stone cavern ordained with megaliths--
each baring an intricate carving. Three blood-filled cauldrons rest beneath three
archways exiting the tomb temple.]
KING Bring him forward!
[Three hooded figures drag forward the tortured body of a richly clad clansman.]
HERETIC Vile! Unclean! Usurper of my father’s throne!
KING Silence doomed one. God has spoken.
HERETIC You desecrate the stone throne. You, who would call yourself God and King of men, you that dare the slave come hither? Covered with an antic face. With no fear or scorn at our solemnity. By the stock and honor of my kin, I’ll see you struck dead from this life or the next. In dirt or pine, from the soil I’ll dry your roots and poison your herds. I’ll famine your slaves and watch from below, as you too are unseated! I’ll greet you with open arms and the embrace of a fervent worm--eager to digest.
KING Flesh-eater you will not be given the ritual of Passover. Take him to the bogs, make him a eunuch, tie weights to his limbs and feed him to the sludge of the earth. Forever he shall rot--till the very ends of time.
HERETIC I curse you! You and your misbegotten sons of whores! I’ll see you doomed for this and I will rise again! I’ll eat the flesh of false kings and bastard children! I’ll return for mine! A curse on you and all who call you true King! I’ll haunt you and yours hereafter, till the very end of time.
KING [betraying a hint of fear]
Cut out his tongue.
[Scene fades as HERETIC is carried away convulsing in rage.]
Categories:
Didn’t mean to disregard the final post and so it goes. I also wasn’t really sure where to take this; we’ve literally covered everything related to zombies that I can think of. Then I remembered the one problem/question/whatever I’ve always had with the zombie genre that no one seems to be concerned with: zombie teeth. Considering that the archetypical zombie spends his, or her, time preoccupied with thoughts of human flesh and brains it’s only logical to assume that they would need a sturdy set of chompers to get the job done. But wait, zombies are in a constant state of putrefaction so wouldn’t that apply to their teeth as well? I’ve asked this question to a number of individuals, both z-classmates and random non-classmates, and found that no one else seems to care. Brutal. Even so, I remain dedicated to uncovering the mystery behind zombie teeth…a seemingly impossible task considering that zombies aren’t real (#nooffense). Naturally, I started with google. The results were less than stellar, not yielding much beyond costume zombie teeth and DIY YouTube videos. I pushed on and found The Federal Vampire and Zombie Agency with an entire section dedicated to “The Science of Zombies.” Interesting (enough) stuff.
Here’s a picture of the zombie jaw:
Normal jaw on the left; zombie jaw on the right (with a larger jawbone and thicker muscle). Allegedly, “Important modifications occur to the zombie jaw. Extra bone is deposited on the lower jaw to form an attachment point for larger chewing muscles. These adaptations enable zombies to bite through skull and bone and get at the pillars of their diet: brains and bone marrow.” Wow, cool. I decided to believe that this was possible…I have little to no evidence to the contrary and I don’t know anything about biology (human or otherwise) so I can’t hypothesize.
Beyond that, “zombie teeth are not adapted to the powerful forces exerted on them by the jaw. Teeth crack and fall out, and the holes they leave behind leak sludge-like zombie blood. Eventually, all their teeth are gone, and a zombie is forced to chew with its exposed jawbones.” Wow, neat. Again, I decided to believe FVZA. I suppose it makes sense using the typical representation of zombies, considering that their super-human strength and indifference or insensitivity to pain would allow them to disregard the whole teeth situation. Unless they do care, which they might, but that’s not what this is about. Humans can already do a great deal of damage with their teeth, so it doesn’t seem like a stretch to imagine zombified versions biting through skin and skull with equal success. They would simply chomp down full force on whatever body part they can, until the teeth, or exposed jaw for the toothless, connects with the opposite side.
I tried to find other “credible” resources to answer this question, but that wasn’t a thing. So I’m left with what's above as the only seemingly plausible, non-Yahoo user generated response to my question. I would be lying if I said I was satisfied, but there it is. Zombies have teeth, unless they don’t, and either way they’ll try to bite you and it will hurt.
[...]
Here’s a picture of the zombie jaw:
Normal jaw on the left; zombie jaw on the right (with a larger jawbone and thicker muscle). Allegedly, “Important modifications occur to the zombie jaw. Extra bone is deposited on the lower jaw to form an attachment point for larger chewing muscles. These adaptations enable zombies to bite through skull and bone and get at the pillars of their diet: brains and bone marrow.” Wow, cool. I decided to believe that this was possible…I have little to no evidence to the contrary and I don’t know anything about biology (human or otherwise) so I can’t hypothesize.
Beyond that, “zombie teeth are not adapted to the powerful forces exerted on them by the jaw. Teeth crack and fall out, and the holes they leave behind leak sludge-like zombie blood. Eventually, all their teeth are gone, and a zombie is forced to chew with its exposed jawbones.” Wow, neat. Again, I decided to believe FVZA. I suppose it makes sense using the typical representation of zombies, considering that their super-human strength and indifference or insensitivity to pain would allow them to disregard the whole teeth situation. Unless they do care, which they might, but that’s not what this is about. Humans can already do a great deal of damage with their teeth, so it doesn’t seem like a stretch to imagine zombified versions biting through skin and skull with equal success. They would simply chomp down full force on whatever body part they can, until the teeth, or exposed jaw for the toothless, connects with the opposite side.
I tried to find other “credible” resources to answer this question, but that wasn’t a thing. So I’m left with what's above as the only seemingly plausible, non-Yahoo user generated response to my question. I would be lying if I said I was satisfied, but there it is. Zombies have teeth, unless they don’t, and either way they’ll try to bite you and it will hurt.
Categories:
Hello Hello,
I'll be 'presenting' this story today. Thought if you were interested in the presentation it might be worth a read.
Cheers,
W.
[...]
I'll be 'presenting' this story today. Thought if you were interested in the presentation it might be worth a read.
Cheers,
W.
For
Emily A, whose faith inspires even the faithless.
Every
Sunday, the doors to St. Michael’s church in Amherst, Massachusetts
are open. Inside its doors stands an armed security guard, the
mercenary type, the only type of guns money can buy this late in the
Z outbreak. The guard checks me as I walk through the wooden doors.
“Name?”
“Dr.
William F. Taylor,” I respond.
“Bites?”
he asks curtly, sweeping my frail frame with his eyes. It's been a
long time since I've had a full meal, and MREs are expensive.
“None.”
The mercenary runs a handheld metal device in front of my forehead.
His hand does not shake, this moment is usually quite tense. His
other is motionless on the grip of his modified AK-47. The device
clicks, and a light blinks green.
“Clear,”
the guard tells me. He has just checked for normal temperature. The
bitten will be feverish, you see. The undead will be cold, the last
heat from their bodies bleeds out a long time before they reanimate.
Dogs, of course, can sniff an infected from 200 yards away, but
churches could never afford a dog. The good dogs were seized and
militarized during the first surges of the outbreak. Using men is
cheaper as there was a surplus of ex-Iraq, ex-Afghanistan
30-somethings. The men came with the bonus of providing someone to
talk to when things got lonely. Although, for most mercenaries, dogs
might have been better conversation.
“Thank
you,” I tell him as I step to his right-hand side into the empty
church.
“Say,
what’s a medical type doing in a place like this?”
“Are
my kind any less in need of your services?” I respond.
“It’s
just... there haven’t been many in here, since the outbreak.”
“I
just need to discuss something with the man who is in that box.”
“It’s
not really for discussions. It’s a confessional.”
“I
am aware of what the box is called, thank you.” I proceed past the
mercenary and towards the box. I did not mean to be rude, but
sometimes rudeness is unavoidable.
“Suit
yourself,” the guard says to my back. “Prick,” I hear him
whisper under his breath. Dogs didn't whisper insults at your back.
Dogs wouldn't steal your food or your weapons in the night.
Mercenaries are all the same. Putrid humor and a lack of wit. No
contemplation of the situation at hand. It’s only the gun pointed
at the infected and the click of the trigger. No future past the
muzzle flash.
I once heard a hired gun teaching a man how to fire his AK early in
the outbreak, ‘you count out while you shoot:
die-mother-fucker-die, and then their fucking brain is on the wall,
boom!' He laughed, 'you try-'
I
pity
these men.
I
open the door and sit down in the confessional. The priest slides the
screen open. “Yes, my child?” the priest asks. I knew he was
going to say it, though I’ve never been to a confessional before.
You couldn’t have paid me to be here before the outbreak. I find
the whole situation of confession to be unavoidably creepy. Something
or other about a healthy dose of Judaism in the younger years mixed
with an atheist’s heart.
“Father?”
I anxiously say, feeling the sheer religiosity of the pseudonym.
“Yes,
my child?” I can see him through the cage. It has not been repaired
since at least the start of the outbreak. It seems as though several
people have tried to punch their way through it. Hopefully they were
still people at that point, but that’s what I’m here to discuss.
“I have a question,” I continue.
“Anything,
my son,” the priest responds. At least I assume he’s a priest. I
suppose it could be another ‘die-mother-fucker-die’ behind this
cage. I trust him. I’m not sure why.
“This
plague-,” I begin but he cuts me off:
“How
can God allow it?”
“Well,
yes.” I am stunned at this. There must have been others with this
question. Thinking on it now, what a fool I was thinking no idiot
would run to the church with this question. It took me months to work
up the courage to come into this place. How many thousands and
millions died in those months? How many mothers, and sisters, and
fathers passed? How many best friends and lovers? Uncountable
cherished reanimated corpses had been put down like rabid family
dogs, and here I am, in a confessional, thinking I’m the first
person to ask a priest what in the fuck is happening. Idiot.
“Have
you lost anyone dear?” he asks in his gruff voice.
“I
have. Emily,” I
knew her while I was in school, the sporty, yet academic type. She
went to our campus church nearly every weekend. She was devoted; I
think I might be here for her, because she can’t be. She told me
once that she believed wholeheartedly in the church, but that the
“levels of childhood indoctrination can be a bit creepy.” I miss
her dearly, even if it was just to have someone to disagree with.
The
priest waits a few extra beats before saying, “Blessed are you who
weep now, for you will laugh.”
“Is
that scripture?”
“I
know that it can be hard to see, but you cannot look for the living
among the dead. And, yes, that was scripture. Has it been a long time
since your last confession?”
“It
has,” I respond. I wasn’t going to tell him anything about my
background, I’m here to get an answer.
“How
long has it been?”
“Well,
I was in a church once, ten years ago.” It was true. I had been in
a church ten years previously for a funeral. Another old school
friend had passed. No one particularly important to me. Just a man
that I had come to pay my respects to. Since then, churches had
always seemed ominous, like the place where death lived. So many
candles, crying family and friends, stained glass with screaming
prophets; shocking that anyone comes to these places for guidance.
“Not
a religious upbringing?” He asks pensively.
“You
could say that.”
“I
take it that you lost Emily during the outbreak then?”
He
knows. Of course he knows. He knows that I would have been to a
church for Emily’s funeral, had she passed before the outbreak.
There aren’t funerals the same way anymore. It was a clear, cold
night in April. When you put someone down, it’s just not the same.
They were already dead when you put them down. You were just
finishing the job God couldn’t. I don't think Emily would have seen
it this way. “I’m not here to talk about her.”
“No,
you came here for an answer. I’m afraid to say that I only have to
give you what the Lord has seen fit to give me.” He sounds firm,
even in telling me he doesn’t know what to tell me.
“And
what is that, exactly?”
“Scripture,
my son-” I can hear his smile through the cage. I suppose it’s
more of a veil, but I’m glad it’s obstructing my vision. I don’t
want to see the smug smile I know must be on his face. A doctor, in
the end of days, coming to a priest. I’ve spent all of my time, all
of my working life trying to prolong life in defiance of everything
that he believes. I
remember the day the deer left the town, Amherst was the hub of the
intellectual community in Massachusetts, but it never was overcrowded
enough to push the natural life away. The deer left first. They must
have seen the bright apocalypse headlights cresting the hill, more
dangerous than our cars. They hightailed it out of town, two by two,
on the same roads they used to die crossing. Smug
god-fearing fuck Noah was right. “It has to do with the earliest
conception of man.” I had tuned him out momentarily, his words
break up my brief daydream. “There was a race of men that populated
the earth before what we would call, ‘ours,’ These people were
washed away in the flood, which the Lord helped Noah to prepare for.”
“Oh
yeah, the plagues?” I ask.
“I
believe you’re referring to Moses.”
“Sure,”
I respond, “so the flood?”
“Yes,
of course, the Lord was sorry that he had made humankind on the
earth, and it grieved him to his heart.”
“He
had a heart? Isn’t he incorporeal, ethereal, something?”
“You
have a heart, don’t you?” He asks me, I can smell the trap.
“His
image, yeah, I get it,” I went to college at a prestigious
university. I am a doctor, I don’t know much about scripture, but
that was a softball. I
used to work in politics, but a colleague, in one of his brief
moments of sobriety, had told me that my heart had not been hard
enough for the political world. “Try non-profits, they'll treat you
better,” he had said. I had, I had transitioned from the political
sphere into the non-profit universe for a time. The books on my one
lonely shelf had collected dust for a time, and my mind had numbed,
so I went to medical school instead.
“Good,
my son,” he responds.
“So
the lord just blots out people that piss him off?” I ask. I realize
this wasn’t the nicest way I could have raised this question. “Like
the plagues?”
“But
it is more than a plague, William, it is a rebirth.” I’m not sure
what to make of this, so I take a breath and wait. I wonder how he
knew my name, maybe he can hear everything that happens in the church
through these thin walls. “Are you able to reach the Bible on your
right hand side?” He asks the question, knowing that I can.
“Yes.”
I hold the Bible in my hands. It’s old and worn. It looks as if
it’s been handled by a thousand different people in this box since
the outbreak. This was a thing of beauty once.
“Could
you open it to Genesis 1:26?” I open the Bible too quickly, and
find myself in Deuteronomy. I back track, and find the passage the
man has told me to look for.
“Alright,
here it is.”
“Could
you read verse 26, please?” He’s treating me like a child. He’s
treating me like one of the sheep he led before the outbreak. I’m
no sheep, but I do what he says, I came here for his advice, I’ll
play along.
“‘Then
God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, according to our
likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and
over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild
animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon
the earth.”’” I pause, “Shall I continue?”
“No,
that’s far enough. What does dominion mean to you, William?”
“Rulership,”
I respond.
“Indeed,
rulership, but more than that, does dominion not also imply
stewardship? Can a king rule over a population that he lets starve?”
“No,
I guess he can’t,” I say to the screen.
“Our
kind had a task in this world. We were to be the stewards over this
earth and all the things within it-”
“We’re
doing alright,” I cut him off by saying.
“We
did fine?” He asks rhetorically, “let me ask you this, do you
remember children on reality television, William?”
“Of
course I do.” Reality television had been a huge part of
entertainment before the outbreak. Even though I couldn’t bring
myself to watch the smut, you couldn’t entirely escape it.
“I
want you to imagine the earth as a child, on a reality television
show.”
“Alright,”
I respond, although I couldn’t divine the slightest indication of
where this was headed.
“Do
you think the parents, the stewards, of these reality children were
protecting them? Were they teaching any lessons?”
“How
to make money on television,” I say, and chuckle. I imagine that
I’ve evened the repartee score with this quip. The man through the
veil doesn’t seem to have registered my verbal jab.
“Some
of them did, yes,” he continues. “But with that lesson came
avarice. These children were taught vanity. These children were
taught to hate, to cheat, to do whatever they need to do in order to
win these faux contests. The children, having received these lessons
were irrevocably changed. Would you call this responsible parenting?
Would you say that these children were inspired to become responsible
parents themselves? Is this model sustainable?”
“Well,
no, of course it’s not. But that’s reality television; one in a
million children gets on a show like that.” I can’t say that the
effect of the metaphor is lost on me, the shows were shameless, but
it does seem like a strange connection to be drawing.
“Now,
imagine the Lord, looking down upon the species that he gave one task
to. These people with whom he entrusted his world glorifying this
sort of behavior in one another. The vainest were the most coveted,
the greedy were exalted, the heaviest exploiters became the role
models. It was an unsustainable model, and God stepped in. If you
were a parent, could you say that you’d have acted any
differently?” His earlier questions now make sense, the father
meant to get me to say that I’d not be able to find a flaw in the
logic of God.
“I
would never kill a child,” I say.
“Do
you have children of your own, William?”
“No,”
I respond. “Never really had time for a wife, I guess.” I say
hoping that the lie will not register with the father.
The
father takes a deep breath behind the screen and continues, “Then
how could you possibly understand? This is not one child’s
disobedience, but a whole race of your own begotten fundamentally
corrupting all that you set out to build.”
“So,
this is the new flood?” I ask, although I think I know that this is
how this conversation will end.
“No,
it’s not.”
“What?”
I say breathlessly, I am perplexed. Everything to this point had
aligned to the flood being the conclusion of the father’s line of
logic.
“You
came in here to ask why the Lord wouldn’t step in to stop this
plague. I am unaware of, forgive me for an old man’s attempt at
humor, the genesis of this scourge. I can however, recognize the
reasoning behind our Father for not stopping it.” He finishes, and
silence fills the box for a full five seconds before I respond.
“Is
there a hope for life in this world?”
“You’re
in this box, are you not?” I can hear the grin again, even through
the veil. But this isn’t funny, and at this point I’m tired of
being batted around.
“You
know what I’m trying to say,” I spit towards the obscured man.
“Of
course I do,” he responds. “But, I’ve given you all that I can
on the subject.” There is silence again between us. I stand up,
furious, knocking my head against the top of the confessional. “Stay
healthy, and remember Matthew
6:34,
““do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of
its own. Today's trouble is enough for today.””
God bless you, William Taylor,” with these words he exhales
heavily. I stride quickly from the confessional. I say in a hushed
whisper under my breath,
“Prick,”
this word wasn’t as quiet as I had intended. I’m sure he could
hear me curse him, but I’m also certain that I couldn’t care any
less at this moment. 'Don't worry about the trouble of tomorrow until
tomorrow?' How in the fuck am I supposed to sleep soundly knowing
that there are packs of the dead wandering around, waiting for me to
let my guard down? 'Reality TV?' That was hackneyed, that was
childish. As I’m walking towards the doors of the church, I see the
mercenary again. He holds out a packet of American Spirit Yellow
cigarettes.
“Fancy
one for the road?” He asks, grinning idiotically at me. He’s
taunting me. He knows that I’m a doctor, that I’ll refuse, that
I’ll tell him off for wasting what little life is left in this
place, and that he’ll get to deliver some two-cent quip about
enjoying what little we have.
“Love
one. Will you join me?” I respond, and his eyes light up. We walk
together outside of the church, and he slings his modified AK over
his shoulder to accept his pack of smokes. He hands me a lighter.
It’s a zippo that has faux gold plating. Engraved on the outside of
the lighter are the words ‘O for a Muse of Fire.’ Having a zippo
with engravings isn’t an odd occurrence, everyone and their mothers
had one from the beginning of the outbreak. I
remember during the first weeks of the outbreak, the companies which
produced lighters would engrave your loved one’s names into your
device. Some things seem so meaningless, and yet, having a piece of a
loved one close to you in times of struggle means the world.
“O
for a Muse of Fire?” I ask him, not knowing what to expect.
“Henry
V,
never got to it?” He asks in a matter-of-fact manner.
“I’m
sure I must have in undergrad, but no, I can’t say that I remember
it.” I can’t believe I’m being intellectually out-shined by a
mercenary, I suppose it’s a day for firsts. “Where did you serve,
sir?”
“I
didn’t,” he responds.
“You
didn’t serve anywhere?” I ask.
“I
taught, I was an English teacher,” he says, puffing away heavily.
“A
teacher... how did you wind up in this line of work?”
“Everyone
has to do their part, right? I taught Shakespeare, mostly, but some
Sunday school classes here and there as well. That life’s over,
though. We all do what we have to do. There’s got to be somebody to
put these Z’s down, and folks seem to still like coming to this
place.” He takes a puff on his American Spirit.
“This
church is still well visited?” I ask.
“You
get to the Book of Daniel, with the man in the box?”
“No,”
I tell him.
“““There
shall be a time of anguish... but at that time your people shall be
delivered... Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall
awake.”” Paraphrasing a bit there, but this used to be my thing.
I think that's the gist of it,” He says.
“And
that's about the infected, not a judgement?” I ask him.
“Of
course it's about judgement, but people come here to be comforted,
not to hear the truth. But it's never been about the truth, you see.
This is all they have, and if it keeps them alive, I don't begrudge
them for it. That's why I'm here,” he takes one last puff on his
American Spirit, and stomps it out on the pavement.
Categories:
Apparently humans crave this stuff the way zombies crave human flesh. If you're a beer drinker, read on. And if you're not a beer drinker, read on and then become a beer drinker (responsibly, of course...) I was on the prowl for something cool to write about for this final blog post and I was lucky to come across "Zombie Dust," a beer made by the Three Floyds Brewing Company out of Munster, Indiana. This product obviously caught my interest so I started digging a bit, and it turns out this is one of the better beers out there. I was skeptical at first and figured that it's ratings and the hype surrounding it on the various websites I looked at were based on just a couple of voters who are into zombies and what not, but that wasn't the case at all. It was rated 100 (out of 100) on RateBeer.com and this was based on nearly 700 votes. Slightly more impressive, it was rated 100 on BeerAdvocate.com, this time based off of a mere 3,000 ratings, which puts it in the category of a world-class beer. Needless to say, this stuff is the bomb. However, seeing as we're not taking a brewing class, I thought it important to recognize the zombie side of Zombie Dust.What excited me about this beer is how zombie culture is consistently and persistently making its presence seen in everyday society, even in ways I've never encountered. As we've discussed in class, zombieism has a foothold in today's culture. Whether it's through television, film, literature, or through products like Zombie Dust, American culture seems to have a keen interest in zombies and zombie-related products. This is the first time I've personally seen any type of zombie-related alcohol, and knowing there is such a thing is pretty exciting. Then to learn that it's really good was even better, but we all know that anything zombie related is always amazing. Reading through some other blog posts from the class I've learned about other products that are centered around the zombie phenomenon and it's clear that zombie interest is not only present in our culture but flourishing.
The folks at Three Floyds Brewing Company describe this beer by saying that, "this intensely hopped and gushing undead pale ale will be ones only respite after the zombie apocalypse. Created with our marvelous friends in the comic industry." I think it's cool that they wanted to create a zombie theme with this beer. It's their most popular and well-thought-of beer and they wanted to put an undead spin on it. What's funny to me is how some reviews describe it:
- "Holy sh*t, it's like being slapped in the face with citrus, tropical, and pine blast."
- "The beer poured a nearly crystal clear, golden-amber."
- "I would drink this every day if it was possible. Seek out this beer and savor every sip."
Good aroma's and bright colors aren't things we normally associate with zombies but Zombie Dust manages to do it. So, if you come across this beer at any point, know that it's hard to come by and that it's amazing and pick some up. Honestly, what could be cooler than getting drunk off something called Zombie Dust?
Categories: