By Stewart Dobson
Among the many things I don’t understand, which would include why the street sweeper only seems to do in front of my house when my car is in the way, is the glamorization in popular culture of the undead.
I get the zombie thing, having awakened in that state on many occasions and subsequently brought back to (marginal) life via the consumption of valuable electrolytes.
But I’m not talking about zombies, which apparently have been put on earth, or in our minds at least, to give us at least one group of individuals we can blow up whenever we want without getting all whiny about it.
Admittedly, killing zombies doesn’t make much sense, since they’re already dead, unless one happens to believe in degrees of dead, as in dead, more dead and really dead, etc.
In this instance, I’m referring specifically to different undead creatures that have, in recent years, developed emotions of all things. Somewhere between Bela Lugosi as Count Dracula wanting to drink our blood and our current sorry state of vampire-related television and movie entertainment, someone concluded there was a place in this world for sensitive vampires.
As far as I’m concerned, this is like saying Cujo got all cuddly, despite a touch of rabies, with a little loving care.
Originally, vampires had no souls, which would mean they could give two scatterings of owl poo-poo how YOU feel, or anyone else for that matter. They saw, they ate, they bit you and you bit the dust. That was pretty much it.
But lately, we have been inundated with a bunch of whiny, touchy-feely, lovey-dovey, I-wanna-hold-your-hand vampires, whose big deal is fighting werewolves, while leaving the rest of us pretty much alone.
And that’s another thing. It used to be that werewolves only manifested themselves during a full moon and held regular jobs the rest of the time. Other than missing a bowling night now and then because of certain lunar situations, they went about their business. Now, however, they seem able to get their emergency wolf on whenever they feel like it.
“You say it’s $3.49 for a gallon of regular? Watch this, monkey boy!”
I can live with that, but I just can’t warm up to the idea of a warm-hearted vampire.
“Good evening. I am Count Dracula. I want to replenish your electrolytes.” It just doesn’t work.