November 7, 2011
Occupation
It's the Halloween season so, as is my custom, I ordered all of George Romero's zombie classics and sat back for a spell of good shock and awe. I would not to be dissapointed, and in this case reality was more frightening than fiction.
"Dawn of the Dead" was interrupted when this jarring alert was issued by the DC Metro Police Department:
"MPD reports approximately 75 protesters in the area of McPherson Square. They are reported to be in the 800 block of L Street NW blocking traffic in both directions. Please avoid the area."
I decided to look a little deeper, and that's when things got really scary.
Just the other night I remember reading that protesters were getting mowed down in the street just blocks away from Verizon Center - just down the street from McPherson Square. Strangely similar to many of the ghastly scenes I had just been viewing on Netflix, where the victims were splattered by speeding cars as they wandered listlessly, and rather carelessly, in the middle of a residential cul de sac.
But there was one important difference. The DC victims were humans - alive and kicking and, if eyewitness accounts are to be believed, hurling themselves with passion and vigor onto the hoods of slow-moving vehicles that happened to pass by. The screen victims were zombies - once alive, since deceased, born again to forage glumly on human flesh or face a final, brain-piercing rifle shot.
I concluded very quickly that either the zombies in the flick are really protesters or the protesters that currently occupy McPherson Square, Wall Street, and various other notable public spaces are really zombies. And I don't see them zombies in the flick taking the time to make up signs. They've only got one thing on their mind, and they pursue it with a relentless tenacity.
As I have understood them until now, those occupiers have all kinds of things on their minds with a few loose binding threads but no clear, driving focus to unite them. They seemed to be the furthest thing from the zombies that Romero acquaints me with. But as you dig deeper, the similarities emerge. And if my thesis is correct, you won't have to dig very deep at all since the subjects will have emerged from the depths to reveal all.
Once again speaking with no first-hand knowledge, I will simply state that I've heard tell that these occupation zones can be detected as many as ten city blocks away. They emit a telltale scent of death. I've never smelled a real live zombie, or even a real dead one, but I imagine it smelling something like this. So either those occupiers aren't tending to their basic hygiene or they're really the walking dead.
Romero's zombies aren't known for profuse or graceful self-expression. They don't speak coherently and I've never seen one hold a pen. The occupiers, on the other hand, seem to have mastered a rudimentary form of communication - mind-numbing chants and grunts and crude signage, neither of which provides sufficient evidence to place them squarely above the hard-core zombie community.
But perhaps the quality that most identifies the occupiers as such is the one that most closely ties them to zombies. As I mentioned before, they lack any coherent intellectual compass. They are like a cluster of moths fluttering tentatively around a dimming bulb. New topics and distractions cause them to veer off and lose track of their unifying purpose, like a cluster of zombies wandering aimlessly around an old farmhouse, hoping for a tasty morsel or two lurking inside.
So, ipso facto, occupiers are zombies. I haven't uncovered the source of this grim discovery, but I share it here so anyone within the sound of my blog can take heed and avoid those occupation zones. I hope we find a cure soon, because I don't own a rifle.
Now confronted with the disturbing reality about those occupiers, I'm starting to wonder about other zombies in our midst. If otherwise harmless protesters can morph into flesh-eating creatures of the night, who else should be suspected?
Mike Shanahan - I suppose it's always dangerous to equate grievous misfortune and consequent changes in behavior to a descent into zombiedom, but how else to explain some of the expressions that have crossed Mike Shanahan's face as the Redskins continue their pathetic deathwalk toward the post-season? As loss follows trageic loss, Shanahan has adopted the visage of the grim reaper, marching to and fro on the sidelines in a furious quest to assign blame. With Haynesworth hundreds of miles away in Boston, poor Mike is robbed of his largest and most worthy target. Our miserable quarterbacks are quickly rising to the occasion, though, so Mike is seldom at a loss for an ass to chew.
