Just when you thought it was safe to cross the Turlington minefield, another socially aimless specimen is trying to rise from the graveyard of “who gives a crap?”
By now you’ve probably mastered all the techniques to side-stepping those tribal dancers, waltzing around the circus of fire-breathing preachers and sliding past those suicide-awareness activists whose ability to annoyingly melt a microphone doesn’t help in their cause.
However, these techniques have proven powerless to the latest clog in the Gainesville gene pool: the zombie.
A not-so-distant cousin to the people who live in their parents basement until their 40s, dress up for comic book conventions and live on a diet of snack packs and Sega Genesis, the zombie is the result of allowing socially stunted children to escape from Neverland Ranch before they were allowed to climb Mr. Jefferson’s wishing tree. (Hee-hee-hee-shamonah!)
Attempts to communicate with this mysterious herd of humanity, whose only experience with intimate contact is through its plastic lightsaber duels to see who gets the first dice roll in Dungeons and Dragons, has proven impossible as they only speak a dialect that mixes Klingon, Japanese anime and retainers.
While they may have an unhealthy fetish for the half-dead, their excessive overhype is what’s really decaying. We get that it’s fun to pretend, but when you have to bombard us with Facebook invites and hang up a plethora of posters all across campus, it may be time to go on to Peter Pan.
So when one of them tries to lob a paper grenade at you or blast you halfway to hell with his Nerf gun on your way to class, explain to him or her that Santa Claus is dead, the Easter Bunny isn’t real, Captain Planet votes Republican and that it would be in everyone’s best interest if they played with live ammunition in a closed-off, isolated space far from sight.
The people with the megaphones can keep score.
