Make Love Not Barricades
A Tale of Zombie Survival (and Romance)
Today we are honoring the 27th anniversary of George A. Romero’s Day of the Dead. I personally am celebrating the 27th anniversary because I feel very strongly that I cannot wait for my 30th revolution of the Earth round the sun. It shall not be long before I am shuffled off this mortal coil, due in no small part to the Absinthe stores that the other members of the Donnybrook manse have left unlocked. While they believed the rows of bottles to be able to hold us for years, I have proven that “years” translates much more accurately into “summertime” given my predilection for the ingurgitation of any and all substances that resemble antifreeze.
To properly celebrate the 27th anniversary of the release of this timeless film, I have taken it upon myself to critique Mr. Romero’s apocalyptic vision by relating a story that took place right here on the grounds of the Donnybrook Academy.
In the film, a group of military personnel and scientists lock themselves in a bunker as zombies overrun the world above. It was not so long ago that we at Donnybrook suffered a similar fate when our resident necromancer, a Dr. J.P. Lovegood, had one of his armies of the damned turn on him and all of us. It was only my own wiles and the unchecked violence of Ms. Alistair Blake Arabella that saved us on that fateful day, and I hope my criticism and advice does not fall on deaf ears.
When the first of the hungry dead breached our outer defenses, we reacted as any civilized group of people would. We quickly gathered together all of the servants and sent them afield with whatever farming implements we felt would best fit into their stubby peasant fingers, hoping that they would either destroy the incoming threat or sate the appetites of the accursed so that we might repine happily. Some were opposed to this course of action as it meant that we would be forced to fetch our own suppers or employ the heating devices located in the kitchen. They were quickly voted down or challenged to duels and the domestic staff was dispatched post haste.
Much to our dismay, they were then dispatched of by the relentless horde. It was at this point that the leader of our eliterati collective, Alistair, rose to the challenge. She roused herself from her painkiller and Quaalude induced stupor. She began by breaking her precious, precious bottle of Glenfiddich across the table and waded into the undead masses. She set about her with a vicious fervor akin to berserker rage. When the bottle became embedded in the skull of one of her victims, she then condescended to using her own teeth in answer to the mastication of the zombies. She left a wake of dismembered and mortally gnawed corpses and could only be reined in when we tempted her back inside with an unfilled prescription pad, a scotch IV drip, and promises of sexual favors from no less than three of our remaining comrades.
Our next move was to barricade ourselves in the Panic Wing of the mansion. Here we contrived to equip ourselves from our well-stocked armory. Even adorned in protective gear and the finest in black market, fully-automatic armaments, it was not long before some of our less intelligent members were drug through vents and caught unawares in the wine cellar where they were promptly consumed and/or used to reinforce the ranks of the undead multitude. This was similar to the fate that befell the fools in Romero’s Day of the Dead.
Clearly these tactics are shoddy. The good men and women in the film should not have done as we had, and we should have learned from their mistakes. Gun-play and foul language can only stand so long against wave upon wave of those that desire our supple flesh to feed their unnatural hunger.
The answer lies not in firearms and explosives, no, the answer lies in love.
Had George Romero been nearly as savvy as myself, he would have seen partway through filming that violence only works against foppish dandies, the local bluecoats, and women with an unrelenting amount of sass. To defeat zombies, one must employ the universal language of romance.
To soothe the savagery of our recently risen compatriots I began with a number of delightful songs penned by Mr. Cole Porter during his time with the irreplaceable Whiffenpoofs. This stopped the advance and lulled them into a sort of swaying fugue. I quickly handed the piano off to one of my less gifted cohorts as I began to dance with each of the now sedate horde, whispering such sweet nothings as had quelled the fire of many an Amazonian princess, forcing the recipient to swoon with delight.
Soon the mansion and courtyard were littered with recumbent bodies, overcome with the sheer ecstasy of my touch and romantic words. I then returned to each to satisfy their inflamed desires, allowing them to touch the face of God and leave their wretched flesh peacefully.
My only hope is that this tale reaches Mr. Romero before he or any other scribe deigns to put to film such nonsense as violence as a solution to a zombie Armageddon. It is not a greasy group of hard men in camouflage that will save us. It is the tender embrace that shall bring about the sweetest of releases.