Plague – The Stoner's Guide to Zombie Movies

Recommendation

Plot Autopsy

Zombie Description

Where the money went

Plague

Overall Recommendation

Recommendation?

Yup. This is all about angst. You want screaming? Crying? Hyperventilating? Drooling? (Both alive and undead) You want creepy people doing nice things and talking about them in a creepy way? You want about 15 total seconds of enjoyable zombie action, but at least one conflict and confrontation between each possible character coupling, with about 30% of those interactions resulting in a homicide? You want creepy men and sniveling French poets and emotional women? This has all of that, with the exception that it only actually has 10 seconds of good zombie-ism, and the rest is just… filler shit. Dialogue to support a weak plot based on flimsy… shit, people- you filmed the entire fucking thing either in front of or in a shed! Gah! It was horrible! The last couple minutes are the only thing worth watching- specifically, watching the French poet take a shot to the kneecap and then get eaten. It’s like the entire movie was loosely centered around a ponderance of when suicide could be considered a good thing, as in, right before you get eaten by zombies. And then they close with what, something they thought clever? The French poet would finally get up the nut to off himself and the gun wouldn’t fire? Really? This is like if a 4^th grade creative writing class was given one of those “make a story up out of these 5 things” exercises and this is the offering from the not-so-bright maladjusted kid who always sits in the back of each class. There was one good thing here- the special effects for when a guy gets half his head blown off. Aside from that, it’s just over-emoting to the Nth degree.

Plot Autopsy

We meet characters as they yell at each other. Too much stress. Everyone should urinate.
Ok, well, now we’re killing each other.
The most useless excuse for a man shows up and I instantly hate him and his asthma.
Charlie who grins too much shows up and saves the day along with some coerced sex.
The French poet does not rise to being a man.
The French poet gets shot in the knee, and then eaten. In that order.

Zombie Description

They’re fucking background zombies, meaning, they only exist here as a plot device to waste our times creating a false sense of urgency since the characters are not going to accomplish more than yelling at and eventually killing each other. The zombies, when we actually were treated to them, were great. Amazing. The final chase over the road’s hill? I loved it. But come on. I’m calling you out on it. You made a bullshit movie, added some zombies, and then tried to ride the zombie-train coat-tails to interesting-ville. It just didn’t happen. You failed.

Where the money went

There really wasn’t much here. Less than a dozen actors and actresses, a shed, a couple vehicles. Some prop guns. Someone really should have looked at the pickup truck full of materials that constituted the set they were going to make a movie in and pulled the plug right then. If you can’t actually film a fucking movie, if everything interesting has to happen off camera, just admit you had a decent run at actually writing something; now go do it all over again, but better this time- try harder- ‘cause you’re really gonna need some investors to not make what results in an incomplete sketch of an idea that might have fit into a movie with further writing and budgeting.

Best Weapon

Uh… I think revenge. I think cold hearted fact based empirical evidence inspired revenge to be the best weapon. Such as, being left to die by your partner, but being given a pistol to kill yourself if you choose… and instead you shoot them in the back of the knee. Revenge. That was the best weapon here. French poet finally served some purpose after all.

Can I get a hand?

No. Maybe if this had been about zombies, there’s be something cool and zombie to mention, but it wasn’t and this sucked, so I think I’ve said enough.

That was new!

I don’t think there really was anything new here. Like, the zombies are such a taken-for-granted after-thought that there’s nothing new about them, and the social scenario that plays out- civilization ends, men begin taking what they want from women… it’s a fucking flogged puddle of a dead horse by now. This movie is a waste of everyone involved’s time, especially us viewers.

Review Notes

The absolute same recitation of how the zombie apocalypse went down, but at least this one is recited against gloriously shot backdrops.

Her husband got left behind. She’s hopeful.

That’s… someone hanging.

Dude! Right before we got in the plane, one of the instructors accidently stepped on a mouse and, like, broke his back, so he brought him out to the front lawn where we’re all waiting, explains what’s going on, and crushes the little dude into his next incarnation or incantation or whatever. I’m like, yo, universe, is this something that I should be paying attention to? I ended up saying something about “Talk about an albatross!” but I don’t think anyone other than my wife got it.

Squeeaky… I mean I didn’t mean it like that. That sounds like it was in bad taste. But they (in the movie) really did make a whole lot of squeaking sounds.

Looks like the lovely squalor of pole-barn life. That’s pretty much what my shop is.

They’re giving odds on whether the husband made it or not.

This movie does a good job out of showing how smelly the end of times is going to be.

And that woman looks like my best friend’s newest ex-wife.

Bob. Bob is angry.

They need supplies? South at the coast?

They are not very reasonable.

Damn. They’re really pressing that conflict.

I like the mechanic girl. Especially if she can keep a car with a cracked radiator from grenading.

I think there’s 5 of the left?

He is the world’s worst shooting coach.

“And at night?”

“At night? At night you run.”

Tender hug moment.

I get it. You can be an intense actor. I get it.

Everyone yelling about who the car belongs to, and then another voice chimes in…

Yes, there is something on the other side of that door.

And… now they’re huddling in some other area? Banging noises?

I hope there’s not this much… drama… the whole time.

Where the fuck did they get that relic of a gun?

The ratio of strawberries to peanut-butter cups really makes it easy to eat strawberries.

Was that a gunshot?

How much more drama do these 5 need to go through?

These… 4 to go through?

Well, a headshot always works.

That’s the best… half-head I’ve ever seen.

Last ride of the hooptie, and she’s rolling around crying with blood all over her face.

Oh shit. That was one fucked up dream sequence. And I’m, like, a little freaked out now.

So, her French poet husband finally showed up.

He is such a dick.

Such a dick with asthma.

And here comes yet another… character?

Zombie?

Oh, shit, fuck… it’s the mechanic girl, and she is fuuuuucked up.

And quite limber.

We’ve met… 6? And 2 have killed 2?

Oh, shit… has her husband been bit? And hiding it from her?

I’d turn off flashlight. And stop moving. And listen.

Stop yelling, too.

If this is another dream I’m gonna be pissed.

I feel like the red lady could gopher up shrieking at any moment.

Her husband… is a ninja. Who doesn’t need his glasses.

Whole bunch of zombies out there freaking out.

Zombie just burst in the wall and almost grabbed him.

Now they’re fighting over the pistol.

He’s gonna shoot himself…

Gunshots and horns from outside?

Some guy in a white shirt.

I think I like this newcomer?

What the fuck is the poet getting on about?

Take his gun?

This guy is pretty cocky. Charlie. Cocky Charlie. I like this guy.

The French poet… he’s gonna be right in the long run.

Rose? Susie?

Charlie is being entirely too reasonable. Maybe he’s drugged them?

“Promise me you’ll keep us alive?” That’s one hell of a promise.

That can’t be his real family.

An anecdote about leaving post-its passive-lovely.

Ok, Charlie, loving the story, but let’s move the fucking scene on a bit? The story on a bit?

My wife calls my shop a shed. Makes me angry, it does. 1124 square feet. Is that a shed, I ask you?

Well, gonna stay and farm here, so, I guess the scenery isn’t going to change?

And the French poet taps out. Wuss.

What’s she never going to forgive him for?

The gun?

Darkness is better.

I’m sorry too. Please stop the drama. Make your movie about something else than domestic disputes occurring whilst in the throes of a zombie apocalypse.

They’re gonna start farming? Where will they get the seeds?

Charlie is going hunting. I like his style, but I still don’t really trust him.

Found a bottle of alcohol, too! Which, of course, they’re all drinking.

Chatting up the possibility of eating a rabbit.

“Disease has always played a part of shaping our evolutionary history.” Well said.

The French poet is getting wasted.

He’s definititely talking too much.

“What if mankind’s purpose is to exist as a host? A vessel? Nothing more than that?”

Is there gonna be drama between everyone now?

I think he just pinned a naval medal from WW2 on her?

He’s getting creepier…

This is getting creepier…

He’s making a play for her. Ditch the French poet husband person.

Looks like Arnold in this shot.

Looks like that dude has had his neck slit before.

Is he a fucking robot? Repeating himself?

Can we get more zombies and less drama?

French poet passed out on the table.

I think she’s gonna look in Charlie’s truck.

Oh, no, the French poet’s asthma is acting up.

Jesus, he’s useless.

So much talking.

So much innuendo.

So much creepy.

So much… I don’t even want to look at the screen this is so crude.

It’s like being hammered on with a cinderblock.

Well, thankfully we fade out before she gives in to his advances and does the copulation thing with him.

And then throws a temper tantrum in the dirt.

Now, having slept with the alpha male, she returns to the grouper gasping on the floor to stare lovingly into his eyes.

Looks like Charlie delivered the medicine. The French poet lives!

All sorts of provisions.

Why do I feel like the French poet’s days or maybe even hours are numbered.

Charlie is ratcheting up the creepy.

Yay shoving!

Yay breaking things.

Yay French poet intrusion!

Why the hell is she sneaking around in his car?

She found the other half of the photo. Explain what the FUCK this has to do with zombies?

They’re just filming random crap at this point. Half conversations.

So, yes. Charlie is evil.

The French poet is such a dick.

Ok, we have some confrontation…

Charlie isn’t quite right in the head.

Charlie is very quite not alright.

He’s keeping a starving zombie in the back of the truck. He’s quite optimistic.

Crap. Still 24 minutes.

Charlie is back to yell at them further.

Why is he considering shooting himself once in the movie such a repeating theme?

French poet is such a useless dick.

Whole lot of hair grabbing and hyperventilating going on.

The French poet is a failure. At everything. Even fake crying.

Ok. 3 minutes of despondent guy sprawled across lawn.

Sad man walking into land-rover.

Oh, shit. Some military guy.

A map. Groveling. Evacuation zone. Extraction zone.

The French poet… just gut shot Charlie.

Charlie… shot Evie! Whoah! Didn’t see that coming.

Uh… where is the soldier? The French wombat is wearing his clothes… took his gun…

Evie is in shock, you idiot.

French poet just cleaned up house. Even if we’re not sure how he killed the crazy soldier.

French poet is pretty much a bastard.

I’m wondering if he’s been bit. Is that going to be the punchline of the whole thing?

Nothing like pulling over to the side of the road, calmly parking, and then stepping out into the abandoned roadway to have a meltdown.

Right before you try waterboarding your wife.

Back to driving.

You’re gonna hit a kangaroo if you’re not paying attention to where you’re going.

Wowie. The vehicle sounds fucked. That’s a knockering!

Sitting in the dirt. This plot really has soared to unexpected heights.

Nice. Here come the zombies.

Way off in the distance, but slowly getting closer.

He could go out there and bash heads like a man instead of sitting here screaming at her.

Yay. Back to suicide.

He left her?

He left her the pistol? He really left her?

The French poet is such a fucking dick.

Thank god she… shot him in the knee?

And left HIM with the pistol?

2 shots off and he goes for the self…

Empty.

Did she…

Whoah. Those were really good zombies. While they lasted.

I mean, now she’s walking around in a field. I’m sure it’s symbolic or some shit.

Oh. A helicopter. Everything is going to be ok after-all.

————End Transmission——————–

Introduction

Mushroom growing quickly gets out of hand. I have way too many mushrooms at the moment. I’ve given a lot away, I’ve eaten a good amount… I think I’ve had some quantity of mushroom every day for almost a week now.

2 and a half grams left me a gooey puddle on the van floor with the sensation that my jawbone had become effervescent and was trying to melt off of my face. It’s a strange sensation to know that you’re probably tripping, but you can’t really tell since everything has been sparkleliciously fantastic-y and glowing such warm oranges and purples in the sunset.

Have I talked about my glow in the dark marbles? Have I told the story of the poor sap who traded me a verified pile of dog shit (a bunch of really crappy tools) for the other van? The white parts one? I told the dude over and over that it wasn’t a rebuilder, but he had fools’ stars in his eyes and went for it.

I was on mushrooms but I was still the more coherent of the two of us. I drove down to get him, gave him a ride up here to get the van, gave him directions home… fucker starts texting me 15 minutes later about how he’s broken down somewhere and needs help.

I finish my sammich, change back into clothes, drive out to the middle of town since he evidently got lost on a side street, dump a gallon of gas in the thing and hit it with my jump box… kept almost going. It was like it’d catch, and I’d pull the box, and then he’d turn the damn key off or something. No bueno. No Va. Nova.

I fucking give the dude a ride back home… he texts me the next day about how he got it another 15 or so miles home before it shit out on him again. Told me his wife was pissed at him. My arms are feeling longer than normal.

This morning I ate a single mushroom and had some coffee, and went out to work in the shop… I was the most productive than I think I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I know this doesn’t make sense, but I feel like having a mushroom on board quiets down my brain and allows me to focus better, without any feelings of anxiety.

Now, hunger, that’s different. I’m getting hungry for the strangest things, and my monitor seems to be turning a yellowing tint and bulging back slightly and the word “different” looks… It looks like it could be the word “Parent”, but in disguise. Words on Halloween. Imagine that.

I feel kinda like the aborts that I ate when I harvested this evening… Ok, see, I have to explain. I have… 7 or 8 tubs going at the moment, and about 4 of them are pushing up different strains of mushrooms *constantly*. So I am harvesting once in the morning and again once in the evening.

When you’re growing mushrooms, Aborts are mushrooms that the mycelium started to push up as fruit, but then for some reason or another, it decided to cut off it’s efforts for that particular mushroom, and then it starts re-absorbing all the nutrients in the mushroom back into the mycelium, but I guess it can’t take the psylocibin (that’s not an easy word to get right when you’re guessing at how it’s spelled) back in or whatever, so the mushrooms turn blue and start to wither a bit.

I ate a bunch of these little dudes, and then I think 1 regular size? I feel like my forehead is expanding and my ears are moving back along my scalp. Kinda strange to realize that I’m not high right now. Usually I’m lit by the time I start my intro, and then, well, I get more lit before I start the movie. I’m cold sober now.

Or rather, would be, if I wasn’t slowly easing into a two dimensional warm-hole. It’s like how in space, everything is cold, but in your own consciousness, you can be as warm or cold as you want to be. I’m choosing warm and fleecy at the moment.

I’m glad the computer doesn’t mind me resting my hands on it, because if I had to type without the special reference, I think I’d really have trouble with it. When I was a kid, middle teens, the golden stupid years… we all took acid in like, 4^th period, since after lunch we had to watch a mock drunk-driving trial in the auditorium.

Later in the day, we were on the move and eating bananas, and my friend Thom was riding a bicycle along as we walked and talked/babbled with heads fried on a burned out Crombie, and I’m not sure how, but he began pedaling so slowly that he lost his momentum and literally fell over, but never removed his hand or feet from the bike. He just toppled.

Our… Table. All I could think of was “sink”. Our table is a white Ikea thing that sorta flows up from the floor- very much like a mushroom, now that I’m thinking of it, but a mushroom that someone jedi-light-sabered right across the chin-line, leaving a level surface.

I mean, anyone taking a light-saber to the face is probably not going to provide a good writing surface, but that’s a really weird idea so I’m gonna stop going down that trail. I feel like eating another mushroom, but I’m pretty sure that’d put me over the line from “inspired productivity” to “insipidly prostate and drooling”.

Last weekend we went and slept in the van down on the beach. I think that’s what we’re going to do again this weekend. That, and move my buddy out of the house that he’s fucked into owning with his ex-wife now. I’ve slowly been accumulating his boats and SUP and stuff, it’ll be interesting to give it all back.

Our house is going to gain a bit of room back. I’m wondering if I have what it takes to review zombie movies on mushrooms. And weed. But that’s kinda like a given, unless… I’ve been wanting to quit smoking- even vaporizing or dabbing- just for my lungs sake.

What if I instead maintain a very low glow from mushrooms… I wonder how long I could go without smoking? I mean, another way of looking at this is I’m becoming habit-dependent on the mushrooms just because… why go through the day *not* on a mushroom when you could go through the day on a mushroom.

So… well, like I said, mushrooms everyday. See where that leads us? That’s right. We end up severing our own ear and sending it off in the mail. Yup. I’m yawning. And typing is getting harder and harder, or easier and easier.

If I don’t think about how to write anything and I just will my fingers to type it, they do so with amazing accuracy and decent speed. I can’t spell worth shit though. But if I try to think about how to type any specific word, my fingers go to left-footed knots on a right-footed St. Patricks Day.

The Blarney Stone. Drop a kid head-first onto a rock is more like it. I need to stop talking. Ever since I learned that the word “Paddy-Wagon” was a literal statement about a vehicle that roams the neighborhood picking up unconscious drunken Irish; I got the wires crossed with leprechauns, and cookies with fake M&Ms, and I’m sorry, but what the fuck is “Irish Spring” about as a bath soap… flavor?

I’ve exclusively used yellow Dial on my head and body since I was a kid. I still think about it in the terms of an old friend “Boy Soap”. Zestfully? Like, Lemon zest? Perrier?

“I used to drink whiskey, now I’m stuck with Perrier… I’m an alcoholic, Middle Fingers in the air.” I just realized I was staring at the four different mason quart jars full of different strains of mushrooms. I can’t really think of a reason not to. I do think I’m gonna get out the bass Ukulele though. I kinda feel like jamming for a little bit.

Be right back. Or maybe not? Goddamn I love prunes. Prunes and Triscuits. I’ve noticed that just like dog and cat people, there are Triscuits people, and then there are… shit. What are those other crackers called? Wheat Thins. I think.

I believe that you could separate almost any population with the question of Triscuits or Wheat Thins. I’m imagining a favorite-cracker based Squid Games scenario. I’d work with the Ritz Cracker people. Anything to defeat those fucking Cheese-Its!

Were I God, I would ban Gin, Olives, Sardines, and Cheese-Its! And the Irish! Just kidding. You know what’s a really good book series? The Ralph S. Mouse series. I loved those books. About a mouse who rides a motorcycle. And at one point I think he has a sports car. Strange, now that I think about it, Frog and Toad were always on about reckless driving and such.

(9/22/2022)

Yeah… so, way too many mushrooms then to watch a zombie movie. Or any movie. I ended up lying on the couch with my dog and all the lights out, cuddling and listening to good dub reggae.

Went to the fucking moon, and it really wasn’t exactly pleasant until I figured out the Gonzo to the Wisdom “Buy the ticket, take the ride” and this I did. Another instance of taking a ride is my wife, who set a new extreme in coolness, at least in my eyes. It was her birthday and we decided to go skydiving to celebrate it.

She ate a big handful of some heavy mushrooms and then dove out of a plane. She’s fucking cool. I had to drive, so I only ate a micro dose, but it was still really cool to be the last one out. When the guy I was with learned I’d been on a bunch of dives, he had the pilot essentially jam on the brakes- I know, you’d think a plane doesn’t have brakes… but the engine can apparently be used like a Mack truck engine braking; where the pilot kills the throttle and the plane’s own propeller starts slowing it down- this was right when we jumped.

The plane was in a sort of free-fall of it’s own, nosing over into an insanely steep dive, while we were falling along right next to it, about 50 feet away. When we got done dancing with gravity, we decided to head out to the beach again to camp out, and I sort of ate more mushrooms than I should have before driving, and I cannot tell you it was calming, no matter how many times I repeated “People have been driving vans on mushrooms since they both were invented.”

It was like driving a van through the lands of Tolkien, with sun-rays of substance and greens with the vigor of life. The river we drove along was small, but clear, and then next thing I know we’re whooping the van across the sand dunes, heading for the beach, and we get stuck, so we air down.

And drive off, whooping across the sand dunes. Until we get to the little place where we pull to park, and I try to climb the last little dune, and the van gets stuck. So we air down again, (both fully tripping balls at this point) until the van is back to whoop-capable, and we park for the night, and then get into yet another mushroom eating contest…

My wife instantly goes to sleep, only waking herself up with a giggle or snort, and all the caffeine hits and I gotta MOVE. So then I’m out running around on the deserted beach at midnight in such fog that I shot off two glow-in-the-dark marbles and promptly lost them.

I then spent the next 3 hours wandering the sand like a nomadic drunk with a fear of progress, making little 20 foot diameter wanderings through the sand looking for anything glowing. And here’s where the cat glitches, and we weren’t even watching a movie… but I found something glow in the dark.

I literally found a piece of glow in the dark litter. At first I thought it was some sort of sea-maggot or something, but then after a couple pokings with a stick I realized it was some plastic whatever. But not one of my marbles. So, I went to the beach tripping balls on mushrooms and quickly lost my marbles.

The pathetic irony only needs a laugh-track to cast a shoe-salesman or a couch-mumbler. Uh… Van is doing good. Mushrooms have stopped producing for the most part. Umm… Rapidly realizing that neither my brother nor brother in law are going to reply to the email I sent them. Kinda sucks.

Been in the gym a lot though, and on the bag a bunch. Fucked up my knuckle punching frying pans that lovely night my wife goaded me to grab it and that’s still swelling up and being a bitch. Hurts to put the gloves on and take them off, but all the pain that I feel while I have them on feels right.

Plague That’s what’s for dinner tonight. “Survivors seek shelter from a global infection that turns people into flesh-eating zombies. When Evie’s husband, John, becomes separated from the group, Evie’s fate is taken out of her hands.” So, my main concern is that this is going to be one of those anguished scream-fest “the evil that men do” portrayals. Very much unlike Freaks of Nature, which my wife had me watch, and… it’s fucking amazing, but I can’t review it yet. My head would explode. It’s really good though.