Since I didn't have such great luck with Voodoo Chicken, today I'm going to try to make myself a pet zombie -- and y'all are going to help. Oh, relax; we're not going to Shake 'n Bake it. Circumstances dictate that this be a girl zombie, and I think we'll call her -- Nomora. Mmm-hmm. Yeah, this'll be fun. I'm guessing she's pretty excited about it, too, since she can't seem to keep her ghoulish ass out of here.
We'll have to keep in mind that zombies can move, eat, hear, and speak, but they have no memory and no insight into their condition. That pains me, frankly. I really, really would like for our zombie-girl to be fully aware of what's happening to her -- and why. Of course, the aforementioned symptomology already describes in part Zombie-girl's current condition. If she has any insight, it's well hidden. If she has a moral compass, it's broken and spinning wildly out of control. When she speaks, stuff goes up in flames. I don't know if she eats or hears. It doesn't matter. When we're through with her, she'll hear so much her ears will be burning -- and she'll be too sick to eat.
There are a couple of ways to make our victim dead-but-undead and since my preference is strictly illegal (and has no un in it), we'll have to limit ourselves to doing it with a mixture of toad skin and puffer fish. The skin of the common toad (Bufo) is one half of the magic elixir. Be sure and put on rubber gloves and a surgical mask before the rites begin because toad spit can kill - especially if the toad has been insulted by one of Nomora's insane diatribes. You may recall that in Boccaccio's medieval tale, The Decameron, he tells the story of two lovers who die after eating an herb that a pissed off toad had merely breathed upon. Anger apparently makes the toxin more potent, and that is eminently doable.
We'll have to slip the potion into Nomora's Kool-Aid, because we don't want to get close enough to do the rub-it-on-the-skin method of application. The bitch bites, after all. I know she prefers tea, but tough shit, she doesn't always get what she wants. No more. Chicken bones say Nomora's tea days be over.
The other half of our wicked potion comes from the pufferfish, which is known in Japan as "fugo" (which sounds dangerously close to fug off to moi). Its poison is called "tetrodotoxin," a deadly neurotoxin. Again, keep those rubber gloves on, and the mask -- not only so Nomora can't identify us if she gets away before we're done with her, but because if we so much as breathe this stuff, we're going to end up in the Zombie Sorority, too.
Our girl will soon appear dead, with an incredibly slow breath and a barely perceptible heartbeat. And believe me, it's just killing me that it won't be the real deal. Keep in mind that once she downs Dr. Kool-Aid, she'll look deader than dog crap and the sanitation engineers are going to be in a hurry to scrape up the sorry carcass and bury her before she starts to stink. But that's okay; we can outrun any sanitation engineer. We'd better, because we have to bury her ourselves. Ceremonially. We will, however, have to move fast because you have to dig up soon-to-be zombies within eight hours of the burial; otherwise, they'll die of suffocation. Not that I'd mind suffocating the insufferable Nomora.
Once we have her prepped, planted, and then dug up, the next step is to make her mad. Not pissed off, but truly mad, in the clinical sense. Of course, she already is clinically nuts, but we're going to make her think Thorazine is child's play. We could do that by forcing her to read 1,000 useless Web articles and write a 5-star review for a shitty book while we stand around and scream SYBIL! at her. I vote we also force her to stand in front of a mirror for a good long time. With her peeling skin, shredded flesh, and raggedy clothes, she'll be a raving beauty, that's for sure. Or ... we can use the more traditional method of brain-rotting -- force-feeding her a paste made from datura (Jimson weed). Datura breaks one's links with reality (moot and an oxymoron to boot in this case), and then destroys all recent memories so that you don't know what year it is, what planet you're on and, worst of all, you don't even know your own name. Which is okay; we know what it is. A good zombie worth its salt must be maintained in a state of chemically induced psychotic delirium. Never mind that this pretty well describes Nomora's day to day existence. We're going to super-charge it.
Study these instructions closely before we begin our work at midnight. The person who applies these chemicals to a victim has to be quite skilled so they don't accidentally permanently kill them dead. There is a very thin line between half dead and dead for real. We want to get it right, because we're going to want to keep our newly made Undead Girl around for a long, long time. Trust me, we can find plenty for her to do.
I'm pretty sure this formula will work, but if you feel the need to second-guess me and consult a shaman or witch doctor, be sure you ask to see their picture ID. You never know these days who's passing themselves off as whom.
My circuits seem to be a bit fried today, so I am depending on you all to define these Words Gone Wild.
I did manage the first one:
plagerisum - An epidemic of fuzzy Math.
The first three came tumbling out of the mouth of our very favorite "editor" person:
A Scary Pumpkin Face
You would make a good pumpkin and liver sandwich.