Oddly Enough Blog
News, but not the serious kind
I’m afraid we’re going to have to award these guys the “Worst Organizers in the History of Earth” award.
See, it was an attempt to break the world’s record for the biggest zombie lurch, which apparently would have required about 900 of the living dead. But the scant 40 who actually showed up were, well, left in the lurch.
Heck, that number would barely make for a good backyard brains barbecue, much less a world record! Listen up, organizers: if you can’t even get the undead to do what you want, it’s going to be a dismal eternity for you. Meanwhile, though, it’s an enjoyable slideshow:
A man made up to look like a zombie takes part in a bid to break the world record for the “biggest zombie lurch” in Sydney, Australia, September 22, 2007.
If you’re prone to nightmares, maybe you should just skip this item. I’m warning you right now.
The idea of being declared dead before your time isn’t new. Live burial was a big fear in the 19th century, exploited by Edgar Allan Poe in The Premature Burial. As you can see from this old illustration, there were even devices crafted into some coffins, in case you awoke six feet under. I’d like to meet the dude with the presence of mind to say, “Gosh, I seem to have been buried alive! I wonder if my cheap relatives sprung for one of those handy safety devices!”
Kids, gather ’round the campfire, and I’ll tell you the true story of what happened to a woman in a German cemetery. Just pay no attention to those wolverines and hyenas howling out there in the dark woods.
It was a moonless night, very much like this one, and the wild wind played tricks with the woman’s eyes as she drove up the lonely path amid the tombstones. Well, maybe it was the wind playing tricks, or maybe it was the alcohol she had been drinking, because let me tell you, she’d had a few snorts over the limit.
“Well, Mr. Know-It-All, this is a fine mess. You said, let’s run down this alley, and they’ll go for that dude standing in the doorway! How does that seem to be workin’ for us so far?
“And you were the smarty-pants who said we could yell anything we wanted in English, because bulls only know Spanish! I guess maybe they have a damned foreign phrase book, ya think?
This blog is proud to bring you, for the first time ever, photos of the Belgian sport of cyclist hunting. A match consists of two teams – the “pedalers,” with their festive regalia and jaunty helmets, and the “huge cannon-shooters,” with, well, their massive field pieces and really heavy cannonballs. That’s the team you want to be on if you have a choice.
While this sport is growing in popularity, it has not yet eclipsed the other so-called “history buff sport,” golfer hunting.
Dear Blog Guy,
You seem to know quite a bit about unusual social situations. I’ve asked a nice girl to go with me to run with the bulls. Any tips on what chicks expect on a date like this?
Yes, there are some rules of etiquette. For instance, notice this guy, who seems about to be squashed. His right arm offers firm support for the young woman, as he averts his gaze from her turquoise panties that are riding up. He makes diplomatic smalltalk about where they might go to dinner later, if chewing is still an option for them.
Dear Blog Guy,
I’ve been trying to plan a funeral for myself, just in case, and I’m looking for things to make it truly memorable. Any ideas?
Yes. As Dylan said – that’s Dylan Thomas – “Do not go gentle into that good night.” The folks at Tombstone Hearse Company can fix you up with old-fashioned hearse powered by a modified Harley-Davidson.
Well, they buried Raymond Cornell on Monday, but his daughter Emma wasn’t able to be at the funeral. It’s not that she’s in prison or aboard the Space Shuttle or anything like that. It’s just that she’s a contestant on a TV reality show, and telling her that Dad is dead would have disrupted her shot at stardom.
That’s right. In yet one more sign that Armageddon is quickly approaching, Mr. Cornell’s wish apparently was that Emma not be told, so she wasn’t. There’s even a blog discussion where people can say whether they would have wanted to be told.
A century ago there was a writer named William Sydney Porter, who wrote wonderful stories under the pen name O. Henry. His tales, like ”The Gift of the Magi” and “The Ransom of Red Chief” had surprise endings, and I mention it because he could have done justice to the Philip Workman story.
Workman was a murderer, who was executed in Tennessee this week. As is traditional, he was offered his choice of a final meal, and instead he asked prison officials to buy a vegetarian pizza for a nearby homeless person. They said forget it, the taxpayers don’t give us money to donate to charity, and then they carried out the death sentence.
This British guy thought being told that he had cancer and would live for only a year was the worst news he could ever get. Until they told him he wasn’t dying, after all.
It’s not that John Brandrick exactly wanted to die, but when doctors gave him the death sentence, he went on a wild spending spree. He quit his job, got rid of his possessions, stopped paying his mortgage and spent his savings dining out and going on vacations.