Tag Archives: zombies


Crafty as a mouse and dirtier than a dusty corpse, it’s your weekly dose of FUHcast! Bill traps you inside his sick brain with this episode’s Rundown. Jim sometimes wants to , but Bill reminds him that FUHcast just isn’t that type of show. Bill recounts his epic battle against a fury home intruder. Jim hasn’t been feeling so great lately, but that didn’t stop him from going to see Disney’s . The guys discuss the newly and extremely controversial (not in a good way) released trailer for Brad Pitt’s . calls into the FUHcast Hotline with a question about on of which gives Bill an idea for a project whose existence will depend on listener interest (hint: tell them if you want it!). FUH ponders the reasoning behind Microsoft’s . Step inside Imagination Theater and witness the ghost of Michael Jackson plead with his brother to not . Things get uncomfortable (for a number of reasons) as the the topic of closes out the show. Don’t forget to vote for FUHcast in the s! See ya next week!

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Comic book conventions are one of the last great refuges for independent artists and comic book creators. Every convention without fail has an artist’s alley for the little guy to hock their wares. When I was younger, it seemed that there were a lot of people who shouldn’t have bothered to call themselves artists hanging out at conventions, but over the past couple of years, whenever I walk through the artist’s alley and the other promotional areas, I’ve been seeing more and more amazing work. This year, I ran into a couple guys from the Chicago area with their own comic book company called Dread Arts. They currently have two books available under the Dread Arts Company imprint, The Exquisite Corpse Collection and Modern Tales of the Future. Both books feature some great art and stories.

Check out their and pages to see some sample artwork, and if you’re interested in picking up The Exquisite Corpse Collection, you can purchase it online .

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I’ve never been what one would consider a cook. When I was a bachelor and left to my own mercy when it came to sustenance, I often stuck to a steady diet of peanut butter and jelly, cheap takeout, ready to eat items from the deli counter, and just about anything that could be microwaved and ready to consume within five minutes. Since they were fast, easy, and almost always on some sort of sale promotion, I would unfortunately gravitate toward 4 Cheese Pizza HotPockets (they cook in their own crisper), conveniently located in my grocer’s freezer. 

Being a part time insomniac, I had a horrible habit of eating rather late in the evening and would often retire to bed within just a few hours after ingesting these horrid pockets of colonic-like doom. More often than not, I would have extremely vivid and bizarre dreams of hanging around with Pygmy zombies dressed as Ronald McDonald. We would sit around a green flamed campfire in the middle of my 3rd grade classroom, playing a form of musical chairs to the Phil Collins rendition of “A Groovy Kind of Love”. Afterwards, I would watch the tiny, flesh hungry corporate clowns do a synchronized swimming routine (poorly, I might add) in a G.I. Joe licensed plastic pool filled with sugar free orange flavored Kool-Aid. Every now and then, one of the Pygmies would stop swimming long enough to pinch his nipples and whistle the to TV’s Who’s The Boss. David Lynch would scratch his head over these dreams. 

Now that I’m married and fed properly, I very rarely have dreams like these. I do, however, have to add 4 Cheese Pizza HotPockets to the grocery list every now and then. Painful cramping and guaranteed bouts of explosive diarrhea aside, those things are better than Native-grade Peyote. 

Just a thought. 

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One day, the dead will rise and begin to eat the flesh of the living. Should my home become compromised, I will seek shelter in a nursing home for the elderly. Non-perishable foods would be well stocked, there would most likely be a powe generator on-site, and the dementia ward would be easy to lock down as those wards are made to keep the barely living in.

More important, it would take the zombies a long time to chew through the wrinkled, leathery flesh of all those old people. Since old people are slow, they are the prey of least resistance. I would keep an old person in a wheel chair on reserve should the dead turn their attention toward me. I would roll Earl (or Pearl) toward the zombies to serve as a tasty distraction, much like one would toss a juicy steak at a pack of angry guard dogs, giving me plenty of time to make my escape.


Just a thought.

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I was a weird kid. Not the “let’s make a jungle gym out of the bones of hoarded roadkill” kind of weird, but weird in the sense that I had a fairly wild imagination. At around the age of six, I made it a nightly ritual to stand at the household toilet, flush it, and wish to be a werewolf. My memory of that age is increasingly hazy these days, so I can’t quite explain the toilet thing. It just seemed like a logical place to make such a request to whatever omnipotent being that could grant such a request.

Don’t judge me.

Anyway, I was fascinated with people who could change into other things. A shrink would probably call it some sort of projection of personal inadequecy. C’mon. I was six. The Incredible Hulk, Batman, He-Man, and werewolves were all cooler than their alter egos. But to me, werewolves were the coolest of them all. They had speed, heightened senses, increased strength, and no one in their right mind would mess with them. Sure, they shed on the couch and the claws probably made Lego building a real chore, but the good stuff seemed to vastly out weigh the bad. Six year old me really wanted to howl at the moon.

The urge to morph into a frightening man-beast definitely came from cinema. My father rented 1985′s Teen Wolf one Halloween, shortly after the film’s home video release. After getting over being too terrified to even watch it, I couldn’t get the thought of growing a beard over my entire face and body out of my head. I then went on to see Michael Landon in his 1957 film, I Was A Teenage Werewolf; as well as Monster Squad, and Silver Bullet. Who could forget the great Lon Chaney, Jr. in The Wolf Man? I even managed to see the horrible Full Moon High. And whenever I could catch it, I loved to sit down in front of the tube and sneek a peek at Fox’s Werewolf, a often forgotten prime time television horror-drama about a guy who, you guessed it, changed into a werewolf with each full moon. Television or film, if there was a werewolf to be seen, I was seeing it.

You still see werewolves on the big and small screens today. But something is different. Something is happening to my beloved hairy shapeshifters that I can’t tolerate. It seems that Hollywood has seen fit to do the same thing to werewolves as they did to vampires. They are making them cute, sweet, and romantic. They are no longer lonely drifters struggling to break the curse that befalls them on each full moon. They are now are wimpy quarterbacks with girl problems and hurt feelings who get into little slap fights with their equally overemotional vampire rivals. I’m pointing my finger at the Twilight series, HBO’s True Blood, and the upcoming MTV teen drama which is barely based on the classic 80′s flick of which it takes it’s name, Teen Wolf. We’re quickly going from lycanthropy to, pardon my vulgarity, lycanthropussy and I don’t like it.

Modern day werewolves, at least the more currently popular ones, are not so much wolfmen as they are straight wolves. No painful transformations and they aren’t even that scary looking. Werewolves should be huge, terrifying creatures. They shouldn’t look like Lassie. Werewolves wouldn’t tell you that Timmy is trapped in the well and in need of rescue. A real werewolf would be ripping out Timmy’s entrails and deciding if they also have have room for you. It’s just a matter of time before these slightly angry dogs will be glowing and glittering like they were just dry humped by Tinker Bell at an all night rave.

In the larger scope of things, where does the romantic monster trend end? Are we going to see beautiful but troubled girls agonizing over a mysterious emo teen mummy? If so, I got news for you sweetheart; that’s not the newest designer cologne Brent is wearing. That’s two thousand year old Egyptian rot stink and his ancient penis melted into his thigh long ago. How long before we see a swamp monster with frosted tips? Do we really need to see Frankenstein in pre-torn hip huggers? No. No we don’t.

Hollywood, leave werewolves alone. You can have vampires. They were kinda asking for this treatment anyway with the whole paleness and liquid diet thing. Coat them in glitter and prance them around as much as you want. No one will miss them. And haven’t we already been tortured enough with all of the horrible excuses for horror movies you’ve tossed at us in the past twenty years? I say we just cut our losses, be thankful we figured it out now, and move along.

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