The Zombie Zoo-Hearing

ME

If there is one great thing about being dead, I mean there are all kinds of great things about being dead, but let’s just assume for my purposes that there’s only one, it’s being able to get into the best shows for free. The Horrorpops, The Necromantics, The Young Werewolves, all great bands and beyond that, all great bands that love having a member of the living dead meandering among the crowd, hell, they don’t even mind if a few spectators end up a little munched upon (in fact, they kind of prefer it that way). The only thing they ask is that you eat what you bite, too many zombies going to their shows means too many free tickets and I can understand them not wanting a bunch of freeloaders (one is enough), and beyond that, I really don’t want to have to deal with a bunch of undead assholes every time I go anyways, so I don’t mind. Going to a concert is the only way I can feel like my hearing is even close to decent and I don’t need a bunch of fucks moaning like idiots and ruining my time.

Yeah, I know, I missed a post last week. Wait? I didn’t. You mean I didn’t miss a post. What the fuck? That’s retarded. What do you want from me? There was an accident involving a clown, three midgets, and a donkey. I’m not going to go into specifics but suffice it to say I ended up with a missing arm that needed to be reattached, really hard to type with only one arm so you’re going to have to forgive my momentary absence (just wanted to clear this up). Anyways, this week the topic of the day is how zombies hear, not an incredibly exciting topic considering the answer, we can’t hear worth shit. That’s right; your standard zombie has the hearing level of an eighty year old war veteran, just without the heroics as a reason. We didn’t become deafened thanks to the constant shelling of an enemy, we didn’t lose our hearing thanks to a Freddy’s Dead style Q-Tipp through the head, and we don’t have to ask for constant repeating because of too many concerts attended in our youth (we just go a lot when we’re dead). The simple truth is that without the production of wax in our ears, stuff constantly gets in there and clogs up our ear canals, making it quite difficult for sound to actually make its way through. That means that the only boring reason we can’t hear is just that we have too much garbage jammed in our ears. I shouldn’t say that we can’t hear because after a good cleaning that would look something like a child abuse prevention video we can regain a good chuck of our hearing but it’s still nowhere near as good as that of the living.

You know, that’s one of the only things that still pisses off the dead, the fact that the living can hear so much better than we can. Almost everything about us is better than you meatsacks except for our hearing, hell, given the right circumstances we can even be outmaneuvered thanks to this defect. The right circumstances could be a darkened room full of spilt cleaning chemicals, don’t balk, it’s happened before. Knew a zombie a few years back, real nice guy, of course he had to be since he was missing more than a little bit of flesh (rot sucks). Poor fellow happened upon a group of teenagers, the cruelest creatures on this planet by far, in an abandoned chemical plant at night. Now I’ll give you that the son of a bitch should have been careful going into a darkened building in the first place, but he was hungry, he smelled what he thought was an easy meal, and went for it. See, he didn’t think there were teenagers inside, he thought there were homeless people inside, and since it looked just like an abandoned warehouse from the outside and since before he lost the scent all he could smell was booze he mistakenly assumed it was a group of homeless people going in to pass out. Dumb bastard should have stopped once he lost the scent, should have considered that he wasn’t going to be able to see once inside, and he really should have thought about the fact that his ears were so damn clogged he was nearly deaf, but he didn’t. He went in like a bat out of hell, ready to eat a couple of drunken homeless people whom he figured wouldn’t be able to fight back…unfortunately that wasn’t the case. He saw two things before the candles providing the only source of light for the warehouse were extinguished, the giant Dow Chemical’s sign covering the tank to his left (thus the reason he couldn’t smell anything but bleach after the damn kids knocked a huge whole in it) and the fifteen or so teenagers smiling viciously as they put down their coveted bottles of Jack Daniels. The next thing he knew the darkness was all encompassing, his ability to smell was smothered, and the only sound he could hear was the sound of metal pipes banging loudly against metal drums. Long story short, the damn teenagers spent the night drawing him from one place to another by sound before ending the night with a little limb removal party, thus why he now spends his days hoping for the kindness of unbeating hearts.

The last thing I should mention when it comes to hearing is the moan since you meatsacks love to talk about the moan. Maybe this should be covered more in a “Zombie Speech” piece but since we talk more or less like the living (except for the moan) I don’t really see a point in doing an entire editorial about it, not only that but the moan has more to do with our hearing than our voice anyways. The only reason we do the moan is for other zombies; I know you arrogant meatsacks like to think it’s all about scaring you but it doesn’t have anything to do with you. We only moan because the sound we can make once things have rotted just a bit in the vocal region is on a frequency that any zombie within a ten mile radius can hear. Once again, nothing supernatural, just our way of calling in the troops.

You know, that story about the teenagers really pissed me off, you meatsacks are so prejudiced toward the living dead that you don’t ever stop to consider our feelings. I mean, yeah, we do eat you and all but come on, like that’s really a reason to be so prejudicial towards the living impaired. That seems like a good topic for next time, the prejudice we must face as an undead people, but for today, I think I’m done (really, I got nothing else), so until next time, this is your unfriendly neighborhood zombie signing out.

About The Undead Review

When I was alive I was an asshole and after I died remained pretty much the same, if not a little worse. You’d think becoming a member of the walking dead would mellow a person out, no more worrying about awkward small talk with people, no more having to be politically correct, and the entire world is your upright, bipedal buffet. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun as hell to be a zombie, just somewhat irritating at times, especially those times you have to watch a lame movie or read a lame book. Thankfully, when I am forced to watch these films or read those books, I’ve got places like The Undead Review to bitch and moan to my heart’s content. {When he’s not devouring the living or sinking his teeth into a good film The Undead Review (Andy Taylor) spends his time writing his own stories or hunting down the paranormal. Oh, and did we mention his blind dog once saved the world?)
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