One Whipped Mother

Rob Zombie

Friday, April 23, 11:00 p.m.:

So I’m watching Shaun of the Dead with my brother, enjoying myself immensely, what with the seventh beer comfortably floating in my gut amongst the McDonald’s Filet O’ Fish sandwich and two pounds of fries I’d consumed, when suddenly, Rob decides to stand up and dart about the room in a most obscene manner. Startled, I immediately ask him if he‘s okay. Was he ill? Did the four McChicken sandwiches disagree with him, perhaps? Rob ignores my concern and continues darting about, thrusting his pelvis machinegun-like as he pigeon-necks around my living room on wobbly legs, his eyes glassy, his mouth hanging grotesquely, his ample belly quivering like a bowl full of jellied brains.

He was the picture of true idiocy.

It took me a moment to realize that what I was witnessing wasn’t The Agonizing Dance of Gluttony, but the very beginnings of a brand new impression called The Shambling Zombie, and a fine impression it was, too -- certainly among the finest in his bizarre repertoire, maybe the best yet. Better than his Bill Clinton, his Michael Landon, better even than my personal favorite, Xenon the Extremely Perturbed Space Traveler (which you simply must see to believe).

I insisted that Rob not drive home, as The Shambling Zombie was art born of many, many beers, and I believe in being a responsible hostess. Rob agreed, and we said our goodnights. I thought I’d filled my allotted monthly laughter quota that night, but happily, I was wrong.

The next morning, as Rob and I sipped freshly brewed coffee and tapped our toes to the hep sounds of screaming children, I commented, as many will do when sipping freshly brewed coffee, on the deliciousness of said coffee. Rob stated that yes, it was indeed good, so good, in fact, he actually visualized Columbian coffee fields as he inhaled the hot, exotic aroma, Then Rob recited a poem:

I smell the fields o’ sweet Columbia
Earthy, green, dirty-good
Hear the song of macaw, shrill monkey squeal
See brown, withered hands pluck, pluck, pluck
‘Neath the raging South American sun

I lowered my face and quietly wept into my mug.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:00 AM