Gosh, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything worth reading, hasn’t it. Sorry about that. There are various excuses involving stressful jobs and apartment floods and other projects, but it mostly comes down to me having the attention span of a gnat and not much time to review comics anymore. So I hope this bit of writing will at least provide entertainment to make up for my lack of credibility.
So, story time.
A few years ago, a friend from tabletop gaming group found a pretty awesome game called Dawn of Worlds. You basically play as a pantheon creating a new world and all the races in it, and at the end of the game you have a setting for your next rules-flexible roleplaying campaign. We tried it out a few times, creating different worlds, different ideas, different fiascos.
During one of these sessions, one of the players decided to create a race of Ewok-like creatures called the Woowoos. A few looks of disbelief were shared around the room, but in the end the consensus was that this was pretty harmless.
So then on his next turn, he declared that the Woowoos particularly excelled in archery, and that their military included an elite corps of marksmen (markswoowoos?), known as the Wuhu.
Well now I was tempted.
On my next turn, I spent some points to create a godly avatar among the Woowoos. One who excelled in martial training because of her time spent meditating among the desert rock formations and allowing Loa spirits to inhabit her body and mind.
Or in other words, Lulu became the Hu-Wuhu of the Woowoos because she practiced voodoo among the hoodoos.
This was about the time that the rest of the group said enough was enough. The might of the Woowoos needed to be broken, for the sake of everyone’s sanity. The other races of the world banded together to defeat their archers, and their bruised and broken leader chose to die rather than be taken forever captive.
Which is to say, Lulu the hoodoo voodoo Hu-wuhu bid the Woowoos adieu and committed seppuku.
It took a while for that gaming group to forgive me.
I used to like having an October birthday. Not so much these days, though.
Back when I was a kid, October was the month when school finally hit its rhythm (and not just the marching band), when the weather was taking a proper turn for the pleasantly chilly, when you could wear sweatshirts and start drinking hot cocoa or herb tea without getting too warm — and, of course, the month ended with wearing costumes and getting candy. So having a birthday in the middle of all that was, if you’ll pardon the pun, the icing on the cake.
Nowadays, well. It’s zombies. Nothing but freaking zombies.
Vampires, of course, have been romanticized to (another?) death, werewolves and black cats are cursed with the lingering stench of furry, witches sued for protection under Title IX, and I guess no one has yet seen fit to gin up popularity for the calavera doll or the Headless Horseman. So for lack of alternatives (or imagination) it’s zombie this, zombie that, zombie-themed haunted houses, zombie-themed billboards, zombie-themed 5K charity runs, promotional stunts for BuyZombie.com* . . .
In short, the world is lousy with zombie paraphernalia**, and I’m stuck approaching my 27th birthday surrounded by depictions of rotting, mutilated corpses. What a delightful memento mori! I think I’ll forgo the raspberry filling in the cake this year.
*It’s an actual site, if you’re curious. Someone I know works there, unfortunately, so I even wind up with zombie-themed Facebook updates.
** And has been since mid-August. Eugh.