I woke up this morning ready to do a piece on the first major bombing in Jerusalem in over three years. Or, how the Israeli military and Palestinian militants are once again hurling explosives at each other in the Gaza Strip. Then, after I had a cup of coffee and some bacon I came to the sudden and incontrovertible conclusion that I don’t give a rat’s ass.

I’m an American. I don’t care about Stone Age blood feuds half-a-world away. I care about celebrities. Even dead ones. Especially dead ones. It’s a proven sociological fact that you become more relevant at the moment you die.

“Elizabeth Taylor, the violet-eyed film goddess whose sultry screen persona, stormy personal life and enduring fame and glamour made her one of the last of the old-fashioned movie stars and a template for the modern celebrity, died Wednesday at age 79.

She was surrounded by her four children when she died of congestive heart failure at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where she had been hospitalized for about six weeks, said publicist Sally Morrison.” – MSNBC

As of this afternoon it was also reported that Taylor’s extended family is returning to her Beverly Hills home where they are boarding up the windows, nailing shut the air vents and welding plate steel over the doors. From what I understand they have enough rations to last a week and have begun sleeping in shifts. Each of them has been issued a 12 gauge shotgun and 9mm handgun and plenty of ammunition. Finally, each of them will be carrying a capsule filled with enough cyanide to kill them in 20 seconds flat. Should it come to that.

They say that firearms are a bad idea when confronted by the undead. A zombie is capable of withstanding horrific injuries. And of course an axe or a machete doesn’t run out of ammo. But, frankly, I would want 20 rounds of hollow points in my hand when this thing comes back because you know it’s going to be fucking hungry.



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