I might as well start off by saying that it was a pretty boring weekend, really. Hurrah! Tell us more, Skot!

All right!

On Friday, as the wife trundled off to do her show (note that I have abandoned the Ethel Rosenberg thing, as it was only ever funny to me, I'm pretty sure), I did my usual thing and . . . sat around. Then I ate some pizza. Slow down, tiger! It had been a while since I had a whole Friday night to myself to . . . stare at the awful things they put on Friday night TV. Is that shit even legal? I think I watched a whist tournament on the ESPN You're Too Tired To Even Masturbate channel, and then some reality show where the contestants ate their own feet.

Eventually, the wife came home. "How was your evening?" she asked brightly. "Boring," I snapped back. What a great husband! "We could go out," she offered tentatively. "Nah!" I spat. Honest to God. No, wife! I want to stew in my own manufactured misery! What's not to understand? Basically, what you need to get here is that I am a ridiculous child and that the wife is a patient, patient woman.

[Let's shoehorn in a story here to illustrate this, from earlier tonight! A sample bit of marital dialogue; it is of note that the wife's birthday is approaching:

Skot: (teasingly) "I got a special someone a gift today!"

Wife: (faux-naively) "Ooooh! Who was it for?"

Skot: "This bitch I've been banging."]

I eventually (back to Friday now) got out of my stupid-ass funk, probably, sadly, because of the fact that trolling through the cable listings, I noticed: Resident Evil 2. Oh God! Thank you Starz! "You mind?" I inquired, and the wife replied--as if I needed more proof of her fundamental goodness, "That actually sounds perfect."

So we watched. It was . . . Resident Evil 2! I mean, what the fuck do you expect? It's a video game movie. With Milla Jovovich and some other hot skinny broad. It's 2! 2! 2 times the hot! Whatever.

Although really it must be said that at some point we stopped asking enough from our zombies. Early on in the movie, it's established that you need to shoot the poor moaners in the brain. Hey, fuck that! I'm of the old-school zombies, where you sever an arm? THAT ARM STILL CRAWLS AROUND! Killing zombies? Bah. Fuck that. THEY'RE ALREADY DEAD! IT'S THE WHOLE POINT! Body parts must crawl around. But no. This is the age of zombie adulteration, and so you get a bunch of brain nonsense.

On the other hand, you do also get some zombie hookers, who have really pneumatic chests wandering around. Apparently hooker-shirts and -bras are incredibly delicious to other zombies. And also, strangely, zombie hookers are evidently real sticklers for job performance, as they sort of stroll around being hooker-y with their dead tits hanging out. I didn't see any of the zombie accountants trying to fuss with their double-entry bookkeeping during the movie, or any zombie gas station attendants fumbling with the pumps. How uplifting that the topless zombie hookers still wanted to suck some dick for money! But only live dick Or, perhaps, chew off said dicks. For nutrition!

I spent a little too much time thinking about the zombie hookers and what they'd do when they only had dead dicks to deal with. On the other hand, I was really overthinking the zombie thing anyway. They always fall on a live human with a real appetite--it is a standard scene in any zombie movie to show these folks gnawing the fuck out of any living person, preferably all as a group. So how come all these other fucking zombies are suspiciously un-gnawed? All you ever see are these gray, shambling bastards with barely a tooth mark on them! Who forgot to chew on these guys? Is there some sort of unspoken (or, maybe, unmoaned) zombie code for when it's no longer really flavorful to eat the bodies?

"Ah, leave it be, Earl. She ain't even wriggling no more."

"MUUUUUUUHHH!"

"You are boring as shit, Earl. Oh, hell, you might as well finish up that ear."

I think I could write these things, really. It's apparently not difficult to get Milla Jovovich to take off her shirt. Eat my dust, Uwe Boll.