Nothing says "Are you ready for some football?" like a gaping head wound. Or legions of the undead, lurching through the Winter Blast in search of braaaaaaaiiiiiins.
Maybe zombies and the Super Bowl don't go together like peanut butter and jelly, or Rush Limbaugh and painkillers, but the official Zombie Walk of Super Bowl XL was still a smashing, rotting, oozing, moaning success.
Kurt Wallace of the fire performance group Fire Fabulon was the mastermind of this not-so-evil plan. "I'm always looking for ways to make Detroit more fun, more hilarious," he says.
Wallace threw together an online invitation, and spread word far and wide throughout the land of the dead: On Friday evening, Feb. 3, zombies were to gather at the corner of Cass Avenue and Fort Street to take over the Winter Blast in search of hot, sweet, juicy brains. The day before the event, more than 100 putrescent corpses had RSVP'd. As the undead masses gathered, adding the finishing touches to their bloody, blackened, festering skin, excitement was high and fake blood flowed freely. There was a zombie Santa Claus (part of Ann Arbor's Zombie Claus event — zombieclaus.com — the festive undead cousin to Santarchy), a zombie firefighter, zombie cowgirl, zombie bunny and so forth. Some even came from as far as Indiana and Ohio.
As they broke forth into the night, reactions were slightly confused, but mostly positive. Even most of Detroit's finest got a kick out of the good-natured fun; one cop was seen posing for a photo while he was "attacked" by a horde of hungry zombies. It was particularly amusing when the zombie battle cry of braaaaiiiiiinssss abruptly changed to beeeeeeeerrrr while the walking dead invaded the brew tent. As one decaying young lass explained, hey, even zombies need to get out and have a good time.
Wallace reports on the best comments overheard by bystanders:
"Dude, there's a zombie behind you!"
"I know, it's my wife."
And, "Oh, I guess the Pittsburgh people are here now."
The rest of this column was supposed to be about the much-hyped Maxim party at the Max M. Fisher Center, where I was slated to work as a go-go dancer. But I was unceremoniously cut the day before the event. Why? 'Cause I'm a big ol' fatty fat ass.
Before we continue, I'd like to state for the record that I'm 5 feet, 6 inches, 145 pounds and wear a size 10 — clearly a candidate for gastric bypass surgery.
Several weeks ago, I was hired to work the party after submitting my photos and my measurements. The day before show time, I attended the fitting, during which my tits, crotch and voluminous hiney were subjected to the probings of a Maxim rep as she tried to pinch, push and duct tape my pasty white blubber into an aesthetically appealing shape in the skimpy stripper jumpsuit I was given to wear. (Incidentally, it was labeled a size 3X — I shit you not). Afterward, I wasn't sure whether to slip her my number or smoke a cigarette.
Then I left for a pre-dinner snack at Old Country Buffet, wiping out the entire place before I was booted for climbing onto the steam table to lick the remnants in the mashed potatoes bin. Later as I was plowing through a Sam's Club vat of triple chocolate fudge ice cream, my cell phone rang. It was a rep from the Maxim party, informing that I'd been cut because I didn't have the right body type, that I was too "voluptuous." That, and they didn't have the forklift that was necessary to haul my Orca-like physique onto the go-go dancing platform. They wouldn't even put my name on the guest list so I could still go to the party (probably for fear I'd inhale all the hors d'oeuvres.) To console myself, I drenched my cell phone in mayonnaise and ate it.
Later, I learned that many other curvy girls were cut the night of the event — some after they'd already been put in full hair and makeup. Some were cut for having too many tattoos, visible piercings and looking too "punk rock." For chrissakes, the party's theme was Detroit Rock City! A few girls who wound up making the cut were let go after one set — but at least Maxim was gracious enough to let them stay and hang out. How big of them. (To be fair, I was provided with a cancellation fee).
Coming into work Monday morning, I had several e-mails from girls who were furious over the way they were treated and how their time was so flagrantly wasted. They also reported that the party sucked musty donkey balls; one said, "I've been to better raves in college." Another dished, "The place was also trashed (garbage all over the floor, decorations ripped down) and nothing exciting was even happening that differentiated their party from any night at any generic club. I felt so unimpressed and uninterested in letting an atmosphere created by a bunch of cheese-dicks make me feel bad about myself." And another: "The biggest celebrity I saw was on a WB show."
Oh, Norm from Cheers (George Wendt) was there, as well as everybody's favorite convicted rapist, Mike Tyson. Kids, this is the message Maxim is broadcasting. Convicted rapists? Come on in, have a drink! Fat girls? Get the fuck out! And don't let the door hit your enormous ass on the way out!
So tubby, you ask, if you felt this way, why were you working the party in the first place? Because they were going to pay me $175 to shake my (utterly massive, Jell-O-like) ass for a few hours, and that's fun, easy money. A girl's gotta eat — especially this one!
Did Maxim have the right to cut us? Of course, it was their event; they can hire and fire whomever they want. Should I have known better? Probably. Was I really surprised? Not really. We all know the type of girls Maxim favors, and since I don't have giant cantaloupe-like plastic tits and a ribcage that you can play the washboard on, I don't fit. Which makes me wonder why they hired me and all those other chicks in the first place. Am I just a little bit bitter? You bet my corpulent patootie I am!
So, Maxim, fuck you. I'm not fat — and even if I were, so what? Being fat isn't a crime. Fat chicks are hot too. Some guys even — gasp — prefer them to the Tupperware fuck toys that spill over the glossy pages of your marginal rag. Which, incidentally, sucks. At least in Playboy you can see bush, and the articles are halfway decent.
Until next time — pass me the butter.
Sarah Klein is the culture editor of Metro Times. Send comments to her fat ass at [email protected]
