The Friday Report
April 11, 2013
My wife was complimenting me on a column I wrote a few weeks ago, “Must you always go on and on with such boring drivel?” she said, “Nobody cares about vampires. And the reason they don’t care is because, hello, vampires don’t exist. Please, please, don’t write about them anymore, I’m embarrassed to go out in public.”
Honestly! She’s such a pip. Nobody cares! Ha-ha. Indeed.
In the hundred years since Bram Stoker wrote Dracula we’ve learned a lot about the undead. The 1924 film classic, Nesferatu, blew the doors off the crypt with over a thousand Vampire movies in its wake. Bela Lugosi cinched the archetype in Tod Browning’s 1931 film, Dracula.
Here’s what we’ve learned to this point:
Unless you have silver bullets, it’s a total waste of time to shoot a vampire. Thousands upon thousands of B-movie actresses have been reduced to kohl-eyed, blood-thirsty slatterns because they overlooked that one simple fact.
Crucifixes are dicey stuff, working only about half the time. Truth is, they are totally undependable when it comes to keeping oily European counts with hyper-extended canines away from your nubile teenage daughter’s neck. Garlic is better because it keeps everyone away.
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A fiery inferno will cook a vampire’s hash for once and for all. This is good to remember because centuries-old wooden caskets catch fire like Ohio tap water. If you can touch a torch to the corner of the coffin, it’s time to roll the credits.
Concerned citizens (and who isn’t?) must quickly report anyone to the police who does not cast a shadow or a reflection in the mirror. Forget Miranda, without a shadow or a reflection, a person should not have any rights at all, let alone unlimited access to scantily-clad, dozing damsels.
For that matter, why, oh why, do wispily-draped maidens always sleep with the castle windows wide open? Didn’t their mothers teach them anything? A swarthy bat flies in and the necks, uh, next thing poor mom knows, their kid is partying until dawn and sleeping around in strange coffins!
Vampires have no power when buried upside down. Trouble is, there’s always some damned fool hell-bent to dig them up. With complete disregard for the eerie music on the soundtrack, mark my word, inevitably, somebody will come along about midnight with a shovel and a hunchback to dig up a vampire’s grave.
Female vampires are always looking seductive and gorgeous with perfect, if somewhat lurid makeup. If they can’t see themselves in the mirror, how can that be? Wouldn’t you think they’d occasionally smear lipstick all over their foreheads? “Madam, you have put eyeliner on your cheeks! Please hold this stake while I locate my mallet.
Okay, the worst has happened. You’re racing up a set of stone stairs towards the tallest turret in the castle. It’s pitch black and, oh yeah, there’s a vampire in hot pursuit. A string breaks and your garlic necklace tumbles over the parapet into the melee of torches and pitchforks below. Your silver bullets turn out to be cheap Chinese fakes and earlier the vampire used your crucifix as a toothpick. Out of breath, you come to a door with two familiar stick figures on it. A bathroom! You might still be saved. Vampires cannot cross running water. Stand in your toilet and flush repeatedly.
Nobody cares? Ha!
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