R.I.P. Herschel. (sniff)
*takes off glasses, rubs bridge of nose*
Listen. I’m not usually this emotional about television. Books? Yes. Actually, I took to the bed after a few of them.
(Have you read Little Bee? Sweet teenaged Jesus…)
In fact, I have been known to throw shade at folks who argued about Scandal. Still do, in fact. Because, come on.
A SISTER? Sleeping with the married President? With bunker clearance and all that?
But, a virus that kills off 95% of the world’s population and causes its victims to reanimate into mindless cannibals?
That could actually happen.
Okay, so maybe in this one, tiny way, I am a hypocrite.
But the writers of The Walking Dead made me that way.
I should have known that last night’s mid-season finale…
First of all, what the Hell, man? You’re just gonna interrupt right in the middle of the season? Just to screw with our minds?
I hate y’all. Seriously.
But I digress.
I should have known that last night’s mid-season finale was gonna be a heart-stopper. I mean, it’s their M.O., over there in that sadists’ lounge they lovingly refer to as a “writers’ room”. Start the season off slowly, showing everybody all happy and calm and shit. Maybe throw in a few easy-to-kill walkers just to remind you about the fuckery surrounding them, but give you a glimmer of hope for the future.
And then, they cue the zombie extras and kill off a main character.
It’s George R. R. Martinism at its best [See: Game of Thrones].
Don’t get me wrong. I was glad to see them go, for the most part. Sure, I was a little sad when Dale was killed (he was really the only one who still tried to hold on to a shred of his humanity), but the rest of them?
Man, I couldn’t wait for them to get rid of her. I was so glad, that when they tried to bring her ghost back (remember that phone call?) I screamed at the television for 20 minutes.
Then, there was T-Dawg. With his useless self.
Basically, anyone who asks people to call him T-Dawg kinda deserves to be zombie food. It was for the greater good, right? I mean, let’s keep it real – what would T-Dawg have been doing if there was no apocalypse?
That’s right – not a cottdamb thing.
So, his martyrdom was the crescendo of his life. So, no sadness there. It’s beautiful, man.
But, then… last night’s episode.
I mean, there are some unspoken rules here that need to be revisted.
Like, number one, you don’t kill the kind, gentle, old white guy who looks like Santa Claus.
Number two, you don’t kill the kind, gentle, old white guy who looks like Santa Claus and only has one leg.
And finally, if he must die (because we realize that in this world, shit happens), it shouldn’t be like that.
What. In the ENTIRE. HELL. MAN.
You just gonna disrespect that dude like that? After getting us all attached to him? After making him survive his leg amputation like a G? After he held that whole prison zombie-outbreak by himself, with his one good leg and the Word of God? Halleloo?
You just gonna have Duh Gubnah decapitate him, with Michonne’s sword?
And show us the blurred image of his detached head?
“But wait,” I can hear y’all say, “we also killed Duh Gubnah”.
You. Were. Supposed. To. Kill. Him. That’s the rule!
Someone like Herschel is supposed to die in bed, with his kids around him, after saying some hip, cool shit like, “Don’t let the dead guys get you down,” or, “You’re the future of this crazy world, don’t fuck it up.”
And what’s worse? What really set my gears to grinding?
Robert Kirkman. Y’all know him? He’s the creator of the comic books.
You know what he said on “Talking Dead” last night?
“I have a theory – that the more beloved a character, the more brutal his/her death has to be.”
That’s some cold shit, man.
(hey, what about Baby Judith, says the voice in my head).
I don’t know her. *in Miss Millie voice*
What was she in, like 1.5 episodes? Playing with her own toes?
I fucking trusted you, man.
And you blew it.
I’ll never trust another writer again.
(see you in February)