(Fantallusion) At first I thought your post read "Legend Of The Over Fried" which is about the way I feel right now.

victoravalentine, February 24, 2008; 8:26 PM

Knives,

Sounds to me that you are about due for another George Romero dream: If you do have one, I hope you find yourself in a bright shopping mall instead of a dingy military bunker. Either way, the zombies will be gathering before you can enjoy a good drag from your newly lit cigarette. Luckily, your laconic pal, Eastwood, will show up, frowning on your inactivity as the zombie horde lurches toward the last human cluster. Then, you might find, if you're lucky, the record you bought before Eastwood could in your hands. Running from the confused histrionics of the beleaguered survivors, you and Eastwood decide to find the mall's control system, so you can find a way to broadcast the recording's music through the mall's P.A. system.
Seeing the blinking lights from the control room in the distance, you and Eastwood, not stopping for the fear of being eaten, proceed to the door leading to all the levers and buttons you need to play the recording. Throwing open the door, you sprint ahead of your pal to find an old Pioneer turntable wired up to the face of a metallic panel where buttons and knobs should be instead; taking a deep breath, you gently place the record on the turntable, Eastwood slams the door while you hesitate dropping the needle. "That's my record you got there," Eastwood yells!
You swallow; a bead of sweat drips down your forehead. Hands shaking, unable to make a definite move, you hear clawing sounds coming from outside the door-- "God, I wish I never threw away that cigarette," you think to yourself. At last, you break your silence: "But, Clint," you say in a defensive tone, "I saw the record first." The clawing intensifies; the door begins to pop open.
"Well," he says, clenching his teeth, "Play it then, punk." You drop the needle; the zombies groan to the sound of what appears to be the Bee-Gees's "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack. And all throughout the mall, the living dead fall like dominoes to the lyric, "Put your boogie shoes on." You wake up; the end.

Like I said, I hope you find yourself in a shopping mall instead of bunker--because, otherwise, you're screwed, ol' buddy.

By the way, thanks for the dry, over-fried wit. Take care,
Jeremy

Jmicpilars, February 24, 2008; 9:58 PM