The Walking Dead: Dead Weight

walking-deadI’m alive. I’m still just not reading much of anything. So onwards we ho with The Walking Dead recaps.

You guys, DM has a killer golf swing, no?

The second (and final) Governor-centric episode aired last night and TG has made his rise back to crazy town. This time around he has a tank. A TANK. Team Prison can’t defend themselves against a tank. Their only sensible option is to flee.

Sometimes I look at Brian/Philip/TG and think he’s not entirely wrong in his leadership. The man is sort of the ultimate survivor regardless of how ugly that looks. His pitfall, though, is that he acts a little too quickly. Like, if he would just sit down over a cup of coffee and mull over the situation instead of heading off all hot-headed to the prison with a gun perhaps things could end better for everyone? Hell, Rick might have even enjoyed being under another leader as long as the man had morals. Ah, morals. Where have you gone since the world turned? Is TG moral?

What I really liked this episode was how all these other human groups seem so unorganized and weak. Team Prison is BAD ASS. I miss them so much. I think they might be one of the few groups who have been with each other long enough to truly have evolved into a family unit. That makes them so incredibly strong. After all, you can’t do this world alone. Season Three was all about that shit.

RIP Martinez and Pete. I sort of liked Martinez. Pete could have been a nice addition to an already attractive male cast (pardon my shallow).

Finally we’ve found some gay people in the apocalypse! That makes me super happy because when they initially cast these two girls I was thinking they might try and make them love interests for our male leads. Forty-somethings with twenty-somethings is just not my cup of tea, even though I know love in the zombie apocalypse can be complicated.

I think Hershel’s in trouble, y’all. And Michonne. Also, Rick. Rick standing down a tank on his own mouthing off has me worried. I think I have a general idea of what happens, but maybe I don’t. Maybe something is going to surprise the hell out of me next week and slay me. OH GOD. I’m going to be nursing a bottle of bourbon during the mid-season next Sunday night.


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