Spooktacular Classics are dried-up chunks of word vomit which I like to regurgitate every time a Halloween Spooktacular event rolls onto the Interwebs scene. Today will feature Dear-John-style letters from classic icons who want to discredit classic tropes.

You’ve been warned.
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Dear Treasure-hunting Scumbags:

Ever since that guy, Brendan Fraser, did a role in two or three movies that involved my kind, I haven’t heard shit about mummies. No, it’s all about zombies or vampires these days.

Now, vampires never get old and are often portrayed as rather cunning and intelligent creatures—No gripes on them. However, I detest zombies.

“Ooooh, I’m a zombie! I’ll mumble and moan and never speak and eat your brains!” Fucking mindless scum. That’s not scary. You know what I find scary? Fucking skinny jeans. Just the thought of shoving ten pounds of worthless human husk inside something designed to hold two pounds of air is making my wrappings unravel.

You do understand zombies are cheap rip-offs of my kind, right? Except we’re much smarter and cooler. We can place curses on our resting places. We can conjure spirits from the netherworlds. All in all, we are far more powerful than those weakling zombies. In fact, some of us, like me, are so powerful you could never begin to fathom what type of dark magic we possess.

I can command a lightning bolt to strike you upside your lop-sided head with but a thought. Can your little bitch-ass zombies do that? Huh?

I can call upon legions of undead warriors—my personal home guard—to battle you until you lay bathing in your own blood and involuntarily released excrement.

I can hit you with an incurable plague. Hell, I can give you Herpes if you disgust me that much.

I can command millions of creatures: Locusts, scarabs, wolves, tigers, lions. Yes, I can even command domesticated cats, so stop believing they scare us. Only homosexual men are afraid of pussy, you idiot.

I can walk in my wrappings wherever I please, causing pathetic mortals to wet themselves just by looking into the hollow sockets that used to house my eyes. The smell of death—rotting flesh, decay—can assail your nostrils when within my presence so horribly that you would be willing to stick your head up Miley Cyrus’s ass after she twerks on Donald Trump’s old, wrinkly ballsack.

I can make you hold a knife to your loved ones with one unbreakable glare. I can incinerate you right where you stand by conjuring Hellfire from the depths of my dark soul. I can create an image of myself anywhere I please, confuse you, make you believe you’re hallucinating. I can hypnotize the entire population of a city the size of New York and make the inhabitants do my biddings. I can kill you with the snap of my fingers.

I can even make your swim trunks fall down after you get out of a cold pool. Yeah. Think about that, needle-dick.

Zombies ain’t got shit on us.

People of the present, stop ignoring my kind. Introduce mummies back into the mainstream, as it was in the early-to-mid 1900’s when television and movies had more mummies than any other creepy creature your imaginations could dream up. We mummies are the rightful walking dead. Stop with the fucking zombies already. If you want, put us into a movie together and watch mummies beat the un-living crap out of those worthless, brain-dead sons-of-bitches. We’ll save humanity and then turn around and make you pathetic mortals succumb to our will. Now that’s bad-ass.

Until you remember the original undead—proven historical undead—I don’t want to see another fucking zombie movie, got it?

(Well, unless it stars Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Or if it shows Mila Jovovich’s snatch like every movie she’s in.)

Cursing you,

Mummy Dearest