Uncle Don’s Views of Nil Repute:

Speaking of zombies…

There I was cruising north through the beautiful environs of Hawaiian Gardens toward the aromatic pleasures of Vernon and Baker Commodities, and there it was, slower in the slow lane. A Ford Pinto. A station wagon. These things are still alive and running? And legal to drive?

“Zombieland” opens with a close up shot of some slobbering fool. Slack-jawed, filthy, unintelligibly grunting and spewing blood, guts and entrails, I had a flashback to the last conversation I had with my editor here at the paper, but the zombie seemed a step up.

Where do zombies come from? Outer space, viruses, mutations, curses and the Nobel Peace prize committee seem to be the primary sources. It’s a virus this time around.

This particular batch of zombies apparently suffers from the elstupidohyperactivo strain, kinda like the occasional Raiders fan.

So these meth-fueled Red Bull-drinking little darlings have run amok in both slo-mo and hi-speed as they scavenge the states for scraps. What do they do for calories when everyone’s gone? Devolve into Democrats?

Let me save you the better part of what’s left of your unemployment check and direct you to 1985’s “The Return of the Living Dead.” That gem is a classic. “Zombieland”? Duller than a sawbuck switchblade. I had asked for a discount, but the wise guy behind the counter said “62 and over” meant age, not IQ. Duh.

Woody Harrelson stars as a cow-catcher fronted Escalade-driving redneck. In a post apocalyptic world, Mel Gibson in “The Road Warrior,” searched the Outback for gasoline, Woody is trolling for Twinkies in Tallahassee.

He picks up this here annoying nebbish who’s developed some rules of conduct for surviving and a couple of conniving girls.

Meanwhile, as the special effects budget allows, the zombies meander the Main Streets of America, sucking down bone marrow and flossing with tendons. Those effects bucks must have run a bit short in the second reel as we’re stuck with the four yahoos wandering around Bill Murray’s mansion for days on end. Well, guess who they meet in Bill Murray’s mansion? Betcha can’t guess who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb either.

Apparently their promised land, their Shangri-La, their Canaan, and their Fiddler’s Green is this low-rent amusement park in SoCal. Amazingly the power is still on. Amazingly I’m still awake.

Armed to the teeth, the two girls hole up on some dollar store version of Knott’s Supreme Scream where they can pick off zombies like students from a clock tower. Woody ends up in a souvenir stand full of tchotchkes so ugly, he doesn’t need to shoot the zombies, just hit ‘em in the head with things. The nebbish, he just wanders about, taking up screen time.

The screenwriters must have run out of Hallmark cards from which to steal more dialogue, because the movie sputters to an end like my Yugo Cabrio. Gotta spare one in the backroom, better get it off the cinder blocks.

UNCLE DON reviews B-rated movies and cheesy musical acts for the Daily Pilot. He can be reached by e-mail at reallybadwriting@aol.com.