At least a couple of other bloggers have laid claim to Miss Newscaster, but none of them have seen to give any reasons. I, however, have constructed an infallible case, albeit with fewer images than those of my staffing predecessors.

She is a she, and therefore has lady legs:

Being a lady, one can only assume that Rochelle has legs, and there is a better than average chance of her knowing how to move them. I have been told, on good authority, that I have excellent drag legs, and my calves have garnered the envy of several women, therefore, these would be easy shoes (and pants) to try walking in.

She is wearing a pink shirt:

While pink is unerringly associated with femininity, and therefore fitting for a woman such as Rochelle, such affectations cannot sway me from my claim. I am secure enough in my masculinity that I wear an entire spectrum of purple shirts, one of which is magenta, the color that gets the balance right between purple and pink.



Her pink shirt is a Depeche Mode shirt:

Clearly a sign of impeccable taste, Rochelle's choice of music fandom lends itself well to my impending portrayal of her. Depeche Mode's library has long been intertwined with my own life as it has Rochelle's, from my early confusion at my first viewing of the video for Policy Of Truth, to figuring out how to make my Pocket Pikachu's alarm play the opening strains of Just Can't Get Enough. In this case, a great mind and a fictional one clearly share the same strange love.

She's the one with the axe:

And, given her lack of an X chromosome, she is clearly the one wielding the frying pan most of the time. Between her skill in chopping and familiarity with the kitchen, it's just a matter of time before Rochelle builds a new life in the ruined, civilization-free world that will be left once the zombies have come and gone, and the landscape is changing. My relative experiences in the Boy Scouts and as a cook, respectively, make me the clear choice to control her when the undead arrive in force.

She is tolerant and accepting of all:

Not only does she prove to be Nick's personal Jesus, buy grabbing his hand in order to save him from the overly creepy clown-type zombies, but Rochelle even seems to be willing to enjoy the silence when hiding from a spitter with Ellis. She's even slightly friendly toward him in her reassurances in the face of an endless, undead horde. Rochelle has something that helps her understand that people are people, and it's called a heart.

She's not Ellis:



It doesn't matter that I admire Rochelle's ability to deal with Ellis, but it's only because it reminds me of how I've learned to mostly ignore the backward, unwashed, bedsheet-wearing masses that you encounter as soon as you travel more than an hour outside of Philadelphia. Seeing as how I live just an hour outside of Philadelphia, you may understand why I would not want to become the thing I hate, even if it's only a game.

Man, fuuuuuck Ellis.