At the ass-end of the film, as our living hero is driving away in his big, ridiculous zombie tank, he catches sight of Big Daddy, a zombie Martin Luther King Jr., leading a zombie horde away from the city. Instead of blowing them to smithereens like a sensible person might do, he stops and appreciates the view (like a crazy person drinking kerosene and masturbating with sand paper might do), and decides that the zombies are merely looking for their place in the world, and isn't that true of all of us? At the end of the day, aren't we the same as zombies?
The answer is no. Because zombies eat people and then people become zombies. This terrible analogy for the American dream (which is the semi-sensical way to interpret Romero's dribble plot point here) fails miserably, because rarely -- if ever -- do people in search of a better life bite others, turning them into the undead. Zombies don't deserve "opportunity." And do not invite one over to play with your child; it's really dumb.
"I have a dream, that one day little zombie children ... will devour the ever-loving shit out of little live children."
If the surviving humans have now reached a point where they need to consider the needs of zombies in their day-to-day survival, they may as well all curl up in plastic bags for the night and hope not to wake up. How are you supposed to scavenge for food if the zombie with the taquitos at 7-Eleven has puppy dog eyes? Is the plan to give out hug therapy? That won't work, if my research into zombie behavior is even slightly accurate.
If you can't kill a zombie -- and, meanwhile, all a zombie wants to do is eat you -- then you're screwed, because there are a lot more of them than there are of the walking food bags. Zombies don't get the luxury of civil rights because -- and this should be in the Constitution if it's not already -- you don't get rights if you're a cannibalistic undead horror. You just don't.
Especially not the right to bear arms.