That brings me to point of this whole blog experiment, humor. Sure you might not find something I toss up here funny. Hell I might not find it funny either. But you never know what your going to find.
Oh Zombie Grandma.
Speaking of zombies, here is a nice little story I wrote Shortly after Micheal Jackson died. In my mind i like to think that this story is the reason they preformed the second autopsy on his body.
Enjoy!
Attack of the Thriller Zombies
There were seven of us in the house when shit hit the fan. Gunshots filled the air but couldn’t drown out the screams of terror. We were in a panic, all of us except for John who seemed perfectly calm, almost happy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a well read book. In his hands was The Zombie Survival Guide.
We brought the neighbors into our second floor apartment and took an axe to the stairs. John had a fine art collection of which we had spent many hours in front of them having superficial artistic debates. Not a single one of us could believe what was hiding behind those frames; hand guns, shot guns, rifles, samurai swords, flash lights, crowbars, army style rations, and so many bullets it makes my brain hurt thinking about it.
John gave us all jobs to do; mine was to fill everything I could with water. Douglas had to climb down a rope ladder and chop up the porch stairs. John says that it could but us precious time needed to escape. Everyone did what they were told and john assured us that everything would be fine in a few days. He said the book explains that the outbreak shouldn’t last long. John was an ass. He placed so much faith in that damn book it nearly killed us all countless times.
We had spent three days and four nights sharing our three room apartment between seven people taking shifts on lookout duty. Douglas remembered that he had some canned goods hidden from his roommates in his kitchen so he and John climbed down to get them. On their last trip (it took three) the door swung open revealing the reanimated corpse on the other side. It didn’t run at them like in those 28 Days or Weeks Later movies. It didn’t shuffle at them like in the classic zombie movies either. Instead it danced towards them like a dancer from Micheal Jackson’s Thriller video.
As John climber the rope ladder the zombie grabbed hold of his pants. John quickly undid his belt buckle and the zombie fell backwards allowing Douglas and John to make it up the ladder safely. That’s we noticed that John wasn’t wearing underwear, he was wearing a diaper. In fact he always wore a diaper. During the attacks that lasted days he would discard his pants willingly saying “how funny would it be to come across a ghoul wearing one of these?”
Three months later john fulfilled that prophecy, and like the respectable people we were, we waited a solid half hour before raiding his room for “supplies.” That’s where I found his journal; no it was more like a diary. I spent weeks reading it before falling asleep. One night I discovered the true reason John wore the diaper; he couldn’t control his bladder during normal circumstances let alone while under attack.
“I hate it!” he wrote, “The simplest task and it’s as if Niagara Falls is in my pants. Using an ATM, doing my dishes, waiting for the bus all send the same signal to my brain… GO PEE NOW! Sometimes it can’t wait. I’ve taken to wearing adult diapers whenever I leave the house. My roommates don’t seem to notice, but I think my coworkers are starting to suspect something.”
That entry was dated three months before all this horse shit. I told Steve and Sally about it one day to lift up their spirits; their dog ran off the day before. They found John’s problem humorous.
Even with all the bullshit and death, I’m going to miss this place with its slanted floors and smashed up staircase. As the days pass there are less and less gunshots in the air and more and more of the dancing undead. Our supplies are running low and our moral is even lower. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out before someone does something stupid. I think our best bet is to pick a new location, somewhere out of the city, out of the madness. It will be our new home. We can gather what supplies we can carry then get on our bikes and ride away from this mess. That’s just crazy talk. I know I’m going to die in this house, no one gets out alive.
I was bitten during our last skirmish. The bastard moon walked right up to me and I didn’t see it coming. If I tell Steve what happened to me he would blow my head clean off just like he had done to Sally. Poor girl wasn’t even bitten and he splattered her brains all over the kitchen window. Ruffus, her dog, brought home a hand, then when it was happy to see her it jumped up and licked all over her face. The blood from the hand got into her mouth and within an hour she was tapping her foot. That’s the first sign you know. Steve whispered his goodbye then KLABAMO, no more Sally.
Don’t worry about Ruffus, he is still around. My guess is that the virus turning everyone into cannibalistic, dancing dead won’t work on dogs because as everyone knows; dogs are such horrible dancers, they have no rhythm. To be on the safe side we tied him to the bathtub. Douglas hasn’t left his side. “Someone would need to protect Ruffus, he can’t shoot a gun by himself.” That’s all he would say when we tried to get him to join us in the communal rooms. Soon he is going to be running from that room as my reanimated corpse dances towards him making that high pitched “he he hoo” death moan.
I feel is building up in me now. The urge to dance is rising while my strength weakens. Holding this pen is becoming difficult. For what I am about to do, I am truly and honestly sorry.
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