We’ve all seen the shows. Whether you like them or not, you’ve developed a plan. It’s easy to be sentimental, but the barking dog? Toss him in the yard. Mr. Snickers just became a snack. (That’s probably more of a cat’s name, so all the more reason to throw him out.) You know what? Make it the neighbor’s yard, the neighbor you’re not fond of. Wouldn’t want to attract attention to your compound.
Weapons? Well, some of us are more prepared (as if a zombie apocalypse is actually a real possibility) than others. I’ll leave that there. (Because if the government, or whomever, wanted us dead they’d totally show up at our door and have a shootout.) Anyway, we’d be prepared with the weapons. We’d know the rules, no loud noises, no lights, no yappie dogs, and if someone gets bit… It happens every show/movie/comic series, you know it does. Someone we care about gets bit and we let them fester, thinking that any minute now the CDC will come up with a cure a thousand miles from us and they’ll somehow get it to us before the 38 seconds pass and the person turns. Yeah, that will not happen in our reality because we’re prepared. Put some of that arsenal to use! Blast grandma for being slow and getting bit during the last wave. Blast her because she tried to hide the bite with some wool scarf she knitted for the middle of summer in Georgia. Blast her before she bites that cute refugee that showed up on your doorstep with nothing but an AK, tanktop, and booty-shorts. Because we all know, if you don’t blast her, she’s gonna bite somebody, and then the whole process starts over again and it’s amazing that anybody is still alive for season nine. But it won’t happen to you because you’re prepared. You’re ready. The last zombie body will still be smoking from all the lead you just put into it when you turn your barrel (or double barrel, am I right?) onto Grandma’s temple. She’ll probably say something about the cake she baked you for your thirteenth birthday, but you’ll remember it was during her healthy phase and beneath all that glorious frosting were shredded carrots, low-fat milk, and artificial sweeteners. Nice try, Granny. Blam! But would we? I seem to remember last summer when Granny skimmed that kid with her bumper while he was crossing the street with his earbuds in, you didn’t take her license. You just tried to tell her the benefits of online grocery shopping. When your dad keeps the TV so loud you can’t hear your mom farting next to you on the couch after the Thanksgiving meal, you didn’t drive him to get his hearing checked. No, we’d like to think we’d do the right thing during the zombie apocalypse. We’d like to think we’d blast our closest loved ones without a second thought, but we can’t even tell our sister about the spinach in her teeth before she goes out on a date with a totally dreamy guy. Okay, maybe that one was on purpose. I guess Granny gets to live too. At least for the next 38 seconds.
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We all have that fantasy, well, maybe not billionaires, but the rest of us think about the day that we win the Powerball, Mega-Millions, Cash-out-ya-ass, whatever it’s called by you. We think about it from time to time even if we don’t play. “When I win the lottery…” Then we go on to list our purchases:
A castle with a water slide from the third floor bedroom/tower to the pool that’s filled with chocolate pudding. An auto-generated breeze to keep your hair extensions blowing in the wind at all times. As you slide down to the pool, your butler would hand off a glass of champagne, or in my case, probably Vernors ginger ale. Then, as you hit the pudding, your herd of llamas will be waiting poolside with towels made from their wool. Your trained hawk flies down and gently puts your Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses on you (had to look that up), when you realize there is a lot of hair in the pool from the llama fur blowing in the fake breeze. The pudding is disgusting and starting to smell like chunky milk that’s been sitting in the, never-ending, 75 degree sun from your techno-dome. Your Vernors is warm and flat because the butler has been standing out there since nine-am and you didn’t get up ‘til noon because you’re a billionaire. A billionaire who is probably going to get food poisoning from the mixture of warm ginger ale and couple handfuls of curdled pudding you just crammed in your face. You jam your fingers down your throat as you try to wade to the side, but again, pudding. You’re drowning in your own wealth when your trained elephant pulls you out and performs CPR. Ever had CPR from an elephant? Well you have now, and it was worse than dying. But you live, sitting poolside, smelling vomit, rotten pudding, and elephant morning-breath as your wife zips over to you on a flying skateboard. (Do they have those yet?) “I told you the pool was a bad idea,” she says. You can barely understand her from the mouthful of cuban cigars she’s puffing. “And I told you the elephant was a good one,” you reply, as Slash plays the opening riff to “Sweet child o’ mine” from the drawbridge. Those would be my purchases. Comment what yours would be. |
AuthorScott writing the things that come into his head. Archives
January 2021
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