We Hate Zombies

Scenario:
You wake up.  You’re in the middle of a field, naked, without anything, without even the zombie killing tools you always keep on you.  You get up, dust off, and look around.  There’s a town not far off, so you decide to head that way to find clothes, food, and weapons, hoping to make it before the sun burns your hide.  Problem is, you don’t recognize the town, and you can’t see or hear a person anywhere.  That is, unless you count the zombies.  What do you do?

What you should do:
The only place you know is the field you woke up in.  Not that you really know it, but at least you know where it is, and the flat land gives you a chance to spy zombies.  My first suggestion?  Get back to someplace you know, and that means going back to the field.

Will there be weapons there?  No.  Will there be a place to hide?  Obviously not.  Will you have a chance to look around and see what’s coming slowly at you?  Yes.  Will you have time to sit down, and look up into the sky, searching for animals in the clouds and thinking about the parents that abandoned you?  Don’t be an ass.

Of course, I’m assuming you’ll find a farm house nearby, and you’ll find yourself wondering why you didn’t go there first.  And in the barn or house, you’ll find some weapons strikingly similar to the zombie weapons you apparently left at home.  And, as you can probably imagine, these weapons will be sharp and well taken care of, because farmers don’t run around whacking the heads off things without a sharp blade.  (I’ve heard farmers do this though, a lot.  Like, all the time!)

Still, if you go outside to slay some zombies with a scythe, just remember to put on clothes.  Or sunblock.  Nothing would be worse than fighting zombies with a sunburn on your ass.

What I would do:
Of course I don’t know much about farming, but I know a thing or two about driving and levers, so I can imagine that once I find a combine I’ll be able to drive it at least as well as a 6 year old farm boy.

Once I have the combine, it’s only a matter of time until I sow the fields with the blood of the undead.  In a few more months, I’ll be harvesting some rotten cotton, just to weave a tapestry of my awesomeness for the sake of burning, because I hate zombies and I won’t have no zombiedom in my house!

Alternatively, if I didn’t feel quite liquored up enough to kill zombies in sufficient style, I might just find a bike or something and ride on toward the next town, hoping to find more room to get drunk again, or else a map to find my way back to my end-of-the-world fortress.  Whichever.

Thanks to James for submitting this scenaro.

Scenario:
Well, it’s tax time again and you know what that means. It’s time to head down to your local H&R Block or go to WalMart to get a copy of this year’s Tax Cut, Federal and State. You’ve got to get all of those important tax related documents ready for action and prepare for a bigfederal punch in the stomach. For those unlucky few, it is time for a date with the IRS. What do you do?

What you should do:
Listen carefully. This isn’t a post about killing zombies. It is about not killing humans who resemble zombies. The IRS is a bad place that spawn some evil, evil beings. But that does not necessarily mean that they are zombies, no matter how much they may look like one. This is where things get tricky. You have to always be prepared to defend your life from zombies but you also have to find a way to ignore the instincts that you have honed to a point. A sharp point that looks like a pitchfork.

The first method I would recommend is the cold shower method. Like the ability to feel pride with your body, searing zombie hatred shrinks with a cold shower. If the IRS are milling about in your paperwork, excuse yourself for a quick shower to rinse off the murder. When you are done, you will be to preoccupied with no balls to worry about the scary men.

If that does not work, move onto a more progressive tactic. Grab your bottle of Tylenol and start chewing. It will be bitter and it will consume all of your senses. If you don’t have any Tylenol, grab the jar of cinnamon and have a spoonful. This is a little more drastic in nature, but sometimes when you are desperate, even a grocery bag will serve as a condom if you know what I mean. Press on.

If none of this works, then its on you to figure it out. Cut yourself or burn your arm over the stove. Go dry hump a pillow or dig a hole in the garden. I don’t care what it is, just do what’s right.

What I would do:
I would be in jail because I cannot untrain these instincts. I would kill the man and then try to cover it up. The tricky part with that is that the IRS isn’t to be fucked with. I would never see the free world again.

Scenario:

You’re out walking your little mutt, just like you always have to right before bed so it can sniff the shit out of things until a dookie pops out and you can get some sleep.  It’s a windy night, but you think nothing of it.  No one’s on the street.  The trees are swaying violently, and your dog is thinking it’s time to poop a deuce so you can go in when it gets distracted by something in the shadows.  Soon it’s growling, teeth bared, looking at something you can’t see.  Suddenly, a black blur dashes out of the darkness towards your pup and you instinctively enact operation field goal and kick the fucker 20 feet through the air.  It smacks into the neighbor’s door, which swings open slightly.  There are more dark shapes around you, closing in on you.  Zombie dogs.  Shitfuckdamn, this is bad.  What do you do.

What you should do:

You don’t have much time to formulate a plan, so you have to be quick about the way of things.  First off, zombie dogs, or zogs, are a bad deal.  Ever outrun a dog?  Yeah, me neither.  Ever hear that story about how a normal dog ate a woman’s face off?  Me too, and that was a normal dog.  So, you’re obviously fucked if you think you’re going to out-run or out-fight a pack of zombie dogs.

Fortunately, the first zog made a b-line straight for your own loved and cherished mutt, which should give you a little idea.  Besides, if you don’t make it, who else is going to feed your dog?  Nothing left to do but pick up the mother goose, launch it like a pie at a far-off midget and hope it flies off to safety somewhere, distracting all the other dogs while you make a break for it.

Not that cold and heartless?  Can’t convince yourself that God gave your little Flufficans wings to fly to doggy heaven?  Then you’ll have to change your line of thinking.  If you can’t carry your dog, you don’t have so many options, but let’s hope you atleast can carry a cell-phone.  Think of the dog’s primary enemy: the cat.  What does an endangered cat do?  Climb a god damn tree, thats’ what, and that’s exactly what you have to do if you want to keep your legs below the knee.  With dog in hand, climb the nearest tree you can find, but if you can choose one that is growing close enough to a building/house that you could get on a roof, that would be excellent.  If you make it that high, go to your speed dial entry for “Party Time” and get some backup with the guns you should have had with you.

What I would do:

Seriously, what good is a dog if it can’t protect you from a few zombie bitches?  Quite clearly my dogs would be clad in fucking steel plates, walking down the street like a real son of a bitch bad ass just lookin for shit to tear up.  My dogs would know what to do even before I did, and boy-howdy you wouldn’t see a show like that even if Michael Vick were calling the shots.  Do I beat my dogs to make them fight?  No, they would fight because I’m so awesome to my dogs, and that will make them fight even stronger.  Why did the 300 Spartans kick Persian ass all the way to the top of a mountain of dead?  A reason to fight better than fear.

Sadly, I suppose we must assume I’m walking someone else’s lame dogs.  This means I don’t really give a rats ass about em, and I launch them into the darkness like Juggernaut protecting the source of his powers.  But, do I let a poor Fido go quietly into that cold bitter night and do nothing?  Mother Fucker.  As soon as that gang of zogs turns tail to feast on steaming guts, I would grab the nearest street sign and yank that shit from the ground with the strength of a thousand adrenaline crazed  junkies, and I would hunt those scroungy zogs down until every last one was crushed into the cracks of the pavement.  There will be no limit to the devastation I will bring down upon them.

Until I’m done, that is, in which case I’ll go back to wherever it is I came from and act like nothing happened, particularly the fact that I used to be walking a dog.

Scenario:
You are walking around at work and something doesn’t seem right. All day you have had this nagging feeling in the seat of your pants that something has gone wrong, but for the love of jelly donuts you can’t figure it out. You are wearing everything you are supposed to be wearing. You ate the same old breakfast that you always eat. There are no important deadlines that you forgot about and that cute girl across the hall still ignores you. On the surface, everything seems fine, but it isn’t. Throughout the day, the feeling got worse and worse until you finally figured it out. You shouldn’t have eaten all of those spicy hot wings last night. The crap you took this morning was so hot it chapped your ass. You’ve got a chapped ass that has been rubbed so raw that even your cubicle mate can smell the burnt hair. It hurts so bad you can barely walk, let alone fight the horde of zombies standing at the end of the walkway. What do you do?

What you should do:
This is a dire situation that screams only one thing: temporary fix. You have got to burst some blood blisters and haul your bleeding ass to the bathroom which is right in the middle of you and those dirty zombies. Not only do you have to run, you’ve got to sprint because these guys mean business. If you have it handily available, steal the mail cart and surf your way to luxury.

Once you are inside the bathroom, pull down the pants (regardless of who is there) and lube up those butt cheeks with some soap. It won’t be pretty in the morning, but it should give you enough freedom of motion to get you through the day and fight your way back down to the bus stop. If you are lucky and it exists, opt for the hand lotion. It is less likely to dry up, dry you out, or lather. Lather is not your friend today.

After thoroughly, and I do mean thoroughly, greasing up the works, waste no time in dispatching the zombies. There are plenty of office supplies that would work as weapons. Staplers, keyboards, clipboards, bats, snow globes… The list is endless.

What I would do:
I try to always keep a bottle of baby powder within reach whenever possible. And I don’t get the cheap stuff either. I have to go with the Johnson’s baby powder, pure cornstarch with aloe and vitamin E. Not only does it provide instant relieve with a touch of a cool summer breeze, but it also helps me kill zombies. I wouldn’t even mess with going to the bathroom. I would just drop trouser right in the middle of everyone which does a few great things. It saves time so that I can kill zombies better. It helps me get a date next Saturday. It even gets me a free pass in the lunch line. Who can argue with those results?

Scenario:

Now, some say there’s no such thing as too much tequila, and I’d damn sure be one of those people.  But, I do think there’s such a thing as too much lime juice, and sweet jesus last night I had too much lime juice.  I feel TERRIBLE right now.  Am I still drunk?  If I”m not, I sure as hell should be.  My god, I think I might just throw up.  What do you do?

What you should do:

Stop making so much fucking noise.  It’s threatening to destroy the very core of my being.  Every movement you make is like a disharmony in the ressonance of my entire world.  For the love of god…  I wanna throw up.

What I would do:

Go to the bathroom, stick my finger down my throat, and fucking ride this donkey till the show is over.  Sweet son of a bitch.