We Hate Zombies

Scenario:
Like a badass, you have a game room in your basement oddly situated next to a bunch of tools across the room, including a crowbar, hacksaw, and some battery powered shit. Maybe you have a garage in your basement, maybe your wife just hates your things and wants it trapped in the downstairs, whatever. Also, you have a computer down there too, which you only ever use just for watching pr0n while you play a game of pool. Which is what you’re doing.

But then something in the back of your mind triggers a heightened sense of awareness, and you begin to hear the sounds of distant screaming. Oh baby, this is what you’ve always dreamt of, time for some action! Except you can hear they’re already in your house. And they’re already infecting your wife. Holy shit! They’re already coming down into your man cave and are between you and all your possible weapons! What do you do?

What you should do:
Pull your pants up and fasten your safety belt, cause it’s time to rock! As a reminder to everyone who doesn’t remember every word that I’ve ever preached, there’s no such thing as being separated from all possible weapons. As soon as you stand up, you should immediately become aware that all your junk no longer has meaning beyond what damage it can inflict on an infected rotten turd muncher.

At your desk, you understand the world is over and that the computer will soon lose power forever. First weapon: the computer. Without a computer, the desk is nothing. Second weapon: the desk. Then you realize you don’t have time to sit down anymore. Third weapon: the chair. And you never really played pool anyway cause you suck really bad at it. Fourth weapon: pool sticks, the cue ball, America.

Without knowing the meaning of fear, you should smash that sticky keyboard into the teeth of the first blood-thirsty zombie, knocking him backward onto his ass. Then throw the chair across the room and trip up the three zombies still coming down the stairs. The pool balls are worthless to you, but grab two pool sticks and overturn the table onto the toothless downed dead bastard still struggling to get up.

Two wooden spears in hand, all that’s left is to dance a dance of everlasting death, spearing the lifeless eyes of those cursed fuckers until you reach your wall o’ tools. I won’t even list the different weapons you’ve suddenly found for yourself, but I think you won’t have any trouble cleaning up this mess and getting the hell out of Dodge.

What I would do:
No ex-Major League pitcher turned nine ball pro would be able to resist spinning onto the pool table and beaming zombies straight in the face with a rack of balls…which is exactly what I would do. For a little bit anyway, because it would be fun, like Shaun of the Dead throwing records at zombies kind of fun. I guess what I’m trying to say is Family Fun. Unlike what was on the computer.

After having my bit of fun, the rage would inevitably settle back in, and there would be nothing left to hold back my wrath. Any zombie still standing would immediately get a face full of CRT monitor, followed by a desk full-body-slamming. Keep in mind that none of these things are likely to put a zombie down for the count, at least not like poking them through the eye with a wooden stake, but it helps me control my penchant for burning fury — by adding gas to the flames.

Immediately I would begin dismantling my stairs one board at a time, taking each one and beating the moving corpses until it splintered into fragments and the sons of dead, motherless goats really stopped moving for good. The blood and gore would be epic and fascinating, the kind of phenomenon mathematicians might someday study for fractal splatter analysis.

I would probably need to take a shower, then run to the nearest Taco Bell and see if they had been overrun yet. Booyah! Say hello to my Burrito baby.

Thanks to Tyler for submitting this scenario.

Scenario:
You are wounded in battle with a horde of zombies, but not bitten or clawed. A fellow zombie killer shot you in the right kidney during an untimely panic attack and you blacked out. When you came to, the pain was intolerable and the survivors were nowhere to be seen. You tried to call for help and stand, but all you could do was moan loudly and wiggle around on the ground, covering yourself with your own blood and dirt. Then, from out of the bush comes a rugged looking guy holding an axe and wearing a shirt that says “LAMBO” in big letters. He takes you for a zombie and intends to kill you. What do you do?

What you should do:
Considering the fact that zombies do not and will never be able to talk, simply speak to the kind fellow and he will surely spare your life. There is an outside chance that he is deaf, but this would really work against him in a zombie apocalypse and he would most likely be dead at this point. Surely he speaks English, but nobody can guarantee that these days, so shout at him in a few different languages so that he gets the idea. This should save your life.

There is also another terrifying situation that may prove troublesome for you. If the man saw his entire life (his family, his dog, his lawn dart set) consumed by a zombie horde, he may be mad with hatred and kill anything in his path that could be a zombie. Even if you speak to him and he understands, the fact that you remind him of a zombie could drive him insane and he could cut off your head. For this, I have no solution. Good Luck.

What I would do:
I believe that all zombie killers have one thing in common. They all kill zombies and love peanut butter. For this reason, I always have a peanut butter sandwich stuffed in my left sock just in case I need it. This is one of those situations. I would muster the strength to pull the sandwich out of my sock and simple say, “I made this for you LAMBO.” He will see the sandwich and fall in love with me, reducing the risk of him dispatching me. Even if he is insane with hatred, this could break the spell. If not, then I would simple destroy him with a bazooka.

Scenario:
You’ve just picked up a fresh copy of Guitar Hero: Metallica and you’ve been playing it for about twenty minutes. You are right in the middle of a fresh-melt-your-face-off shred when zombies come crashing through your kitchen windows. You’ve got the music up so loud and you are kicking so much fucking ass that beads of concentration sweat are rolling down your back, soaking the blood stained Slayer T-Shirt you have on. Also, you don’t hear the zombies coming in. What do you do?

What you should do:
Whenever you are playing Guitar Hero, you should always block the door into your room with something. Most people use a chair or a dresser or a large pile of dirty clothes, but you could also use a giant bag of charcoal or something. One sweet thing about doing that is that you can get annoyed at the zombies when they try to break into your room. This will probably alert you to their presence and you can come up with a strategy from there.

If you don’t block the door, or lock it for that matter, then you should probably set up a security system for your house so that if zombies break in through any window in the place, it cuts the power to your XBox. Then you know something is up when you look up from the black screen with only a half melted face.

Finally, you should have an escape plan for when they do try to break down the door. Windows are probably not the safest route out because more zombies might be waiting out there. Have a secret door in the floor so that you can escape through the crawl space. This gives you pretty good odds of escaping the city alive.

What I would do:
I have a pretty badass set of speakers that I hook up to the old Xbox whenever I play Guitar Hero. This would be no different. Whenever the zombies break in, I would sense them with the Z-sense that I have developed. Whenever a zombie is near, my testicles climb back into my abdomen for a couple of really good reasons. It helps me be less vulnerable to pokes in the crotch and I am less likely to snag them on anything while I am running, jumping, and scaling twelve foot barbed wire fences. Anywho, when this happens and I am playing Guitar Hero, I would pump up the volume on those bad boys to bone shattering (that’s just two clicks above 1,000,000 on the volume nob) and play the solo finale of One. This would guarantee that the zombies don’t make it through the door, where I would then be dry humping the plastic guitar that I love so much.

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?