We all know it isn’t a question of if, but when zombies are coming for your ass.
So the real question then, is what are you going to do when it happens?
What are you going to do when throngs of undead liberal arts majors rush into your lecture and start mealing down your TA’s spinal cord like it’s Fruit-by-the-Goddamn-Foot? And they haven’t had Fruit-by-the-Goddamn-Foot in forever.
Now you’ve got a decision to make- Are you going to be the loser cowering in the back row thumbing his rosary and gulping down the last of mommy’s Midol? Or are you going to be the winner? The guy with the machete and the badass track jacket hacking off undead arms at the shoulder and screaming stuff like “THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE HIGHLANDER!” and “NOW WHO’S CULTURALLY INSENSITIVE FOR BRINGING A MACHETE TO HIS ‘AFRICAN GENOCIDE’ CLASS?!”
So unless you’re a loser, or someone who enjoys the prospect of being dragged outside onto the terrace by a dead janitor so his gall bladder can be eaten al fresco, I think it’s safe to say at this point you’re gonna want to go with the track jacket and machete plan. Winners go to war with cold steel and a warm erection, and they aren’t afraid to use either of them. Possibly in tandem.
Zombie Hitler is getting the veiniest machete/boner combo my heart can physically sustain.
So you’ve got the machete and the track jacket. That it means it’s time to kill zombie and shop Abercrombie- and you don’t wear cargo shorts. (*some lines sound better in my head.)
Anyways, you’ve bought yourself some time with the machete-jacket madness, but you’ve got a problem- the undead brush jockeys just keep on coming. What you need to do now is find the nearest fat chick who’s still alive, and SWEEP THE LEG, JOHNNY. Boom! She’ll hit the ground like a big sad wrestling mat and start jiggling like a zombie dinner bell. Bam! Diversion!
Dropping Ol’ Flapjacks back there will allow you to find an exit and leave unscathed, as it will take those zombies half a moon’s turn just to separate the stomach meat from all the half-digested flan and French crullers. Just try not to laugh too hard as you dragon kick open the emergency door at the back of the hall.
You did good back there kid – all those fuck-holsters and former Model UN representatives in the front row are getting their skull casings split like skillet queso (And it’s not the good kind of queso, it’s the kind that everyone shares but one person always ends up having to pay for because the waitress is new and doesn’t know how to split tabs or whatever). Those guys are dead, amateur queso.
But you… you’re still pumping blue blood, reveling in the American unipolar moment and sweating Eric Clapton’s baby’s tears in the autumnal heat of yet another long Indian summer. But now is not the time for monkeyshines. You still need to get the fuck out of Dodge. BUT WHO IS DODGE? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
Five-grain-whole-wheat Jesus! Get a hold of yourself, man! Your fear brings shame to the track jacket.
What it means, is that zombies are goddamn probably all over the place right now. They’re attracted to heavily-populated urban areas. A city or town filled to the brim with parking permits and flabby hipped desk jockeys is like a giant Golden Corral to the undead: a veritable all-you-can-face buffet of side fat and undershirts. It’s like five square miles of chocolate-fountain-carnival-food bullshit for them.
So you need to find a vehicle. And by vehicle, I don’t mean your aunt’s ragtop Sebring piece-of-shit menopause machine that runs on sourdough and overreactions. I’m talking a four wheeled machine juggernaut of freedom that runs on dick blood and the American Dream. What you need is a Motherfucker.
What’s a Motherfucker? I’m glad you asked.
A Motherfucker is a mega dump truck like the ones that Jackie Chan somehow always ends up having to drive through a busy construction site in all his movies. The results are always as amusing as they are catastrophic because it’s a big truck and Jackie, well, he didn’t sign up for this stuff, Chief.
“Heading for the ocean… with Jackie Chan as my co-pilot.”
But mega dump truck is just part of the Motherfucker, because in the bed of the giant dump truck is a monster truck (the paint color and graphics on the monster truck is up to you. Mine is eagle-colored, but feel free to explore the space: flame patterns, Chupacabra claws, Robert E. Lee’s face on a Confederate flag… it’s the apocalypse. You can be a douche bag) and in the dump truck’s bed are two jetskis and several large auxiliary fuel tanks. If you can find a Motherfucker, hop in and head for the coast where you can jack a cigarette boat and head straight on to Antarctica… where the sun always shines and the women are hot scientists.
But if you can’t find a Motherfucker, you have to go with Plan B and purchase a big ass shaker of paprika, because…
Well, I’m not going to sugar coat it for you: You are going to die. And it’s not a you thing, I want you to know that. It’s just a zombie apocalypse thing. There’s just so many of them, and so few of you, and at the end of the day it’s really just a numbers game.
But when it does come, that fateful moment when the dead are closing in from all sides and lesser men would turn the gun on themselves—that’s when the paprika comes into play.
Just when the zombies think the jig is up, just when their slavering jaws are but inches away from your savory man-skin, you blow every undead mind in the vicinity by sliding a paprika shaker out of one of your sleeves and yelling a catchphrase (something like “BAM! KICK IT UP A NOTCH!” or “THERE’S A MAP ON THE BACK OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE!”).
And then you shake that goddamn shaker. You shake up a big ass crimson cloud of hot Hungarian pepper dust all over your body.Why? Because losers go out in a blaze of glory.
Winners go out in a blaze of flavor.
