I’ve been thinking about the zombie apocalypse.
In Star Trek whenever an officer
appears in a red shirt
you know from the first moment you see him
he’ll be dead by the end of the episode.
I don’t even make it to lunch
on the first day of the zombie apocalypse.
And the funny-not-so-funny thing
is that my sisters and their husbands
would last years, decades,
outliving the flesh eaters.
After slaying zombies for a few months
they’d grow tired of their lame adversaries.
They’d repair an old pick up truck
create gasoline from stuff found in the fridge
and start a thriving colony in some spot
the zombies can’t reach.
They would build a moat
and an impenetrable wall
and watch the zombies
fall to their deaths
“Ha, Zombies. Take that!”
I’m like foie gras for zombies,
plump in all the right places
and slower than they are.
I’m a meal with dessert and a cheese course and wine.
Zombie fine dining.
Damien, a 21st century MacGyver,
would work diligently to save us.
He’d engineer a brilliant machine
a new twist on the ancient catapult
to hurl Mini Coopers at the zombies
but it would never be enough.
We’d always be just one bad decision,
one zombie bite, away from oblivion.
We’d never have a moment’s peace again.
So when the apocalypse begins,
when this whole island of
very nice Japanese people
turns into mindless killers
through no fault of their own,
my plan is to run into the mob
and get it over with.
I’ll be a memorable breakfast
on their first undead day.
Save yourself, Damien.