DOP #21 - Four Reasons why I'm Getting Rid Of My Zombies

Four Reasons why I'm Getting Rid Of My Zombies. By Me Jon Jacobsen.
By A. D. Cahill

At first owning a zombie seemed like a kick-ass idea. After all, the city of Gainesville had been using zombies for about a month. So when Corpse Inc. started selling them to the public, I thought why the hell not? Sure zombies were expensive, but Corpse Inc. started that B.Y.O.B. campaign where you got a discount if you dug up your old relatives. That really clinched the deal: zombies were cheaper, and you could finally get those no-good, deadbeat relations off their lazy butts.

But owning an undead wasn’t all its cracked up to be, so here’s a little list for the corporate blood suckers at Corpse Inc.: Four reasons why I’m getting rid of my zombies.

1. Ordering extra parts is expensive.

Five dollars a finger? Are you kidding me, Corpse Inc.? You know how many fingers aunt Sarah lost everyday in the garbage disposal? Twenty dollars a hand? Take my frickin’ arm why don’t you? Oh right, that’d be a hundred bucks. And how many times have your zombies lost a foot mowing the lawn? More than once, I’d bet. And then you gotta spend all Sunday afternoon finding every bit of ankle gristle and rotten flesh before the neighbor’s dog comes sniffing around, chows down on a chunk of toe, gets all zombified, and starts chasing that goddamn Peterson kid, who always cuts across your lawn.

You don’t want to be the one to tell Rover’s owner about that. You know how pet owners are.

2. Zombies don’t do Laundry.

Maggoty hands and clean linen do not mix. There ain’t much worse than finding a jawbone in the old tighty-whities when they come fresh out of the dryer.

As a zombie would say, "Front load, good. Top load, bad."

Oh, and for God’s sake, clean your lint traps.

3. Zombie Farts.

Yeah, I said it--flatulence from beyond the grave. The living dead don’t exactly smell like grandma’s potpourri. On a good day they stink more like her colonoscopy bag, and that’s before we bring digestion into the picture.

According to the manual, you gotta feed Zombies, Corpse Inc’s Fermented and Creamed Spider-Monkey Brains--the jar says it’s only primate brain that provides the cortical taste they love and all the nutrition they need for a healthy, moist, green coat. But let me ask you, have you smelled a fermented monkey brain? Well if you have an extra baby lying around the house, chuck its full diapers in a box, pour in a gallon of whole milk and let the mess ripen in the sun. Give it a week or two and then you’ll have some, some idea of eau de monkey brain.

Worse, what stank going in, you better believe stinks coming out. A few words of advice: When your zombie squints like it needs reading glasses and gets a look on its face like it’s trying to calculate pi to a thousand places, stub out your cigarettes, turn off the stove, and open the window--fast. What a zombie can do to your easy chair, an ocean of Febreeze won’t fix.

4. The Zombie Chefs

You’ve seen the ads. The ones where they pan over a Tuscan villa and zoom in on an Italian kitchen with a bunch of zombies slicing tomatoes, stirring pasta sauces, grilling tilapia and learning the art of fine Italian cuisine from the world’s “greatest” chefs. Why go to Olive Garden when the Olive Garden can shamble to you? 

After Sarah fell apart, I bought Corpse Inc.’s Chef model 9000, fastened the drool guard around its jaw, slapped on a Kiss the Chef apron and set it to work making Tuscan tuna surprise. Forty minutes later while I chowed down, I was surprised all right, but not from Tuna. There was definitely something a little off about the last olive.

"Zombie," I said.

"Hmmmm," it said.

"What’s in this?" I said, turning the clumps over on my fork.

"Not know," it said, shrugging its shoulders.

Then I noticed it was squinting at me all funny.

"Zombie."

"Hmmmm?"

"Where’s your left eye?"

"Uh-oh."

Needless to say I bequeathed all the flavors of Tuscany to my toilet.

So Corpse Inc., you can keep your extra parts, your bad gas, and your tuna surprise. And as far as I’m concerned, you can stick those zombies where the sun don’t shine--back in the cold, hard ground.

Avery Cahill teaches and writes in Florida, where everyone's a zombie in summer. You can unearth him here.

Comments

[jm]

hilarious...truly captures the spirit of Gainesville zombie culture. looking forward to more from this author.