Tag Archives: zombie apocalypse

World War Z, Part Two: The Crawling Dead

Guys, GUYS, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but it appears the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us. And not to alarm you even more, but it seems that no one, not even babies, are safe from these undead fiends. These undead fiends who are technically illegal immigrants. Oh yeah, I said it. Since they’re legally considered dead, that renders their social security card invalid, which means they are in this country illegally. Eating the brains of tax-paying citizens and taking victims away from hard-working American serial killers.

Where is the outrage about that, Congress?

Oh, proof? You want proof, eh? Well, how’s this for proof:

My baby is a zombie.

zombie 1

I mean, how much more proof could you need?

I started noticing the signs a few months ago. At first I thought he was just your standard, run of the mill cannibal. Because obviously, as a mom, that is the first place your mind goes when your innocent baby starts sprouting teeth and biting anything that moves. And I admit it. I blamed myself. Oh sure, there is some debate within the scientific community about whether or not there is a cannibal gene or if the people-eating lifestyle is a choice. And while I fully believe that cannibals are born that way, I did once eat some mystery meat from an unlicensed food truck while I was pregnant, so who knows what damage that did. And I’m sure my son being inundated with news stories about all those face-eating bath salt junkies didn’t help.

(But that’s what you get when the mainstream media obviously has a pro-cannibal agenda).

Luckily, I soon realized how silly I was being. Of course my child wasn’t a cannibal. He loved pureed carrots, for crying out loud. It was much more likely he was in the beginning stages of werewolf-ism. He definitely howled like one. And by the claw marks on my arms, he definitely scratched like one. Naturally I was very saddened by this, considering we live in a world where vampires dominate pop culture; almost all of them unaware but still benefitting from vampire privilege. I mean, how many books have you read or how many movies have you seen where the werewolf plays any part other than the bad guy or a lowly side character?

But just when I was about to resign myself to a life of keeping my child in a steel cage three days every month when the moon was full, my son bit me. Hard. And soon after, I started noticing symptoms of my own. I was tired all the time, sleepwalking my way through most of the day. I hungered for red meat, as opposed to vegetables. I really, REALLY wanted to bash the brains in of people who blocked the grocery store aisle as they stood there for 20 minutes trying to decide between the two-for-one Cheerio sale or the buy-two-get-one-half-off Lucky Charms deal.

And sure, yeah, I was that way before he bit me too. But I was also that way AFTER he bit me. So…you do the math. One plus one obviously equals zombie, people.

While I’m not sure exactly when my baby was bit by a zombie, thus effectively ruining our lives, I am sure of at least one thing: I will always love him. Even when he is biting me. Or crying because I won’t let him bite me. Or crying even louder because I won’t let him bite the dog. Or screaming because his sharp set of zombie teeth are coming in. Or not sleeping because his zombie teeth are coming in.

And that quack doctor who told me his behavior is all perfectly normal for a healthy teething baby of six months can go to hell.

 

 

 

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Update on the Zombie Spider Apocalypse…

Just wanted to let those of you who read my last blog post know that after killing the zombie spider that had taken up residence in my home THREE times on THREE separate occasions, there have been no other further sightings.

And, as to any question whether or not it was actually three spiders I was dealing with or if it was indeed the same spider, I can now officially say it WAS, in fact, a zombie spider. After the last time I killed it, I’d double-check that his corpse was still in the same spot every 15 minutes for the next six hours (don’t you judge me) until my husband came home and got rid of the body.

Apparently while human zombies can only be defeated by chopping or blasting off their heads, spider zombies cannot re-animate after being flushed down the toilet.

So, suck it, zombie spider. I hope you rot in zombie spider HELL.

The Zombie Apocalypse is worse than we thought

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but the fact there has been an influx of news stories about people eating other people’s faces and cooking their roommate’s large intestine with onions and a nice herb butter is the least of our worries. It has come to my attention that this whole looming zombie war has taken on a thoroughly horrifying new turn.

It all started last week when upon innocently entering the kitchen, I was assaulted by what can only be described as a giant, icky, furry, black, gross, evil, huge, nasty, hideous, monstrous, hairy, possibly more dark brown than black, gigantic, dirty, sneaky, ugly, beastly minion of Satan hellbent on the destruction of humanity. Or, in other words, a big-ass spider. And by assaulted, I mean he was on the kitchen wall, moving three inches to the right and then two inches up and than four inches back left before sitting in the same spot for five minutes and starting the whole pattern over again.

But trust me, he was plotting his vicious assault on my face, which he could have initiated AT ANY POINT.

Naturally, I did what any idiot with a crappy computer and spotty Wifi that they’re stealing from the guys across the street would do, which was to throw on my spider-killin’ gear– my husband’s thickest boots and his motorcycle helmet (which is ANOTHER blog entirely…SPOILER ALERT: We don’t own a motorcycle), and oven mitts, one of which was clutching a bottle of Febreze and the other a flip-flop– and prepare myself mentally for a lengthy battle.

An hour later, I was still standing in the furthest corner of the kitchen away from the arachnid-occupied zone, tracking the enemy’s movements and trying to stifle my scaredy-girly screams every time it moved more than six inches at a time so the neighbors would stop calling the police (out of a genuine concern I might be getting murdered, I’m sure).

Realizing how ridiculous this was (but probably not as much as I should have), I began my attack, spraying it down with Febreze while emitting a high-pitched squeal that set off every single dog in the neighborhood to barking. Unfortunately, this failed to actually kill it (but did make it smell amazing) and so in a Hail Mary tactic, I flung the flip-flop at it, which knocked it off the wall and onto what I’m assuming is the stairs in the kitchen that lead to the basement.

I say “assume” because I refused to actually double-check if it was dead and consequently haven’t gone down to the basement since (despite the fact the washer and dryer is down there…although this could eventually become a problem considering I’m currently down to my last pair of giant, old lady undies).

It should have ended there. But then three days later, lo and behold, I encountered ANOTHER giant, icky, furry, black, gross, evil, huge, nasty, hideous, monstrous, hairy, possibly more dark brown than black, gigantic, dirty, sneaky, ugly, beastly, minion of Satan hellbent on the destruction of humanity, big-ass spider.

IN.

THE.

KITCHEN.

This time, I decided to change up my battle plan and try to kill it with my Swiffer Sweeper (leaving a wide berth between me and it so the chances of it jumping on my face and brutally devouring said face were lessened). I nailed him on my first try but unfortunately, the idea that we were both touching the same object made me immediately drop said Swiffer onto the stairs below.

Having learned my lesson, however, I did timidly peer down the steps to see if I could locate the spider’s mangled corpse but then a loose hair from my head tickled my upper arm and I ran screaming out the house, a cartoon cloud of dust left in my wake.

Now all of this could just be a coincidence or, if my worst nightmare has come true, we have a nest of spiders somewhere in the house. It could be…except…

TODAY there was ANOTHER giant, icky, furry, black, gross, evil, huge, nasty, hideous, monstrous, hairy, possibly more dark brown than black, gigantic, dirty, sneaky, ugly, beastly, minion of Satan hellbent on the destruction of humanity, big-ass spider.

IN.

MY.

BEDROOM.

Which coincidentally is RIGHT BESIDE THE KITCHEN.

I hate to think this, let alone say it, but [glances nervously back and forth] I think [lowers voice to frantic whisper] it’s all the same SPIDER!

Think about it! They all looked exactly THE SAME! They were all hanging out in the same relative AREA! I never found any of the actual dead spider BODIES! And every three days, it would RE-APPEAR! (like JESUS!!!).

While I don’t want to alarm anyone, I think we need to stop focusing so much on what to do to prepare for an attack of human zombies and instead start stockpiling and training for the spider zombie apocalypse that is evidently already here. Cause, yeah, sure, human zombies want to eat your still living flesh and suck your brains out of your skull, but spider ZOMBIES!? They are wicked icky and gross and move weird and are stupid and ugly and I hate them.

So, I think we can all agree which one is worse.

Alas, it may already be too late.

It may already be too late.