Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Seven Quarters and the Zombie Apocalypse

My neighborhood is exactly the sort of place you can imagine a zombie-plague doing some serious damage.

The other day I had this irritating daydream where I stood up in an interview, casually took off my pants and showed the interviewer that my greatest skill was the fact that I could hold seven quarters in my foreskin. Annoyingly that daydream occurred whilst in an interview after that question was asked. If you're curious I did actually volunteer an entirely different answer. Admittedly in part (a very tiny sliver of a part though) because I didn't have any coins on me. And that sort of boast is a hollow one unless you can demonstrate it visually. And just for the record I haven't actually ever tried stuffing money down my anteater. I just thought it would be hilarious if that actually happened. "See look - and when they are spat back out they're sparkling clean!! I polish all my silverware this way too!!" It'd be a real mood-killer though if it were a committee-interview and the other guy in the room stood up and said, "Yeah well - I can only smuggle six quarters. But [thunk] I can make change..." as he squirts back out five quarters, two dimes and a nickel.

Last time I was at my old house I split up all the 'erbs and 'pices in two so I could bring my share with me. As I spooned each half that I was taking into little bottles my daughter decided to make a list of what was on the counter. Each time I opened something she'd have a sniff and ask what sort of meal her mother and I use that particular thing in. She decided to make it even more fun by making a list. I love making lists. Not even necessarily To-Do lists. Sometimes in an old job I'd be brain-dead from doing the same thing so I'd have an Excel or Word file open and I'd just make lists of all the players I can recall for a football team. Or all the consecutive tracks from an entire bands record releases. Or name all the capitals of countries. Just to actually work my brain in a different way. My daughter hasn't quite worked out the linear structure yet, so instead her lists look a serial killer has made a word-salad thing. Weirdly she put some of her "G" letters backwards which she normally doesn't do.

I was stood outside on the front lawn while the dog churned out another shame-stick the other morning when it hit me that I now live on the sort of street that Hollywood movie-makers use to show how pitiful they think the suburbs are. Usually by showing how everything seems all orderly and friendly. But that actually suburban life itself has warped the inhabitants so badly that nearly all of them engage in deeply perverse, backward shenanigans behind closed doors. Not at all cool and awesome like the cities or beach-condos they live in.

I did however make a mental note that if the inevitable zombie-apocalypse strikes central NY that I definitely live in the sort of place that would be prime for brain-munching. Not in the sense of thinking, "oh if I get zombified at least there's plenty to eat around here." More in the thinking that it'd spread like a bitch with all the houses so close together, and no doubt I'd be holed up inside my house like Robert Neville in I Am Legend (the excellent Richard Matheson book, not the shit Will Smith adaptation). Which made me automatically think that if this German Shepherd I was holding got zombified then I would seriously have a problem.

Being the forward-thinking person I am I started making loose-plans for how I would fend him off. Could I lock him the garage? At one point I made a mental note to buy myself a cricket bat, a pointed-shovel and perhaps vinyl-versions of the Batman soundtrack. Admittedly I did get quite giddy at the idea that I might get to hang around Simon Pegg, Nick Frost and Dylan Moran for a bit while we looked for a pub to hang around in until it all went pear shaped.

In the end I spent the day slightly content that if me and the girlfriend somehow didn't get zombified that the dog would most likely spend quite a lot of his energy trying to eat her. He likes her that much that I can picture him doing that out of affection. Then just before I fed the dog his dinner it hit me that I am royally fucked. You see the dog has a special diet because it is gluten-intolerant. Just like me. Which makes me the perfect, safe option for a Celiac-suffering, zombie-dog to nosh on without fear of having stomach cramps and the shits for hours afterwards.

Really put a dampener on my evening, I can tell you.

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