The Morning After (the Zombie Apocalypse)

The meandering menace that had scoured my city had left just as slowly and unintelligibly as it came. I can still here the cries of those too preoccupied and inconvenienced to elude the encroaching horde. But they are no more.

Brains. "Why do they always want out brains?"

The boat rocked idly through the harbor, a deprave vista before me. Flames danced in the horizon, gnawing away at the spires and structures that once supported an American paradise. The water was sick with the bloated and dead, and one must watch their toes to avoid the casual nibbles that doom the soul.

My luscious companion grasps my manly physique, bringing me close. "We survived didn't we?"

Her eyes perfectly complemented her ethnicity. She was an amalgamation of every strain of hotness that blesses the weaker sex. I mean she was like, super hot.

"Yes." I said.

"Yes we…survived."

"We survived the Zombie apocalypse."

My shotgun was still warm from discharge, my long and slender shaft polished to a blinding sheen. My flowing man-locks wafted in the breeze, drenched in the stench of death and Loreal Just For Men Shampoo (designed specifically for the rugged intensity of a man's hair).

The silver blades of F-63 Fighter/Bomber/Ass-kicker assault recon aircraft still sliced through the sky, circling the carcass of a dead city. The military could destroy, but it couldn’t create.

Hotness brought me closer to her, "What do we do now?"

My steely gaze and pumped biceps embrace Sexylicious, "We make a new world, rising like a phoenix from the ashes…" The sun parts the clouds, as we are enveloped in a ray of heavenly light, "and we are going to have sex. We are going to have sex like you wouldn't believe."

Our lips meet, and for the first time in a long while, all is good.

Then zombie Orcas leap from the sea and tear her in twain, her torso spinning in the air like a whirly gig before another zombie Orca (or Shamu-Z, as he is know to friends) snatches her from the sky. The bite is so powerful that the blood pressure pops her like a balloon, showering me with the entrails of my beloved.

Two silicon implants plop into my hands.

I look at the neat little piles and I think:

Shit.

Prom Night Bites (Primadonnas Prevail)

Though I was forged in the dark recesses of the abyss long before time knew which way to flow, I have only come to take on physical form for 18 of your human years. As a sane entity of the cosmos, I was reticent to take part in the barbaric rituals native to American culture. One of these rituals, a mating dance, known in your language as "prom", is particularly vulgar, so much so that I was content in filling my Saturday night with hour long endeavors of commanding and conquering n00bs on the Xbox as opposed to prom's archaic entertainment. However, beseeched by a potent young female, I ventured deep into a lair that is nothing but a shrine to the profane and adolescent.

Despite its faults, I assumed that I could at least savor some primal pleasure from a night of juvenile delinquency and debauchery. How wrong I was.

Prom is a really boring orgy pulsing with people too pussy to just fuck in public.

The dance floor was unreasonably packed. So congested was the throbbing mass that a dude felt me up telling me how soft my hair was tiffany.

And I am so sick of grinding. My generation really needs to get a new dance move besides pretending to fuck a woman in the ass.

Here are some variations of grinding:
"The Pony"- Bend the girl over and grab her hair, as if the reins on a horse. Flail the free hand wildly above your head, shouting Yee-hah! Pound your dick against her ass.

"Sneaking a Snatch"- Grab the girl's hips and gyrate to together. When she looks back at you, glide the hand opposite the side she is looking and grab her snatch. Fiercely. This is important. She will be so surprised by the move that she will be too embarrassed to fight it off. Pound your dick against her ass.

"Moment of Clarity"- Stand befuddled in a crowd of humping teenagers and come to the terrible conclusion that this is exactly what Babylon looked like before God smote it off the face of the earth. Shed a tear. Pound your dick against her ass.

The least the DJ could do is play some music that doesn't make me wish for a hearing impairment. Now I'm not asking for Bach, or some Moonlight Sonata here. I get that there is a place for some Interpol and some Fucking Champs, and that it is not the place where people go to dance. However, I can't dance to music that sounds like it was written by an autistic child with a Casio that just learned what a double entendre was.

Some of the lyrics do seem reasonable as a double entendre. For example, the repeated refrain of "hot pocket rocket" obviously alludes to the male phallus, as opposed to a Jim Gaffigan comedy routine. He likes his Hot Pockets.

Laffy Taffy, although a tasty, sugary stretch, can indeed be perceived as a metaphor for the female buttocks.

However, what the fuck does "chicken noodle soup, with the soup on the side" mean? How is that sexual in any fucking context? Maybe if they said something like, "you got your big chicken in my soup," or, "I love it when you soup all over me." I can understand that. But they want the soup on the side…on the side…

One or two fun songs were played, but they were not enough to distract my imagination away from turning that writhing mass of polyester into a flaming hellscape with the strike of a match.

If I had not had the good company of my friends, I would have unleashed a dark carnivale on that dance floor. My ass would be all over the news, my mural of flesh, bones, and bloodshed given a gallery on every TV screen. Fortunately, my sanity is much more resilient than my impulse, and we are all spared the teenage holocaust.

Besides, who would be so pathetic as to tear up a prom? It's far too boring to dignify with a slaughter fest of that magnitude.

Now a spelling bee…that would be something of killing spree…hope they don't irritate me…or they might have to pay a mortal fee.

The fee of a Wii.

Damn I want one. I hear they provide an accurate simulation of bowling for those of us without the athleticism necessary to take part in such an intense sport.

The Apocalypse Has Been Televised

I have witnessed the fall of civilized society, and it is in the form of competitive spelling bees.

They are fucking loco.

A Child whose intelligence has far outgrown his wisdom (a dangerous combination) steps up to a microphone. He sweats and fidgets, taking deep, asthma breaths into his lungs.

The mike crackles with feedback.

The voice of God speaks: "Your word…is Hylocynth."

The Child's eyes go dim. "Can I have the root?"

God says of course of course, "the root is Latin, French, German, and English."

The Child mutters dammit under his runny nose. "Can you use it in a sentence please?"

God says certainly, "The Child lost the spelling bee because Hylocynth is a hard word to spell."

The Child says: "Shit"

Then he asks, "Can I have a definition?"

God says, "An aquatic marmot."

"Really?"

"No not really no."

"Okay", says the Child.

"Hylocynth…H-Y-L-O-S-Y-N-T-H?"

A bell rings and the child plunges into a circle of hell just below the pedophiles. Awkward.

God says, "Next."

The Children all have names that only a spelling bee champion could. Shlkdcvnykha. Xaieioeyh. Consonants that could crack teeth and vowels that would open wounds.

The parents don't seem to mind their Child's destructive determination.

Mary and David Dufrane love their child's precocious spelling proclivities.

"We let Jimmy do this because it makes him happy," she says, smile stale on her face, "and because it allows us to live out our own fantasies through him, as the once livid dreams of inspired youth have evaporated from our souls, leaving us dry and thirsty for validation. His success grants us this illusion of a dignified life."

David braces tighter against Mary's shoulder, as if it were the edge of a life boat, "Though we breathe, consume, and survive, we are dead inside. We died a long time ago. A long time…" David's eyes drift away. He has the look of a man that knows he has sunk too far from the surface to come up for air, drowning with contemptible complacency.

Jimmy steps up to the microphone, his glasses barely covering his naiveté.

God tightens his collar, "Your word…" Pages are flipped and numbers are checked, "is lilocaitenhe."

And the Child says: Shit.