Zombie Joe

Zombie Joe just moved into the house next door (there goes the neighborhood). We would have brought him a welcoming gift, but just our luck we were all out of brains.


He sits on his front steps of his dilapidated house with a forlorn, and sad look on his, now, green face. His yellow eyes lost in thought.


One could only imagine what horrors took place at the time of his death, and one never went close enough to find out.


At a distance he seemed like a nice enough fellow, but screams echoed from Zombie Joe's house nightly, becoming a reminder of how different (he truly is).


Two weeks after he moved in--it happened. Cats began to disappear from the neighborhood. Fluffy the neighborhood favorite went missing first.


Folks began pointing fingers at poor Zombie Joe immediately, but I kindly reminded them Zombies are cannibals. 


Mrs. Baxter, who lived directly across the street, is to put it bluntly an animal hoarder (hardly one to talk). The majority even thought it fitting if some of her cats, did disappear, which happened the next day. Goldie her favorite went missing first, followed by Sylvester, and then boots. We all tried to calm her down, but she was inconsolable. 


Yesterday afternoon, we found her huddled under Zombie Joe's shrubs (not the smartest move), but she insisted that he had her beloved pets and no amount of talking would convince her otherwise.


We should of seen the writing on the wall, but what could we do. We almost stopped her too, but we didn't. It wasn't that we didn't like Mrs. Baxter; we just didn't like those damn cats. 


Two days went by and no sign of Zombie Joe or Mrs. Baxter. FInally, I drew the short straw and made my way to Zombie Joe's door. I paused to knock, when the door opened. I wished I could say there was a breeze that blew that door open, but I knew that wasn't what happened. Someone or (something) opened that door.


Walking into the middle of the living room, I saw a trail of blood leading to the kitchen. Most people would have lit outta there, but my curiosity drew me to follow that trail, where it led I had no idea, but I had to know. 


Zombie Joe laid in the middle of the floor, his right tightly around Mrs. Baxter's cat, Goldie. He lay severed from the waist; his intestines spilled onto the floor. 


Mrs. Baxter stood over him ranting. "You let my cat go now."


He pulled Goldie to his mouth and took a bit, and looking at Mrs. Baxter it was obvious he had bitten her too. Her hair stuck straight up, and her red painted lips, now directly under her nose. Her skin, already peeling back exposing her teeth.

Hissing could be heard all around me when I noticed--not only was Mrs. Baxter a Zombie, but all her cats too. The strangest part is that even though severed at the waist, he still had Goldie gripped firmly in his right hand.


Oh great, not only would we continue to have a zombie for a neighbor, but one that was hoarding cats too, not just any cats, but a horde of zombie cat's.


WARNING: DO NOT GO NEAR YOUR NEW ZOMBIE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE AND CERTAINLY DON'T LET ANYONE ELSE EITHER. THERE ARE WORSE THINGS IN LIFE THAN A CAT HORDER, MUCH WORSE.

Six Days

It takes exactly six days to make a zombie, I should know.

Day one: a random stranger approaches you and bites you on the arm, and looking at it later it doesn't look bad at all.

Day two: your arm begins to throb, and you pour peroxide on the wound, believing it will work. (Who needs a doctor, not me).

Day three: your wound is beginning to fester and you wrap extra gauze on it before work. You hold it all day and a coworker notices while you're in the restroom. 

"Hey dude, what's wrong with you arm?"

"I was bitten in the park yesterday."

"Our park? You can't be serious, you went, there?" 


You show you festering, pungent wound, and he begins backing away from you. "Dude you been ZOmbified."

"What in the hell??" You begin panting like some kind of lost puppy that ran for hours. 


"Is there anything I can do? I mean come on dude, help me out here - I don't want to be a zombie. I have nearly twenty thousand in my 401 for Christ's sake, and Betty told me she's ready."

"I heard someone found a cure, but. . . I don't think you want to do that."

"Tell me what it is, I'm desperate here." You begin shaking you co-worker for emphasis.

"Dude you need to cut your arm off."

Walking away in disgust, you take the rest of the day off.

Day four: you search around your house for a knife, deciding instead to buy a hatchet. You'd use an ax, but how in the hell can you swing it hard enough, and (your doctor refused to do the deed). 

Day five: You can barely stand the pain, and it can't hurt more than it does now! Slapping your palm down on your picnic table, you brace and swing the hatchet downward - totally missing you arm altogether. You swing two more times before you finally hit you arm, and although painful, you continue to whack at your arm until it lies on the table in a bloody mass. You begin to smile wrapping up your stump, and go inside and watch television.

Day six: you stumble into work, even though you have a barely concealed stump where you arm once was. Looking into the mirror, you notice just who is looking back. You have black circles surrounding your eyes, and your lips have pulled back from you face. F*ck, you'll never score with Betty now, although you may eat her later. One thought comes to you, and you go back into the office and eat you coworker that ever suggested you cut your arm off in the first place!

WARNING: IF BITTEN BY A ZOMBIE, YOU CAN'T BE CURED, AND CHOPPING THE LIMB OFF WILL NOT CURE YOU. "CONSIDER YOURSELF ZOMBIFIED."

Sunnybrooke Manor

Upon visiting your mother, Martha, at the nursing home. You notice right away that things look a bit odd. There seems to be a bit more moaning and groaning than usual, and the staff has locked themselves in the day room. 


Puzzled, you continue up the hallway to your mothers room and are outraged when you find the room totally trashed.

Both beds were placed across one corner of the room, and your mother, Martha, is sitting on the floor behind them knitting.

Leaning over you ask. "Mom are you okay?"

"Sure honey, but today really isn't a good day to visit." She rubs the blanket she is knitting. "The residents are a bit restless today." She begins to laugh to herself. "We had salad, and I'm afraid that didn't sit very well with Mel, he's more of a meat man."

You scratch your head wondering if she has completely lost her mind, although you know she's oriented times ten.

"Why are you huddled behind there like that?"

Looking coyly up at her daughter, "It's just safer that way my dear."

"Well I'm going to speak to the administrator about this immediately."

"Oh I wouldn't be doing that dear, she's the one that started this whole mess. She had an employee in her office when all hell broke loose. She was bitten on her arm and staggered out into the hallway and died. They called for an ambulance, but I'm afraid it was too late. By the time they arrived, she had already awakened and attacked them. Luckily the police arrived right behind them and used deadly force. They killed four zombies but four residents were infected, and I'm afraid the police didn't quite know what to do."

Your mouth opens with shock, and you struggled for words. "Why is that."

"Because dear they only have false teeth and every time they try to bit someone, they fall out."

"I saw the staff huddled in the day room."

"They are just a bunch of lazy bitches that don't want to do any work. If the zombies let them, they'd be out back smoking all day."

"If everything is so honkey dory then why are you hiding back there?"

"Well dear, once one of them latches onto your head it's weeks before you can unlatch them. Imagine that, having to use the bathroom while they just keep gumming you head like some kind of humping rabbit, it's so annoying."

Suddenly the door rips from its hinges and you are face-to-face with an old man with a walker.

"Brains ... brains ... brains," He mutters coming forward with his walker.

Your mother somersaults from where she once sat knitting, kicking the zombie in the stomach. He tumbles back and throws his walker at her. She continues to beat him like some kind of crazed ninja. Finally, he falls down, his mouth seeping a green gelatinous substance.

I look down at him and try pulling my mother from the room, as I move to leave, the zombie grabs my leg and my mother embeds her knitting needles into his eyes.

"That will teach him," your mother says smiling.



WARNING: DO NOT FOR ANY REASON LEAVE YOU DEFENSELESS PARENT IN A NURSING HOME WITHOUT PROPERLY ARMING THEM WITH KNITTING NEEDLES, AS ONE NEVER KNOWS WHEN OR WHERE A ZOMBIE INFECTION WILL OCCUR. THAT COURSE IN SELF DEFENSE YOU INSISTED SHE TAKE YEARS AGO NEVER HURT EITHER.

Dr. Hand Zombie Gynecologist

Upon arriving at your gynecologist for you annual physical, you notice Dr. Hand looks a bit more unkept than usual, and he smells. When I mean he smells; I mean he reeks! Worst thing you have smelled, since that nasty vagina infection you had back in the 80s.

His hair is plastered to his head, and his lab coat smeared with blood, that or he spilled ketchup on himself during lunch.

He kindly asks you to remove your clothing, and you kindly remind him to leave the room first.

Although you feel a bit uneasy, you know how hard it would be to reschedule. So you try to relax. Donning a paper gown, you sit on the exam table. Relaxing is impossible when you notice the waste basket filled with bloodstained clothing.



Calm down, you're just letting your imagination run wild.




When the Dr. returns, you lay back, placing your feet in the stirrups, and scoot down like always. Your mind is racing, and you are practicing calming your breathing so as not to let on, (your completely rattled).

He calmly tells you he will begin with a pelvic exam; he inserts two fingers in your vagina, but you aren't looking so you don't realize he isn't wearing gloves.

Lurching up suddenly when you feel something wiggling inside your vagina!

"What in the hell," you shout.

"Oh, I just hate when that happens," he mutters.

Gasping, you see one of his fingers fell off and is still inside your vagina, thus the wiggling you feel. You feel faint and lay back listening to the pounding of your heart echoing through your chest.

"I guess I'll just have to eat you then," he said.

You just lay there in a stupor, feeling numb.




Num, num num!!




WARNING DO NOT GO TO A ZOMBIE GYNECOLOGIST AS IT MAY BE DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH. I KNOW HIS OFFER TO EAT YOU MAY BE TEMPTING, BUT DON'T DO IT, NO MATTER HOW GOOD IT MAY FEEL AT THE TIME. RESCHEDULING WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THAT BIG OF DEAL WOULD IT?