Readers of the blog will recall my recent piece Consumed by Zombies in which I posited that zombies are our current personification of stress. Given the last few weeks in my life this new piece has ZOMBIES! Do I need to explain the implication? No? Good.
Thankfully my mind has been fighting these dark times by feeding me scenes from some of my favorite British television shows like Are You Being Served, The Young Ones, Keeping Up Appearances, Black Adder, and Ab Fab. And thus, fiction is born.
Enjoy this brief, but far from shallow, Friday dip into the humour pool. We join Lionel and his wife Dianna during a zombie apocalypse already in progress…
They’re at the window again, Dianna.
The Girl Scouts. Cookie season again.
Those are zombies, dear.
Zombies. The undead. Walkers. Flesh Eaters. The recently deceased risen to feast upon the flesh of the living.
I thought they were Girl Scouts.
Girls Scouts are shorter.
Oh. I can see that now you put it that way. What do you think they want?
Us, I imagine.
For the feasting bit?
See? I do listen to you no matter what that shrink says... Oh dear.
Is that your shrink right there? The one behind the one pressing up against the window?
Oh, you're right! I liked him, too. Have to find a new one, I suppose. Look! Across the street! A zombie is sneaking up on Mrs. Bouquet. Should we help?
Who? The zombie?
No, Lionel, Mrs. Bouquet. Oh, dear. Too late. How dreadful! Torn limb from limb, poor thing.
Aye. That zombie never stood a chance.
Yes, well it should have noticed the pile of bodies she’s collected by curb. Biggest on the block, of course. We’ll never hear the end of it. Oh no, she sees me. She pointing to her kill pile. Yes, I see them all. Very nice. Well done, dear.
Is Mr. Bouquet anywhere in sight?
With any luck the poor chap slipped her grip long enough to run into the embrace of the first biter he saw.
You’re horrible. Right, but horrible.
Seems to me we didn’t have such things as zombies when we were growing up. An alien invasion from Venus, perhaps, maybe a mad scientist or two with a giant robot robbing banks, or a giant radioactive spider, but zombies eating people? Doesn’t seem right. The world’s changed so much. I’m starting to feel old, Dianna.
It does seem that way. But how different is it really to be eaten by a zombie or disintegrated by a Venusian Death Ray? You’re dead either way. Different road, but same destination. The world may change its tune, but it still marches to the same beat. So, as the old drunk said, we must never, never quit.
I can see that now you put it that way. My voice of reason, ever with me through aliens, arachnids, or all other manner of awful apocalypse. I love you, my dear.
And I you, my pet.