It began not long ago, when this reporter was strolling nimbly down the street for no apparent reason, with a boom box on my sagging shoulder. With an antiquated crackle, the speakers abruptly declared into my auditory canal that our government has released instructions and procedures in the event of a zombie apocalypse.
I immediately froze in my tracks, terrified for my life, before sprinting down the avenue with all possible haste, toppling passers-by in a whirlwind of fright and hysteria that strangely didn’t seem to emanate from anyone else.
As I charged forward, I implored my fellow pedestrian pedestrians to flee fleetingly, but they didn’t follow suit, leaving me no choice but to abandon their hopeless bodies to the oncoming horde of living dead whose arrival the CDC clearly foresaw.
Only two days later, as I emerged tentatively from my barricaded basement, armed to the teeth with nunchucks and a Super Soaker, did I learn that these measures by the CDC were entirely preventative and speculative, and not an order to run for our lives. I sighed deeply, thankful for my life, and proceeded to assault the neighbors with the water gun — you know, just in case.
It was about this time that I decided to read the CDC’s report, to check it for accuracy; I had, after all, just effectively saved myself from a zombie apocalypse, no matter how fictitious or imaginary it may have been.
The report advises anyone feeling their towns at risk of a zombie attack to plan an escape route, pack safety supplies, and identify emergency contacts.
That’s nice and everything, but now that I know how to survive on my own, I’ll never need this foolish government advisory. I’m like the Bear Grylls of zombie apocalypses. Or something like that.
My Super Soaker is armed and ready.
[p.s: check here to see if the zombies have come yet.]
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