So when I started writing this blog, I was initially trying to list the pros and cons of a zombie apocalypse. As it turns out, the only thing I could come up with as a pro was that the economy would crumble and the entire world would fall into a catastrophic collapse, so the fact that I’m pretty much broke all the time wouldn't matter anymore. I mean, I would still be broke, but everyone else would be too, so it wouldn't be as noticeable.
That sounds way more selfish than I anticipated.
The only other pro is that someone would obviously take advantage of the opportunity to murder every single member of Nickelback. (And maybe Scott Stapp from Creed, but that may just be me being greedy.)
|Watch it, Stapp. I've got my eye on you.|
Also, after going over the pros and cons of a zombie apocalypse, I realized that I would possibly be more fucked than anyone else in the entire history of people being fucked. Besides Stephen Hawking. If someone left him outside and his chair died. In that case he’d definitely be much worse off than me. Actually, that’s not a terrible escape plan.
So here are five reasons I would not survive in a zombie apocalypse.
1) I run slower than things that are dead.
According to the new version of Dawn of the Dead, 28 Days Later, a handful of spry zombies from The Walking Dead, Resident Evil, Shaun of the Dead, I Am Legend, Zombie Strippers, The Evil Dead and several other movies that I’m pretty sure are based on fact, zombies can run, despite what should be extremely limited motor function, faster than Carl Lewis if you set him on fire. (First, I do not want to set Carl Lewis on fire. Second, I’m not a runner. Carl Lewis is the only runner I know besides that runner Brad Pitt played in that stupid movie about running. And Forrest Gump. So Carl Lewis, That Guy Brad Pitt Played in That Stupid Movie About Running, and Forrest Gump. I am aware the reference is out of date, but I’m working with limited material.) What I’m saying here is that I fall a lot. I've actually fallen while standing perfectly still.
And sometimes the thought of even putting running shoes on makes me involuntarily take a nap. As it turns out, based on what I've seen in movies, I have a more limited capacity for physical adeptness than a human who has been bitten by a zombie, infected with a horrible disease, died and then reanimated with several non-functioning lobes of their brain. Which made this a sad day for me. Reason number 1 that I will not survive the zombie apocalypse: I have two speeds: falling down and asleep. Neither of them is adequate for escaping from ravenous zombies.
2) There will undoubtedly be a limited pie supply in the zombie apocalypse.
In case you don’t remember, or haven’t read my blog before, first, shame on you, and second, I love pie. I imagine making pie would be considered among a list of “shenanigans” that have low priority when you’re running from hordes of the damned. Also, pie-making supplies would probably be low after a while, and you would have to start using pie shortcuts. And you can’t really shortcut pie. If you shortcut pie, alive-or-zombie-Paula Deen (whichever the case is at that point in the zombie apocalypse) will find out, track you down, kidnap you and take you back to her planet where she is an alien overlord that tortures people with desserts, which is only ok if she somehow tortures you with pie, but she’s an evil alien overlord so I doubt it.
|I mean, it's pretty obvious that this woman is an|
alien overlord. Who will torture you. But not with pie.
And while I’m not saying that I would die without pie…wait. Yes. I’m saying I would die without pie. Reason number 2 that I will not make it in the zombie apocalypse: the only things I’m terrified of more than giant Michael Phelps monsters are Paula Deen and life without pie.
3) I already have zombie apocalypse hair.
Let me begin by saying that I love the Walking Dead more than 20 tyrannosauruses on 20 mountaintops. If Daryl Dixon showed up at the door right now with a dead possum and a crossbow and said “if you go outside and catch and then skin a squirrel with your bare teeth I will marry you this instant,” I would be in the backyard climbing the fence with acorns in my mouth and stop to question his judgment only after I removed the squirrel blood and took off my wedding tiara. But let me tell you what pisses me off more than any one single thing I can think of besides the existence of Oklahoma. Andrea, Maggie, Blond Girl Whose Name I Do Not Know and Lori before she was eaten by a zombie. Spoiler alert. Lori gets eaten by a zombie. Know what pisses me off about them? Their Paul-Mitchell-Biolage-Tony-is-my-stylist-shiny fucking hair. On any given day when I walk outside, it is entirely possible that I will end up with leaves and twigs and small animals in my hair. After being outside for more than five minutes, my hair looks like a George Washington wig if you drug it through mud and then a tornado and then a bat landed in it to have babies and then those babies grew up in it and made it their home for several generations of bats. What I’m saying is that I have zombie apocalypse hair and I’m not even in a fucking zombie apocalypse. There is no possible way my hair would survive a zombie apocalypse. It would become sentient and attempt to kill me in my sleep.
|It's too late for Russell Brand.|
The third reason I would not survive the zombie apocalypse is because my hair is already angry that it is terrible and will try to strangle me when I’m not paying attention if it is forced to endure a zombie apocalypse.
4) I have no discernable talents.
When you’re running around the streets alone during a zombie apocalypse (without pie and with terrible hair), you’re either going to get eaten by zombies, killed by Tom Petty posing as a fake mayor, or a group of strangers will take you in. If you have some sort of discernable talent that will help the group. Let me give you a rundown of my talents: I can sort of draw stick figures. I know the lyrics to every Paula Abdul song ever written. I know that Tom Petty played a mean mayor in a post-apocalyptic movie called The Postman. I know Ninja Turtles trivia. I’m pretty good at Pictionary. I know grammar rules, sort of. I can do a passing impression of Danzig, and a less good impression of Bobby Hill. That’s it. I’m pretty much unemployable in the real, non-zombie apocalypse world. Once motherfuckers start rising from the dead and chasing me, I will be completely and utterly useless. My friends Kellie and Sam, who inexplicably love me, are aware that I have no talents, and Kellie has agreed to let me run the bordello on their very heavily guarded and well-stocked complex. And I will rule all of the hookers across all of the lands, and I will brand them so they will not escape, (but I have already chosen a head-brander, so please do not send resumes, unless you would like to be a hooker. And in that case, please do not send video resumes). Here’s my fear though: Kellie and Sam have agreed to let me run the bordello under duress, in optimum conditions. We are not currently, I hope, in a zombie apocalypse. And they agreed because we were trying to think of ways I could help and this is all we could come up with. It’s like when I try to help someone working on my car and they let me hold a flashlight so that I don’t accidentally explode anything. I’m pretty sure once the zombie apocalypse starts, Kellie and Sam will have their guards shoot me on site as soon as I run up awkwardly to their complex without pie and with my zombie apocalypse hair. The fourth reason I will not survive the zombie apocalypse is because the only talent I have that we could come up with is running hoes.
|"Come on, girls. This corner isn't going to work itself."|
5) I make terrible decisions.
This one is pretty self explanatory. Here’s a fairly comprehensive list of some of the terrible decisions I've made: I had a perm. I bought a PT Cruiser. I own a bump-it. I once tried to break up with someone and when they said “no”, I just went with it. I own every Paula Abdul TAPE ever made. I bought a yoga booty workout DVD. I went out on a date with a lying, jobless, judgmental, samurai-sword-collecting blind guy. I got not one, but two useless degrees in literature. Sometimes when I’m in awkward social situations, I wear my Shrek ears. I did my hair like this for a long time:
|I brought sexy back. And then it ran away screaming about its eyes.|
Once, when I was eight and already really, really nerdy and unpopular, I made an entire group of my peers watch me do a cheerleading dance at somebody else’s birthday party. At some point during a meal six years ago, I accidentally swallowed one of the tines on my plastic fork and did not notice until I had finished eating. In high school, a guy I had a crush on asked me to deliver a message to his girlfriend on my softball team: He said “tell her I love her and to have a good day,” but I got so flustered staring at his face I said “I will, I love you, too.” I have lost staring contests to three separate squirrels on five different occasions. I once told Farva from Super Troopers during an interview I would not marry him because I had already seen his junk and the magic was gone. I have read 50 Shades of Grey. Last year, when a guy walked me to the door and told me he loved me, I got scared, made him high-five me said "sweet, man" and ran inside. I spent an entire afternoon when I was 12 learning every lyric to every song on Vanilla Ice’s To The Extreme. I drink boxed wine. I watch Lion King knowing full well that it is going to make me cry every single time. I left a job as editor at a daily newspaper to ultimately work at Ulta. I purchased a Snuggie. I once went out on a date with a guy who told me his favorite sport of all time was “mountain biking” and that his favorite AMERICAN novel was ULYSSES by HEMINGWAY and my head exploded because of all of the things that were wrong. On several occasions, I have purchased parakeets only to remember that I fucking hate parakeets. When my parents took us to Disneyland when I was six, I was walking through the park behind my mom and dad with my eyes closed, ran into a lady wearing a sweater, assumed it was my mom and assaulted her with hugging: it was not my mother, but she was not a kidnapper, so win-win. I am aware that riding a bike is likely to cause me catastrophic injury, but I ignored this knowledge and my sister had to rescue me when all of my pants got caught in a bike chain and I almost fell into a ditch.
The fifth reason I would not survive a zombie apocalypse is that people are born with an innate ability to make good decisions, and that part of my brain was apparently lobotomized when I was an infant.
So there you have it. If any of you have any room for a no-talent, pieless, slow, zombie-apocalypse hair train wreck on your zombie apocalypse team, let me know. I can provide approximately three hours of Vanilla Ice and Paula Abdul entertainment.