No Fucking Zombies

The Editor had a most disappointing experience today, as the title of the post may have already made clear.

Allow me to elaborate. This morning, during hours generally reserved for blissful Editorial unconsciousness, I arose from my zombie lair and dragged my almost immobile carcass, hissing and growling all the way, to the local cemetery. Why, you may ask? Well, the Editor maintains some forms of (somewhat) gainful employment, as a writer, in fact - believe it or not. If my only contact with myself were this somewhat lackadaisical forum, I would myself not believe such information about myself.

Be that as it may. To the cemetery I went, thinking that at least, should the guided tour on which I was embarking prove dull, I could at least spend the time fruitfully, perhaps digging up some freshly buried remains, or playing ninepins with skulls and little tibia bones. To my great, aforementioned, disappointment, not only was the tour dull but no such macabre entertainment had been provided. Au contraire, most of the tour group seemed content to gawk at a variety of Freemason emblems etched into little slabs of rock, meanwhile oohing and aahing over the tombstone of that stupid chick Domino whose life was melodramatized in the stinking, putrid film of the same name.

I beg my gentle readers' pardons, as the experience has driven me into the arms of liquor and run-on sentences - which vice is the more pernicious, I leave it to your wisdom to discern.

Again, be that as it may. The final word on the cemetery tour: no zombies. None, not one. I mean, I maintain a zombie colony, it's true, and you'd think I'd have enough. But there can never be enough zombies, and there were no rotting hands, thrusting through the turf to grab middle aged women by the ankles. No screaming, no eating of flesh. Just the history of the board of directors, punctuated by coy asides about former groundskeepers. Heady stuff, I tell you.

My one regret is that I failed to plant some of my own zombies in the ground the night before - a few leg gnawings would have enlivened the event immensely. Next time, I suppose - although the next time I go to one of those things I'll bring a hip flask, too, just in case.