It wasn’t until I had kids that I worried about the zombie apocalypse.
Back in my twenties, before we had a house full of kids, I knew I’d be safe in the event a horde of zombies clawed their way out of the ground. I think most of us think this. But I figured, hey, I’m a pretty resourceful guy. I’m bright enough and in pretty solid shape and, most importantly, we owned a fire place poker for whacking undead in the head.
But now, no chance. There’s a reason you don’t see The Average American Family in a George Romero film, parents running from zombies with a kid tucked under each arm. That’s because they’re already dead. Long dead. Super duper dead, their brains eaten and bones picked clean. And I think the reason for this is best illustrated with an example.
Me: “Okay guys, Veronica is sleeping so we have to be so quiet.”
Lucy: “Quiet as mice”
Rocky comes out of the play room playing a recorder. I shit you not, an actual recorder. The most piercing instrument known to man. I guess he couldn’t find the bagpipes.
The concept of not attracting the attention of a horde of zombies just isn’t there with the pre-k crowd. There’s no whispering and no inside voices. Every single conversation would be:
“Alright,” I’d say under my breath, less than a whisper. “There’s two zombies to the right. We just have to get past them and we’ll make it to the safe house.”
“Shhhh,” I’d whisper, emphasizing the importance with my eyes, my finger to my lips.
“I’M HUNGRY I WANT A FRUITY SNACK I’M TIRED LOOK DADDY SOMEONE’S COMING HE LOOKS FUNNY”
And that’s why there’s only attractive 20-somethings in the apocalyptic future.