The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

My Zombie Roomy (2/3/10)

2/3/10
I came home from work yesterday and I thought some of my milk was gone, but I couldn’t be sure. The zombie doesn’t seem to ever take any of my food as far as I can tell, so I didn’t think anything of it.

Until today.

Today I came home and the zombie was pouring my milk out in the sink. What’s that all about?

I think he must be lactose intolerant. But, it’s not like it’s dietary, it’s personal for him. I can’t back this up with facts, it’s just a feeling.

I tried to ask him about it, but he wouldn’t answer me. He just stared at the door to the pantry closet. He could tell I was angry about it though, because eventually he said “brains?” in this really sad tone. I couldn’t stay mad at him, so we played some Wii tennis and I let him win.

(He’s so bad at that game, but every once and a while he has one of those super fast serves – I don’t know how he does it).

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Comments on: "My Zombie Roomy (2/3/10)" (2)

  1. I love this story. Quiet, sad, absurd. “But, it’s not like it’s dietary, it’s personal for him. I can’t back this up with facts, it’s just a feeling.” is like a lovely zen koan of zombism and lactose intolerance. Er, intolerance in the sense of “racial intolerance” and not its usual usage in re: moo.

  2. That is the saddest zombie story ever.

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