In a Zombie Apocalypse, I’m Getting Eaten

This is a Christmas Day photo of my family. Large effing family you may think if you’re as profane as me, but wait — there are 14 missing. Which may give you an idea of how hard it is for me to isolate myself from my family. They are everywhere. Like rabbits.

My brother Bob told me that on his daily lone walkabouts, he noticed the most crowded parking lots in town were the grocery stores, liquor stores and the gun shop. Whoa! Hold up there — the gun shop?

“OMG!” I said to my brother. “We don’t own a gun. People are going to kill us and steal our toilet paper!”

And Bob, in his usual upbeat way said, “Yes, they will kill you, steal your Netflix account password and all your toilet paper, take all of Brian’s beef and pork and leave your gluten-free shit behind. Then they’ll barbecue your cats in the backyard.”

Bob can paint a picture.

My son, who lives near D.C. and legitimately utilizes guns in his work has been — jokingly? not jokingly? — warning about a possible Zombie Apocalypse for years. We all laughed at him. I laughed at him. No one’s laughing now.

I’ve informed my family that when the zombies come, I’d like what’s left of me to be cremated — along with my leftover gluten-free bread crumbs — and loosely scattered in the gun shop parking lot.