The skis were chattering down the slopes.

The skis were chattering down the slopes. He tucked even tighter. The cold was killing his face. A kid on the ski lift dropped a pole and it flew right into his chest. He felt

three ribs crack, but he wasn't about to let the little bastard break his slalom. This was his last time. He was thirty six, bad knees and only enough steroids for one Olympic gold

and now wasn't the time to give up just because next doors shitzu had taken an extreme fancy to his leg.

Once he got started it was best just to let him finish up. Like most shitzus

Paris' new lapdog spent a lot of time at the coiffeur. Monsieur Jean convinced her Foufou would look very stylish with a weave of Paris' hair. The adage that dogs and their owners

had similar smells was especially true of Paris and Foufou, because Foufou often got into Paris' walk-in perfume wardrobe and drank freely of its contents. It affected the dog's

olfactory senses and gave the little skeletal mongrel major migraines. Having had enough of Paris, Foufou leapt out of the car window like so many before him, but this time he was

instantly destroyed by a passing semi. The skeleton dog shattered into pieces, and the driver of the semi got a faceful of undead puppy. Swearing angrily in French, the driver

downshifted, then slammed the gas pedal to the floor, aiming this time for the female werewolf (they are worth ten times as many points as the skeleton dog) hoping to make it onto

"Zombie Truckers," the History channel's new post-apocolyptic documentary . Another popular show was "The Girls in the Next Bunker." Civilization may be dead but cable was alive.