So he went over to the station with all the

So he went over to the station with all the goodies. He tapped nutmeg into his coffee. He squirted sugar free vanilla syrup into it. Then he poured out the creamer, thick red

blood oozed from the container. As a zombie, he was pleased by this turn of events and raised the coffee cup to what remained of his nose, sniffing it. "Need more... brains..."

He set the cup down. He wasn't the only zombie here, but he was the smartest. These days zombie were as common as Chuck Norris at a warcraft convention, and about as welcome.

While other living dead were chasing down children and old people, he was making brainaccino with human sweet breads and amygdala scones. A better class of zombie had arrived with

a flair for style and fashion that could only mean the Zombie Apocalypse had finally reached the gay part of town. Of course, the smart gays had already left town and headed to

their secret underground rainbow bunker, but the few that had not escaped were lassoing in "fresh meat" and groaning Faabullooous... as they dined on

blowhard conservative senators and red-state pastors with perfectly Aquanetted hair. Their bloodlust knew no end. Their leader was a muscled leather daddy with a mean streak who

performed his own "death panels" in his padded, sound-proofed basement...but that was another story entirely. To his minions, the hide-girted politician gave the command to

release the hounds, by merely twitching his left eyebrow in the direction of his intended victims: two middle-aged women who had apparently been listening to the whole thing.

"My, my there is something you don't see everyday." she said. "What's that?" the other replied. "That man is signaling corgi's with his eyeball." "Oh, I seen that done with sheep."