After I left work on Tuesday afternoon, I had two thoughts in mind. One was getting home to see the Minnesota Twins-Detroit Tigers one game playoff, in order to see who would snag the American League Central crown. The other was the movie ‘Zombieland’, which I had watched the previous evening. It was a rather amusing little zom-com (zombie-comedy) about post-Apocalyptic America where four survivors of the zombie plague travel the ravaged landscape, having adventures while dealing with the reality that they, too, may be bitten, and forced to join the undead army.
Well, it’s not like I took the movie seriously.
But I do take my baseball seriously, especially such an important game between two evenly matched teams, with a chance at glory at stake. So as I made it to my truck, and unlocked the driver’s side door, my tunnel vision was set on this game. But just before I could stick my first leg over my seat, something caught my attention.
There was a man down in the parking lot.
Fearing that he was struck by a car, or had a heart attack, I went rushing over to see if he could lend assistance. My heart racing, I rolled him over to make two horrifying discoveries!
He was a zombie! A Brett Favre zombie!
I slowly backed away and begged off, as this hideous man, spewing this viscous and vile liquid, lumbered toward me with a bug-eyed expression across his aged and weathered face.
“Don’t….watch….baseball….watch….ME!” he muttered.
In a panic, I pulled out my safety blade and jammed the razor clean into his forehead! As Zombie Favre fell to the ground, I struggled to catch my breath, all while trying to make sense of the situation. But then he lurched back to life! As he made a move to bite my ankle, I stomped his head into the black top, his cranial innards gushing out across the pavement.
I lurched back toward my truck, not really wanting to let anyone know that I just killed anyone, let alone Brett Favre, the athletic parasite. But I stopped dead in my tracks, just ten feet from my ride. For another zombie stood in front of my driver’s side door!
It was zombie Sidney Crosby!
I only recognized him because 93% of all hockey highlights aired on ESPN are of him. I have a better chance of seeing ESPN hire Rae Carruth as an analyst than I do seeing footage of my beloved Devils on SportsCenter. Crosby was also disheveled looking. What would Gary Bettman think of his unflattering protégé?
Crosby made a move at me, and before I could react, he was decapitated by a football! Favre was still alive and had thrown one at me, but overshot it and nailed hockey’s golden child!
So much for’safe passes’.
I jumped into my truck and drove off, past a staggering Favre, speeding through the parking lot. It was then that I was cut off by an erratically-driven SUV! I screeched to a halt, but it was to my horror and astonishment when I saw who emerged from the vehicle.
Zombie Tank Johnson! Zombie Pacman Jones! Zombie Delonte West! Zombie Plaxico Burress!
And they had guns!
They seemed angry. Angry that I would want to watch a baseball game filled with class, integrity, hard work, and gamesmanship rather than watch ESPN and be bombarded with stories about criminals! I mean, I know controversy sells, but leave me alone!
I backed up my Chevy Blazer and then rammed full speed ahead, mowing down Pacman, making him fumble his guns. As I tried to leave the lot, I realized that there was a whole army blocking my escape! And they were all hideous creatures!
In one group, you had Zombie Terrell Owens, Zombie Chad Ocho Cinco, Zombie Tony Stewart, and just about any annoying and obnoxious spotlight-hog you can imagine!
I was not about to give them the satisfaction of making me pay attention to them, over a tremendous baseball contest.
That’s when Johnson, West, and Burress began shooting! They missed me completely, but they mowed down the cult of look-at-mes! I guess if you’re a crazed athlete with a gun, it doesn’t matter who you shoot. You’re going to be on ESPN anyway.
Before Roger Cossack could provide analysis of what all of this would mean, over the hill came a pack of wild dogs, attacking the gunmen and ripping their zombie limbs apart! I turned and saw Zombie Michael Vick, standing at the south exit, dragging his feet behind them. Then the dogs, after enjoying their meal of criminal zombies, all turned to me.
I may be an Eagles fan who loves the’Wildcat’, but I’m not stupid.
“Why don’t you kill Michael Vick?!” I screamed. “He’s only going to hurt you!”
In a moment of canine lucidity, the dogs seemed to agree, and that’s when they ran down and chewed up their’master’ in the ultimate act of irony. I’m sure Vick wouldn’t mind. It’s part of his culture, you know.
I ran over and grabbed an AK-47 from Tank Johnson’s cache, prepared to see myself out of this jam. I was going to need it, because over the hill came the worst kind of zombies: the zombies that ESPN promotes for being superstars and good people, even though you’re sick of hearing about them!
Zombie Lance Armstrong! BLAM! Knocked off his misshapen bike! I don’t care about cycling, ESPN!
Zombie LeBron James! BANG! Call me when you win something, you overpaid schmuck!
Zombie Tim Tebow! RAT TAT TAT! Don’t worry, I’m sure your judgment will go fast!
Zombie Tiger Woods! KA-BOOM! All that heart you have is splattered on the pavement!
Zombie Erin Andrews…..wait.
How can I kill one of the most beautiful employees in ESPN’s history? The sideline reporter with the amazing body who is the object of desire for millions of horny sports fanboys? Even as a zombie, she’s kind of cute. Can I really bring myself to slice and dice her entrails with bullets?
Then she spoke
“WHAT HAPPENED TO ME WAS WRONG! I JUST WANT MY LIFE BACK! I DON’T WANT TO BE KNOWN AS THE WOMAN WHO WAS TAPED! I WANT MY LIFE BACK! AND I’M GOING TO GO ON EVERY TALK SHOW UNTIL MY LIF—”
BANG! BOOM! BLAM!
If I had martial law and carte blanche, the hypocrites die first.
I surveyed the landscape, realized Favre was still alive, and shot him again. He never seems to go away, now does he?
The police arrived, and it looked like I was in trouble. It may have been self defense, but I was responsible for the deaths of many. Two officers stepped out of their squad car, and the driving cop had his gun drawn.
“Hands where I can see them!”
As I dropped my assault weapon, I prepared to surrender, when the passenger cop responded to his radio
“Leave that Henry kid alone. According to the latest ESPN Sports Nation poll, 97% of all fans and viewers would not mind seeing the overhyped and overrated athletes die painful deaths if it ends the media overload.”
The first cop holstered his piece. “You got lucky this time, kid. But I’ll be watching you!”
I smiled. “Speaking of watching, I’d rather be home watching the Twins-Tigers game….”
The second cop smiled also. “Yeah, so would we. Want a ride to Hooters? We’re on our way too.”
After all, the game was zombie free.
When he isn’t watching WWE, TNA, or his beloved Philadelphia Eagles and Phillies, Justin Henry can be found writing. It is his passion as well as his goal in life to become a well-regarded (as well as well-paid) columnist or author. He tweets at twitter.com/notoriousjrh and facebooks himself at http://www.facebook.com/notoriousjrh.
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