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TFE Launches The Nation's First Ever Zombie Advice Column

By LEW GROSSBERGER
TFE Launches The Nation's First Ever Zombie Advice Column

Kevin the Zombie Advice Columnist Answers Your Questions

 

 

 


Night before last I was bitten on the left buttock by a weird guy on the E train and this morning I find I have become one of the living dead. Should I phone my boss and tell him I won’t be performing my normal duties today (I’m a paralegal at a law firm) or should I just go to the office and eat him?

 

 

I’m afraid you won’t be able to tell your boss anything. Perhaps you haven’t noticed yet but you can’t talk (though the good news is you can still growl, moan and, if you have thumbs, send text messages). No need to shamble to work either. Just grab a passing jogger or mailman right in your own neighborhood. You’ll find live humans in most locales are abundant, incautious and delicious. And anyway, your working days are over. Welcome to the Z lifestyle!

 


My girlfriend Lori and I became Zs at about the same time and we still hang out together, often sharing our favorite snack, scorched cerebellums. Problem is our sex life has diminished to zero. Lori seems to find my rotting, though still attractive, flesh unappealing and even when I overpower her, I can’t get my loins to awaken. I tried eating a guy who had just taken some Viagra but it didn’t help. What do you suggest?

 

Wow, you are that rarest of Zs, one who is still into sex. After the Big Makeover, most of us find hanky panky uninteresting, not to mention impossible, preoccupied as we are with devouring humans or standing perfectly still, staring vacantly into the middle distance. My advice is to seek out a competent therapist or counselor--making sure, of course, that he has solid credentials--and eat him.


While pursuing a plump hedge-fund manager the other day, I fell and was then run over by a speeding truck which severed my body at the waist. I don’t mind crawling around with my entrails spooling out 15 feet behind me but I do get tired of all the neighborhood kids pointing and making cruel jokes at my expense. Am I being oversensitive?

 

Frankly, yes. Sensitivity is for humans, not Zs. We smell bad, we look worse and our table manners are beyond atrocious. Face it, we’re slobs and we deserve ridicule. Get used to it. As far as your crawling is concerned, I suggest you get hold of one of those motorized wheelchair things. Once you’ve eaten its occupant, you’ll be a zombie with zip.


I know I’m supposed to be looking forward to the Zombie Apocalypse, when vast hordes of us will swarm across the land, wreaking havoc on an unparalleled scale. But one thing worries me: Once human civilization has been reduced to scattered bands of terrified survivors perilously clinging to a bleak and hopeless existence in the wild, who will we eat?

 

Don’t worry so much! Have some faith in Mother Nature—she has a way of making things work out in loathsome and disgusting ways. You know, we zombies can go for years without feeding. (That’s because we’re dead and our bodies mostly don’t work so they require minimal nourishment.) Besides, a lot of us feel that the real fun isn’t eating people, it’s chasing them. That terrified, disbelieving look in humans’ eyes as I lurch toward them? Priceless. Yes, I’m an optimist and I have to believe there will always be someone around for me to terrify.

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