CNF- A Five Year Old on the Zombie Apocalypse (extended)

     Mother, Father, let me begin our impromptu meeting by declaring shame on you both.  That’s right, hang your heads in shame.  How can you have gone this long without acknowledging the number one threat to our society- Zombies?  That’s right: zombies.  Not the kind of corporate birdbrains who plop themselves in a cubicle and rot in front of a computer day after day.  No, I’m talking about the real thing- the kind of monster that makes ramen out of your intestines.

            You’re probably wondering why I’m wearing a fish bowl on my head and garbage bags on my hands.  Unfortunately, it is unknown whether the zombie virus is airborne.  As we speak, America’s top scientists are working on the cure for this disease. Take it from the kid who's seen every movie on the subject, read every related article, and checked and updated all the facts on Wikipedia- we shouldn't be seeing results any time soon.  Fortunately for us common folk, there is one known cure- taking a gun and shooting the d*mn thing in the head.  Until an actual cure is discovered or I get my gun license, I’ve provided you with your own set of bags and fishbowls.  You can thank me later.

            I’ve been preparing for the onslaught for months, turning mundane items into lethal weapons.  I can even take down a full-grown man with a post-it note. 

Mother, I’m sure you won’t mind, but I’ve configured your hairspray and cigarette lighter into a blowtorch.  I’ve taken it upon myself to practice operating it in the backyard.  Once I’ve perfected my aim, we should be sufficiently protected from large masses of zombies.  Unfortunately, this fighting technique, as I’ve tested myself, is rendered ineffective in close quarters.

            Mother, curtains can be replaced.  Human lives cannot.  Do you want to die?!

            Now, before I am so rudely interrupted again, I would like to discuss our attack plan providing we have to face a zombie one-on-one.  Simple hand-held objects should be enough to bring the enemy down.  You’ll want something heavy-like a lamp.  To prepare for the possible instance in which no weapons are readily available, I’ve been studying the art of martial combat.  My body is a disciplined weapon of mass destruction.  I can literally kill a man with my pinky finger.

In case our home is overrun and my fighting skills are outmatched, I’ve figured out to hot-wire a car.

Father, I realize you couldn’t drive to work today, but when the zombie epidemic spreads, you won’t even have an office to drive to.

            Oh, don’t give me that look.  If you want to succumb to this deadly virus that has already taken so many human lives, so be it.  Just know that when zombie scum overrun the entire freaking planet and you two are the only humans left on the surface world, I’m not letting you into my impenetrable zombie-proof fortress.  That’s right.  I have a g*dd*mn fortress.  Meeting adjourned.  I’ll see you at dinner.

CNF- An Open Letter to the Sweaty Guy at my Gym (alt. prompt)

 Dear Mr. Sweaty Gym user,

I commend your dedication to staying fit, I truly do.  Most people your age couldn’t give a rats a** about their personal health.  I’m sure you’ve got one of those crazy all-juice diets going for you too.  Yeah, you’re the kind of person Kaiser Permanente loves to plaster all over their ads for health insurance.  Brava.  Unfortunately, the rest of us gym patrons are forced to endure the physical and verbal bearings of your labor.

I remember our first encounter on a slow Sunday afternoon.  Following my usual gym routine, I blasted my playlist of booming Euro-beats and thrashing metal guitars, striding through an imaginary finish line on the elliptical at the end of a long row of empty machines.  I didn’t mind of course, but I was surprised when you passed rows of lustrous exercise equipment and slung your towel over the machine beside my own.  I didn’t even mind the occasional groan from your elliptical, protesting under the weight of your hiking boot-clad feet.  I became annoyed, however, when you started panting only two minutes into your workout.  Assuring myself that you were only out of breath from the exercise, I continued on with my own workout. 

When the panting escalated into a full-blown throaty grunt, I sent my ipod flying out of its secure position in my arm holster and skittering across the floor in surprise.  I was a little irritated at having to disrupt my rhythm to adjust my ipod settings and inspect for damage.

Amidst your barrage of throaty bear grunts, I was somehow able to endure forty more minutes on the elliptical.  Admittedly, I felt a twinge of guilt at the resentment I held against you.  After all, you couldn’t control your need for oxygen. 

I finally caught a whiff of the sour stench of your sweat.  I should have figured it was you I was smelling, but I had to glance over at you to check.  Good God, you were sweaty.  Had it not been for the smell, I would have assumed that the stains running down the back and front of your shirt had come from dumping a bucket of water over your head.  I was sure I felt a spattering of moisture hit my entire right side when you shook out your glistening hair.  The flecks of perspiration speckling my arm confirmed my suspicions.

I leaped off of the elliptical, slipping in the puddle of sweat at the base of your machine as I strode toward the exit, unable to stand your pungent, guttural presence any longer. 

Every time I’ve gone to the gym, you’ve been there, and each encounter heeds the same results.  As a fellow gym regular, I would kindly suggest that you jog on over to Kaiser and get a checkup, or at least use the towel the gym has so graciously provided you with.

Sincerely,

Your Fellow Fitness Enthusiast

CNF-A Five Year Old on the Zombie Apocalypse (Internal Monologue)

     Mother, Father, let me begin our impromptu meeting by declaring shame on you both.  That’s right, hang your heads in shame. How can you have gone this long without acknowledging the number one threat to our society- Zombies?  That’s right: zombies.  Not the kind of corporate birdbrains who plop themselves in a cubicle and rot in front of a computer day after day.  No, I’m talking about the real thing- the kind of monster that makes ramen out of your intestines.

            You’re probably wondering why I’m wearing a fish bowl on my head and garbage bags on my hands.  Unfortunately, it is unknown whether the zombie virus is airborne.  As we speak, America’s top scientists are working on the cure for this disease.  Take it from the kid who's seen every movie on the subject, read every related article, and checked and updated all the facts on Wikipedia- we shouldn't be seeing results any time soon.  Fortunately for us common folk, there is one known cure- taking a gun and shooting the d*mn thing in the head.  Until an actual cure is discovered or I get my gun license, I’ve provided you with your own set of bags and fishbowls.  You can thank me later.

            Oh, don’t give me that look.  If you want to succumb to this deadly virus that has already taken so many human lives, so be it.  Just know that when zombie scum overrun the entire freaking planet and you two are the only humans left on the surface world, I’m not letting you into my impenetrable zombie-proof fortress.  That’s right.  I have a g*dd*mn fortress.  Meeting adjourned.  I'll see you at dinner.