Saturday, July 2, 2011

Evidently Babies Aren't So Useless After All

Hey, fans!  Guess who's back and fortified with the words "Award Winning Author" before his name?  This dude!  You'll be glad to know that your Zombie King is now the proud recipient of a Literary Artist's Fellowship from the Nevada Arts Council.  (I'll be rich for about five minutes and then I'll pay my bills.)  This is a huge honor and the greatest achievement of my burgeoning writing career.  These fellowships do not come easily (they are won in a harrowing juried competition), and if you'll allow me to get a little real with you for just a moment, I am truly honored. 

But enough of all that serious realizing-my-dreams crap.  Today I have something so heinous for you I had to hurry and post it before I chickened out.  A little background... This one time I wrote an essay about masturbation (or the lack thereof), and when the piece was Hiroshimaed by my critique group, I learned a valuable lesson: make sure your thesis has substance before you sit down and write four pages about your penis.  If there's one thing you can take from reading my stupid blog, please let it be this; let my penis's shame save your penis (or vagina, if you've got one) from a similar fate!

Anyway, this one might lack substance, but it makes up for it with its big balls...

Men in Fishnets

So I’m sitting on the beach this afternoon, trying to enjoy the only officially-licensed bit of nature I actually like, picturesque Lake Tahoe.  As a general rule, I place “nature” and all its trappings in the distasteful column of my existence—all that dirt and animal feces can’t be healthful, can it?  Just imagine all the unpleasant creatures out there that can’t wait to take up residence in a guy’s ear or settle down for the long haul in his pubic hair.  Gives my spine a real shiver, it does.  But having said all that, even I have to admit a little sunlight and oxygen is useful every once in a while, if only to remind me to never take the great indoors for granted. 

So here I am, exfoliating my toes in the sand and listening to some Colbie Caillat on the old iPod.  Colbie provides the perfect beach music; she’s like James Taylor… but for girls… and shameless gay dudes.  My gigantic ladies’ sunhat—the type you’d wear with white gloves to a Sunday brunch or a formal tea party—sits beside me instead of on my head; there’re a few other guys on the beach today so I’ve been forced to settled for my favorite baseball cap instead; less sun protection, sure, but you know how it is, wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.  I’ve slathered myself in half a tube of expensive vegetarian sunscreen in the hopes of making it home without any tagalong melanomas, and I’ve positioned my umbrella in such a way that if UV rays could talk they’d say, “We’ll get you someday, paranoid bastard; you just wait!”

I’m trying to let the lulling sounds of the adult-contemporary carry me off to a warm place of thoughtless meditation, but I just can’t get comfortable.  It’s my ass, you see.  I’d been wading in the water, soaking my trunks, and now the lining of my shorts is yanking on my ass hairs.  I shift in my plastic strappy beach chair.  The movement just sends the elastic cutting into my crotch. Swim trunk liners.  What a crap invention, right?  When you put on a pair of swim trunks you think it’s going to be kind of fun and different.  There’s this moment of anticipation right before your legs go in.  Awesome!  A fishing net to contain my cod and mermaid’s purse instead of restrictive cotton.  How airy!  How daring!  How risqué!  So you pull your shorts up and tie the drawstring.  You wiggle a little and adjust your junk, take a few strides.  Not bad, you think.  Not bad at all.  And as you head toward the sand and surf you’ve got a smile on your face and a draft in your pants.  This fun is short lived, though.  As the day wears on your smile becomes a forced grimace and you just end up spending most of the day grabbing at your business and extracting netting from your secret places. 

Imagine all these executive jerks at the swim trunk factory sitting around a conference table and going, “So what shall we do about this free-balling situation, guys?  I mean, no one wants to wear his soggy briefs under his trunks—all that chafing.”  Theodore chimes in, “Yeah, and don’t forget the possibility of fungal growth.”  Murmurs and grimaces; head shakes all around.  Then one bright fellow, Rupert’s his name, he places his finger in the air to indicate his eureka moment and says with a flourish, “I’ve got it, guys!  Nylon!  I mean, women seem to love it.  Pantyhose are all the rage with our shoulder-pad wearing contemporaries.” 

A collective misogynistic chuckle.

Winston puts on his famous condescending tone and is all, “But isn’t nylon a bit effeminate, Rupert?  I mean, what you do in the privacy of your own home is your business, but…”

“Not if nylon were used in a manly way!  We’ll make a net, something you could aim a soccer ball at or dunk a basketball through, something a dolphin could drown in.  It’ll be perfect!”

The owner of the company—who inherited it from his father after he choked him to death on his own silver spoon—claps Rupert on the shoulder and says—his voice deep and strong like a superhero’s—“Rupert, I like your style.  In fact, I think I’ve got a corner office on the eighth floor with your name on it.  Wrapping one’s manhood in a nylon fishnet lining.  What could go wrong?” 

And with that, the tools take the rest of the afternoon off to congregate at the strip club where they help troubled young women work through their daddy issues.  And me?  I spend my nature afternoon at the beach imagining the unattractive grill marks pressing themselves into my chilled and clammy ass, wondering if anyone would notice if I stuck a hand up my trunk leg to rip the lining out like a street fighter might rip out the spine of truly menacing foe.  A great day had by all.

Thanks, Rupert.  Dick.

Ha-ha!  Zing!  We really showed the National Board of Good Taste with that one, didn't we?!  Anyway, my miscreants, let it be known that all this was but a contrivance to get us to the latest edition of one of Food for Zombies's most popular features,

The Zombie King's Bankably Brilliant Inventions:
Gadgets, Gizmos and Other Such Nonsense

Today's Invention: The Astounding Microfiber Onesie!

While the creators of the swim-trunk lining were out pressing dollar bills into your girlfriend's g-string, we at Food for Zombies were putting our greatest minds to work, looking for ways to make babies useful in ways more obvious than as appetizers to serve your decomposing guests.

Do you ever get tired of your husband tracking mud and school-girl entrails across those just-polished hardwoods?  Are your children forever kicking their classmates severed heads across the living room, leaving trails of gore as far as the eye can see?  Why-oh-why will no one shake off that soil they collected while clawing their way from their graves before coming to afternoon tea?  I mean, Jesus!  Is a clean home too much to ask for?

Well, the answer is no!  Zombie clean-freaks rejoice, for the makers of Vita-Cigs and Little Diablo Snack Cakes have the solution for you... The Astounding Microfiber Onesie!  Just slip one of these adorable onesies on your otherwise useless infant, set him on the floor, and let his need to escape his worthless existence do the hard work for you!  As your baby crawls or rocks his way across the floor, the super absorbent microfiber onesie will polish and shine, attracting seventy-eight percent more dust motes and allergens than a mop or broom.

And here's the best part: you'll be the proud parent of the sassiest baby on the block, for each onesie comes with a uniquely abhorrent catchphrase silk screened on its back.  "You.  It's What's for Dinner."  Zing!  "I See Dead People (And Then I Eat Them)."  Pow!  "Your Sister Tasted Like Chicken."  Ouch!

The Astounding Microfiber Onesie--available at Babies "R" Us and other fine baby boutiques.

Until next we meet to bring our parents shame,


1 comment:

  1. "something a dolphin could drown in"

    Bwa ha ha. All I can figure is they must shave... down there... before they wear swim trunks.