You know how I spend endless hours on the internet, searching for things to fill your life with joy? (Yes you! You’re my favorite, doncha know? I just had your name tattooed on my inner right thigh.) Well, I haven’t had much downtime in front of my computer, so I had to scour the in-flight magazines instead.
I learned a few things in the process. For example, it’s harder to find porn in a seat-back pocket on an airplane than it is online…but not much. Also, if something isn’t available in leopard print, it probably isn’t worth owning. Lastly, based on the selections pictured in my copy of SkyMall, I have to assume our societ is completely obsessed with male pattern baldness, sleep, and where and how our house pets do their business.
I wanted to find something special for you though, my sweet. You know I always feel bad when I leave on a trip then return without a little something to show I’ve been thinking of you. Sadly it was slim pickings. I mean, telekenitic obstacle courses and underwater light show cubes for your pool are so 2009. I really had to scour to find something I hadn’t seen before.
Then I found it, nestled at the bottom of page eighty.
So of course I giggled and ripped out the page so I could share his creepitude with you. But later that night, still distended from a ridiculously rich meal and anxious about the next day’s event, this little fucker clawed his way into my dreams. But no, he was no normal zombie – he was the Saint Joe figurine I’d buried In a flower pot by the door to my building…and he was PISSED.
After stewing upside down for over a month, listening to drunken Wall Street types and screeching bus brakes, my tiny holy real estate agent had snapped. His halo was off-kilter and caked with dried blood. Chunks of brain and gore dripped from his (also beautifully placed) teeth. And he wanted revenge…in the face.
Sure I managed to defeat him with an inflatable penguin, a brillo pad, and a little help from the cast of Scrubs, but that was just a dream. Now I’m just plain afraid to go home. Obviously Zombie St. Joe is plotting with Mitzi to collect and eat my (deep fried) brains the second I get back to Hoboken. Did I mention I don’t HAVE any brillo pads? Death is imminent. In the face. I may just have to hide out here in Atlanta indefinitely.