Zombie Abortions

I have the rare, unfortunate virus that is so baneful, I had to call in reinforcements. Therefore, I am in the thrall of the Big Fuckin’ Q and feel as sedated as a suburban housewife.

Everyone knows that after a good Nyquil coma, there is a waiting period before you regain the use of your arms and legs. The coma last night was exceptional. I woke and lay there waiting for a sign that my head was still attached to the rest of my body. It was then that my spirit animal, a Circus Midget named Johnson Puppethammer, came to me in a vision and led me on a journey that finally unraveled one of the greatest mysteries of the ages: Where Nyquil Really Comes From.

Somewhere, there is a heavily guarded compound where zombies have been genetically altered so that they can breed. The zombie women are impregnated and after 8 months, they are herded into rooms and distracted with the arms and legs of undocumented Guantanamo Bay inmates who failed their Water Board exams. Then the doctors, who are genetically engineered hybrids of my psychotic third-grade teacher and Dick Cheney, extract the zombie fetuses.

The fetuses are hastily whisked away to an enormous room that is maintained at a constant temperature of at 37º C. After being deposited in either green-death or cherry flavored media, the fetuses are left to decompose. After a few days (we didn’t have time to get into a discussion about decomposition variables), all that remains is a thick sludge that is siphoned into large vats, mixed with Holy Water, bottled, packaged and shipped to thousands of convenient locations near you.

Lewis Carroll had the Green Fairy. I have Zombie Abortions. I think I win.