Mad Zombie Dog Doobie goes berserk on a Cruise Ship.
For anyone whose was taken a leisurely cruise throughout the Caribbean Islands on one of those massively big cruise ships, they know they can expect the hordes of overweight greedy Americans going berserk at the buffet counters as if they were consuming their last meal before being taken to a gas chamber to be executed for some horrible, despicable crime. The gluttony is beyond anything this writer has ever seen in any other place in my life. And it was this insane foodie experience, or one could say a social experiment, that inspired this story about Slack Slacker and Doobie surviving a zombie infestation amongst the passengers and crew of a cruise ship.
The gist of the story, as I initially envisioned it, could not be written for a family audience. As the tale unfolded in my mind's eye, I knew immediately that it wouldn't pass muster in Western society today, given the prevailing political correctness, cancel culture, and wokeness. Words like fat assed, retarded, losers are simply unacceptable for a product marketed to individuals of all ages, in this current age of uber sensitivities. Hence, I couldn’t clown around with the clowns as I would with my closest friends. So, if you’re privileged enough to have stumbled upon this blog post and not too woke to take a joke, stick around for more than a few chuckles at the expense of those who had to survive middle school with guys like me tormenting them.
So I had to tone down the bloody violence of describing scenes of buck toothed thick-ankle chunky teen girls pushing and shoving one another aside for their fifth, sixth, or seventh order of cheeseburgers and fries and witnessing seniors giving glaring stares to younger, faster, and far more nimble and aggressive teenage boys viciously hogging all of the dessert offerings: cakes, donuts, cookies, puddings of all flavors imaginable as well as ice cream gelato galore. Although healthy alternatives were available, it was the high-calorie, fat, and sugary treats that these belly busters were craving. And nothing could stop them. There were no rules, courtesy, or decorum being followed. Emily Post would’ve been appalled.
Luckily, I was fortunate enough to have purchased the daily fine dining package, allowing me to experience restaurants in a more private setting where one could enjoy a meal served by a professional staff without having to brawl for a fucking thot dog filled with nitrates and other unknown mystery meat fillers. And while I must admit some of the foods were presented appetizingly, it was a cuisine for the masses. It was the kind of food that Robert F. Kennedy Jr., Secretary of Health and Human Services, was trying to ban from the American diet. I can only say, “Good luck with that!
So, yes, it was scenes like this that got me thinking about passengers turning into zombies from some mysterious food that had been born in the buffet offerings. I sat on my balcony in my suite, indulging in a few Long Island Iced Teas, imagining the passengers transitioning into ravenous, carnivorous brain juice junkie maniacs attacking the unturned in the hallways, the elevators, the pools, saunas and spas, and God help those caught on the many open decks and staircase making their way back to their rooms inebriated or worse fucked up from one to many TCH laced gummies.
And that’s only the beginning of my mangled, maniacal, mental state. What about those who did make it back to the safety of their state rooms and cabins? I imagined those guests wondering WTF was going on outside their room doors? The horrible munching sounds silencing the screams of small children and old people being chewed up in their little supermarket slow-carts. Yeah, I know I ain’t shit, but it was fun to entertain the thouhgt. Well, it was fun until I realized Doobie, my pet Yorkie, was running loose on the ship; he would definitely make a delectable snack.
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Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t nobody’s heroe and Doobie is one Hell of a pain in the “ass”, (PITA) but we’ve been in a lot of jams together and I knew this tale would suck I didn’t at least do the bare minimum to rescue his flee bitten ass. So, I imagined a plan to venture out of my state room when the frightful hollering died down to find and unite as many crew members as I could trust to mount a resistance and form a search party for Doobie. Yo. I’m well aware that all of this sounds screwy, but this is what happens when people drink too much. So, of course, I washed down my Last Long Island Iced Tea with two shots of Patron, looked out the peephole on my door, and snuck out into the hallway.
No gun, no knife, not even a baseball bat to bash a zombie motherfucker, I just went on a mission to save my pet pal, Doobie the “Son of a Bitch”
The walls of the halls were covered with blood smears. The floors were littered with gnawed bones, eaten limbs, entrails, and bits and pieces of human organs. I couldn’t help thinking, this is what it must look like after a zombie takes a shit and was too busy to flnd a toilet and a roll of Charmin toilet paper. Ghastly is the word! Yet, I soldiered on, drunkenly determined to locate someone, anyone who hadn’t turned into one of these brain-eating monsters. Coming across several passengers who looked safe to ask for help, I instantly noticed the blank stares and small bites on their arms and legs. These poor bastards had been in a fight. And while they escaped, I had to assume they’d be turning soon.
I was in survival mode now, so I did the unthinkable. Seeing a passenger I’d had lunch with two days before the horrors began, I noticed he had two prosthetic legs protruding from his Bermuda shorts. Now I know most will think badly of me, but since I reasoned he was doomed anyway, I politely asked to borrow one for self-defense. He refused, so I yanked one off, promising to return it as soon as I could, and ran away with it slung over my shoulder. Hell, this situation was beyond dog-eat-dog; this was humans munching humans. And I’ll damned if my cocka-o-doodle-doo was gonna be on a zombie’s hotdog bun!
End of part one. Next installment Thursday. I promise. Well. Sorta!
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