Thursday, November 24, 2005

 

Done to death

The wages of sin is death, and the wages of knocking back a litre of yoghurt before bed was a nightmare involving a Dawn of the Dead-style zombie plague scenario.

In an attempt to avoid having my face eaten off by the horde of the undead, I climbed out of the back window at number 57 and made a getaway in my Dad's old blue Cortina. There was even the cliche horror movie bit where the engine won't start and the forces of darkness are shuffling agonisingly closer; I should have remembered what the Cortina was like in cold weather.

Fortunately, the car did start and I was able to avoid the would-be gourmands of the undead, although I guess this meant I was leaving my Dad to face them without any kind of escape vehicle.

So much for filial duty.

Comments:
They may just mistake him for one of their own.

Sorry, it's been so long since I've been rude to your dad i had to. Last christmas I believe, or was it your birthday. There was something to celebrate I know that much.

Cheers,

Lewis.
 
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