when the game blared to life and worked, he signed the paperwork. The delivery man thanked us, took the ten bucks Griff held out to him, and waved on his way out the door, mumbling something about crazy Walking Dead fans. I grinned and began playing virtual golf.
"It's nice they tried to replace the Donkey Kong machine, but Golden Tee? Really?" Griff sighed, shook his head, and went to the kitchen.
"Hey, it could be worse. They could have sent Jeopardy," I called after him. He didn't respond. I shrugged and went back to the game. I like Donkey Kong much better, but Golden Tee isn't so bad either. Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces" came on the jukebox, and I grinned. I like to think of it as my song.
So, there you have it. A peek into the unlife of me, Bob the Zombie, Clark Griswold's younger, more decayed cousin. Sure, sometimes it's fun. Mostly, being me is a pain in the rotting ass. I wisecrack and do what I can for the people I care about, but the truth is, I didn't choose to be brought back. I would've never wanted to have been, and it hurts.
I guess what I'm saying is that nobody's life, or unlife, is easy, and you never know what someone is going through until you walk a mile in their penny loafers. (Does anyone actually still wear those things?) While you're here, you might as well do all you can to make the folks around you happy. Life is too short to dwell on the misery and horror you see. If you take too much time wallowing in the bad, you'll miss out on all the good. Words of advice from a dead man, listen or don't, that's up to you. Meanwhile, I'll be here, playing Golden Tee and working on the story of how I met Holly Andrews. I think it's a tale you'll enjoy. Until then, shamble on.
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The Misadventures of Bob the Zombie
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