Maybe you haven’t seen the news, but there’s a zombie apocalypse a-brewin’. Not only one instance of insane cannibalism, but two, both occurring over the past few days, and I’ve been on World War Z-levels of alert; I’m a hair’s breadth from calling for my brown pants, and what does Michael Bloomberg, His Honor the Mayor of New York City, push through the legislature? A ban on soda bottles larger than 16 ounces.
Has this asshole lost his cotton-picking mind? It’s only a matter of time before the undead horde begins to swell its ranks with every poor schmuck that gets bitten, and he’s worried about the fucking obesity epidemic in NYC? Yeah, okay, I can see how people that swill down a liter of cola at every meal aren’t making themselves any more fit when it comes to outrunning a pack of walking dead, but if he was so goddamned concerned with New Yorkers being able to sustain a good cardio workout, he should have pushed this through years ago, not on the eve of our own destruction.
Now, before you start thinking that I’m making this all up for comedic effect, I wish I was; the truth of the matter is that some insane chucklefuck got ripped on bath salts down in Miami, stripped down to his birthday suit, and ate the face off a homeless guy before he was shot dead by police. Now this “bath salts” excuse is obvious misinformation from the government, designed to quell a zombie panic – anyone who’s ever read the first 12 issues of The Walking Dead can plainly see where this is going. Personally, I feel bad for the poor homeless guy – I can only hope that they put him down once he turns.
I’m not joking about the second instance, either – some lunatic killed his roommate and then ate his heart and brain, the second cannibalistic attack in less than a week. You know what they say – once is an isolated incident and two may be a coincidence, so watch out for zombie attack number three this weekend: it could be the next link in the pattern that’s emerging – the one that ends with me holding off my undead landlord with a shovel while my fiancée fills his rotting brain with enough .22 rimfire shells to make his melon rattle like a pair of maracas.
You would think that our nation’s leaders would see the writing on the wall at this point and begin their preparations. Not so, I’m afraid; instead of mobilizing the NYPD and the National Guard to prepare the 5 boroughs to withstand a Raccoon City-style siege, Mayor Bloomberg is proposing sugary drinks should not be permitted to be sold within NYC in containers exceeding 16 ounces. This of course undoubtedly sent the board of directors of both the Coca-Cola Company and PepsiCo into paroxysms of pants-shitting rage, considering most of the bottles sold in supermarkets, delis, bodegas, and vending machines are 20 ounces, which would require a massive outlay of time and money to ensure they were in compliance with such a new legislative change; I also hear that the ACLU is greasing up their legal ass-raping machinery as the sheer stupidity of regulating how people are allowed to drink themselves into diabetic comas is put at risk.
But I don’t care about any of that bullshit. Yeah, the proposed legislation is so pants-on-head retarded to become the new poster child for reductio ad absurdum, not to mention a harbinger of the kind of nanny state that would give every Libertarian in the country a heart attack while simultaneously crippling the soft drink industry in the north east at a time that the US economy is still struggling to return to its full force from before the banking crisis, but my main concern is that Bloomberg has no fucking idea how he’s wasting valuable time and money that should be spent preparing for the inevitable onslaught of the ravening undead. It is this type of willful myopia that will see him fail in his re-election bid, and I don’t mean because he’s reached his three-term limit but because zombies can’t fucking vote.
Jesus Christ. This is exactly why I don’t pay taxes.