If poetry is food,
How did I grow so fat
Eating so little
All these years?
The problem with using a match-and-hairspray flamethrower at 3am in the house you just moved into, is that zombies are stupid. Well, of course they're stupid, they've really only got a hindbrain and a visual cortex, but the thing is that they panic. Then you have a crazy burning moaning zombie running up and down the hall banging into the walls, scorching your new paint (which doesn't matter that much because it was latex over oil and isn't sticking, so at least it'll be easier to peel now that it's all bubbled up), and the kids are screaming "Put it out, daddy, put it out!" and the wife is going "I told you this wasn't a good idea" and trying to get through to 911 and you finally just throw a quilt over it and it collapses into hot goo right through the hardwood floor. Three thousand dollars of just-got-it-refinished hardwood floor. How do you even fix a hardwood floor?
So now there's a piece of plywood nailed down in the hall with a throw rug over it that the kids keep tripping on, and I'm trying to find someone that can tent and handle subterraneans. You'd think in a city this size there'd be exterminators all over the place, but everyone's booked out until spring and we don't get cold enough down here for the nasties to hibernate. And no, the previous owner didn't tell us about the zombie closet. Obviously something was up, since they wanted to sell as-is, but in this economy, you gotta take what you can get.
This is not a drill.
This is an electric screwdriver.
If this were a real drill
Your eye socket would be deeper.
(Okay, okay, it's icky -- but I'm in a cheerful mood! Really!)