My girlfriend and her two adult children are very into zombies and preparing for the zombie apocalypse. At the moment, my girlfriend is sick and, as always when she’s ill, she’s being a bit melodramatic. My step-daughter isn’t always very patient with her mom’s antics.

Girlfriend: *To her daughter* “If I die, as my firstborn, it’s up to you to make sure I don’t come back as a zombie.”

Step-Daughter: “I mean, we can take care of that now, if you want.”

I used to work at a gas station years ago. Like every other business in America (for the most part), we had signs on our door that let you know that you have to pull for the door to open, and then inside upon leaving, you would, of course, push to open them.

I have lost count of how many times (daily) people would park and walk up to the door, and even though it said, “PULL,” in big capital letters, would push the door only for it to just kind of halt them and rattle a bit.

From there, rather than pull the door open, instead, they would grab the door and start violently shaking the door aggressively for a good five seconds as if a horde of zombies was inches away from them and they were desperately trying to get inside.

Once the imaginary begging for mercy from the zombies was over, they would give up, pull calmly on the door, see that it just magically opened, and walk in with some kind of sly remark about what had just happened.

One day, I just decided to put ten paper arrows all pointing to the “PULL” signs on the door, thinking this would help, but no. Sadly, these “intelligent” people would continue to do the same stuff.

And finally, when they were inside, they would continue to remind me that it’s my fault cigarettes and gas are expensive. Or, they would complain to me that they were just in a town forty-five minutes away and their gas was thirty-five cents cheaper, as if they were subtly threatening to just go there instead if I (as the lowly cashier) didn’t use Dumbledore’s Elder Wand to magically make the gas prices cheaper.

The usual.

Growing up, my brother and I often play video games together, with him at the controls and me paying attention to the plot and telling him where to go next. He is horribly dyslexic but has great coordination, whereas I am an excellent reader but lack the dexterity to play many kind of games. This usually works out well, but, being siblings, we would end up bickering sometimes.

At the time of this story, I am seven and my brother is eleven. We’re playing the latest game in a popular green-clad-hero series and have just gotten an add-on for the system that lets us discover hidden areas by vibrating, or maybe rumbling, the controller. Since we’re not doing anything plot-related at the moment, my brother has decided my directions are more annoying than helpful — fair — and tells me to stop talking. So, I do.

Then, he falls into a hidden hole he just found, into a dark room with a gaunt figure crouched in the fetal position in the middle. Ominous ambient sounds play. My immediate thought is, “That’s a zombie.” I say nothing.

My brother approaches the creature fearlessly. “It’s going to eat his brains,” I think, keeping quiet.

He gets within arms reach of the monster and it shrieks, locking his character in place. We both jump and he starts frantically mashing buttons as the totally-a-zombie climbs on him and quickly drains away his life. Game over. I start laughing.

Brother: “What’s so funny?! Did you know that would happen?!”

Me: “It was obviously a zombie!”

Brother: “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Me: “You told me to shut up!”

He didn’t like that answer and chased me out of his room… for just a bit… until he got stuck on the next quest and had to ask me where to go.

(My wife is talking to our son about some health issues she has been having.)

Son: “Does that mean you are turning into a zombie?”

Wife: “You know what? Yes, it does.”

Son: “Well, if you do, I will chop off your head with an axe.”

Wife: “Don’t worry. You’re safe. Zombies eat brains, right?”

Son: “Huh? What?”

(My father owns a hardware store where I sometimes offer to man the phone during busy times.)

Me: *answering the phone* “[Hardware Store]. [My Name] speaking.”

Woman: “Hello, I need to be put through to [Father]. It’s his sister and it is an emergency!”

Me: “I should think so! You died twenty years ago giving birth to [Twin Cousins].”

Woman: “I’m very sorry for your loss… Is [Father] in? It’s an emergency.”

Me: “Given the means by which you tried to access him, I’m not inclined to pass you on. Whatever it is I’m sure I can help.”

Woman: “No, you won’t do. I need to speak directly to him.”

Me: “Tough. You have five seconds before I hang up.”

Woman: “What time do you close on Sundays?”

Me: *seriously?* “Five pm.”

Woman: “I would rather be told that by [Father].”

Me: *hangs up*

(She came over later that day and demanded I be fired for rudeness. My father then shouted so loud the entire store took notice, “CAROL, GET BACK IN YOUR COFFIN!” The woman blushed and scurried out. Obviously, I’d told him the second I hung up, and he was praying she would come by.)