Whenever zombies come up in conversation, there's always someone who professes their undying love for the undead. I'm skeptical.
Not that flesh-eating zombies (or bacteria, for that matter) aren't as deserving of love as anyone else - I'm just wondering how that love holds up when it's really important, when it comes down to brass tacks.
Running up a flight of creaky old stairs in a run down abandoned cabin or warehouse lost in the middle of the gray Georgia woods, I want to know that love will wash over you and you'll stop mid-step and say to yourself, "What are you REALLY running from mister (or ma'am)? How come I love zombies until the chips are down and my family's dead? What? Then I'm afraid?" Then I want you to march back down those steps into the arms of the zombie you used to love. That's my contract with America.
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