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B is for Brains

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Have you ever realized how many body parts start with B? I mean,B there’s body, obviously, along with butt, belly, belly button, breast, and beard (if you include facial hair as a body part). And then there’s the B parts we generally don’t like to see outside of bodies, like blood, bones, and brains. SO MANY OPTIONS. But, since it’s late at night and I have yet to post anything for Day Two of the A to Z challenge, I went for the one my slap-happy mind found most humorous. (Which means zombies. And gore. I do apologize, really.)

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Deadly Humor

“You know,” I croaked, “I’m getting really tired of all these BRAAAAIIINS jokes. They get” — I paused to slurp my lower jaw back into place — “old real fast, you know?”

Barton hopped in a vaguely nod-like manner. “HAA-RAT TAT TAT TAT TUT!” he exclaimed. The skull wasn’t technically a zombie, but he was a nice guy and fun to have around. Plus, considering the Intact Act, we made it a point not to discriminate based on level of decay.

“Barton’s right,” slurred a young zombie — young in undead terms, as none of us were quite certain how old we used to be — who insisted her name was Bloody Bones. “Like, really? There’s more to being dead than eating brains.”

“Quite so,” said Quentin. “Not only are such jokes offensive, they ridicule zombie intelligence and imply a certain lack of perception regarding the nature of the undead. I’d say they’re told in rather poor taste, truthfully.”

There were agreeing moans all around, though chances were half of the group didn’t understand a word out of Quentin’s mouth. Words longer than two syllables were difficult to decipher when your ear drums were rotting. Though, Quentin’s curious way of speaking prompted frequent debates over whether he had once been a teacher, a politician or some sort of scientist, or possibly merely British.

“What, you mean you dead-heads don’t like brains?”

Frieda jumped out of her skin in surprise — literally. We all turned, joints cracking, to look at the small band of humans, shotguns in hand, peering over the whitewashed fence locking them in their backyard.

“Ugh,” I said, partly because humans are annoying and I was expressing my disgust, but mostly because they were too far away for me to tear them to shreds before they blew my head off with their shotguns.

“DA-TAT TAT,” Barton agreed.

“Actually,” Quentin said, “I would imagine that a fondness for brains would be more a matter of personal taste. This obsessive brain craving humans casually attribute to the undead is an unfounded stereotype, as zombies’ dining preferences vary quite as much as humans’. There are other variables too, of course, such as availability, quality, convenience–”

“Oh,” one of the humans interrupted, a tall one that smelled of cheese and sweat. “I got one. Knock knock!”

There was an awkward silence. “Uh,” said Bloody Bones. “Who’s there?”

“Zombie!”

“Zombie who?”

“BRAAAAIIINS!”

The humans all burst out in snorts and guffaws while we shuffled uncomfortably.

“Was that even meant to be funny?” Quentin asked incredulously. “Generally speaking, a knock-knock joke involves some sort of word play, or puns, or some situational humor at least.”

“Hey,” said a squat male that smelled vaguely of broccoli, and possibly cow dung, “Here’s a good one. What do zombies wear when it’s raining?”

“Well, assuming we–” Quentin was cut off again.

“A BRAAAAIIIN-coat!” The humans descended into laughter again.

Frieda sniffed, though I wasn’t sure whether it was in disdain or an effort to hide the bluish fluid leaking from her nostrils. “Really,” she said dryly. “You can’t be more creative than that?”

Cheese and Sweat clapped his hands together gleefully. “What did the zombie say to his girlfriend?”

A thin-faced human that might have been female gasped. “Oh, I know this one! ‘I just love a woman with BRAAAAIIINS!'”

I raised an eyebrow. Or, I think I did. Did I still have my eyebrows? Frieda and Quentin were grumbling quietly, while Barton adopted a look of pained tolerance. Bloody Bones looked positively livid.

The female-ish human cackled, hooking its shotgun over one shoulder. “What do vegan zombies like to eat? GRAAAAIIINS!”

“Ha!” laughed Cow Dung. “How about: how do zombies like to travel?” He paused, sniggering. “TRAAAAIIINS!”

“Or, what do zombies like to eat for breakfast? Raisin BRAAAAIIINS!”

The humans were gulping for breath, choking on their own laughter. I peered sideways at Quentin, tempted to roll my eyes but worried I might lose one if I tried. We shuffled closer, eyeing the wheezing humans.

“Why did the zombie cross the road?”

“To get to the BRAAAAIIINS!”

I reached over the fence, grabbing Cheese and Sweat by the throat. The laughter cut off suddenly, evolving into panicked screams and shouts. A couple of gunshots rang out, and the air was tangy with the scent of blood.

As the last scream faded off into gurgles, I faintly heard Bloody Bones say, “Hey. What do you call a dead human?”

Licking my fingers, I glanced at Quentin. With glazed eyes and blood dripping from his chin, he groaned, “BRAAAAIIINS.”

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You know, I used to think that brains were the most important organ in the entire body. Then I thought, look what’s telling me that.

Okay, okay, enough jokes. But really, you guys, I found so many zombie-brain jokes. I didn’t even get to use all of them. (How do zombies study for tests? by eating lots of BRAAAAIIIN food.)

Really quick, I’d like to thank my fellow A to Z challengers for stopping by, and offer a brief summary of what I do on my blog. (Which takes some considerable skill, as half the time I don’t even know what I do on my blog.) I love to write, so you’ll find a lot of poetry (usually serious) and short stories (usually humorous, and strangely rather morbid). But, as I am a creature of many faces, I’ll also post artwork, reviews, guides, humor, rants, or whatever silly thing enters my mind.

Also, I love comments. Tell me — what did you think of the story? Was the ending even remotely funny? Was any of it funny, or am I just ridiculously tired? Would you like to read more things like this? Do you have any good zombie jokes? Any good non-zombie jokes? Am I the only person who thought World War Z was comedic? I probably should have waited to post this one until Z, speaking of the letter, shouldn’t I?

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A is for Agony (+a brief message from the Ham)

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Hey all! I apologize for neglecting my blog for…uh, a really long time. It’s busy season atA2Z-BADGE-0002014-small_zps8300775c work. Which means I’ve been having a really, really hard time motivating myself to do anything in my free time (other than curl up in a ball and whimper quietly to myself) — let alone write posts. So, to maybe eliminate my lethargy, I’ve signed up for the A to Z challenge. This means that, for the month of April, I’ll be posting something EVERY DAY (except Sundays) corresponding with the letters of the alphabet. And in case you guys couldn’t tell, today is A.

Welcome to A is for AGONY.

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Agony (working title)

The doctor turns, smiles
Somehow I expected a leer
Twisting, stretching his face into something alien
Bulging eyes, the stench of sweat
Flaking rust brown staining his pristine coat
Betraying the repugnance of his crime

But his face is smooth, clear
His eyes bright and warm
Not a speck to mar the whiteness of his clothes
Stinking of bleach and lemons
Here, he says, good as new
His voice tight with clinical friendliness

He gently places it in my hands
I stare at the small, fluttering thing
At the tight, tidy stitches binding it
Where once it was ragged, bleeding
Oh, I say, because there is nothing else
And the thing in my hands trembles and thrums

In the safe darkness of my bedroom
I listen to the beat, never a falter
Only an echo of what once was gaping pain
In flames and ashes, searing flashes
I remember — the rage, hurt, betrayal, fury
Locked, hidden away in those tidy stitches

How can it be all right, okay?
How can it all be gone?
I tear out the stitches, relish in the pain
Rejoice in the wracking sobs
I’d rather feel anguish than nothing at all
And, as they say,
Nobody ever died of a broken heart

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This poem is temporarily called ‘Agony’ (mostly because I needed a post for A), but I really can’t decide on an appropriate title. What do you think? Is ‘Agony’ a good title? What do you think the title should accomplish? Do you have any suggestions? Comments, compliments, and critiques are more than welcome.

The Unclean

“No!” I cry as I fall into the darkness below. “NO! I’m clean!”

I land gently on the cushioned bottom of this despicable pit. Something wet and sticky touches me and I can’t repress a shudder.

“I’m clean,” I whimper, as my last ray of hope is sealed off with the top of the stinking prison. The darkness is putrid, so thick it is almost tangible. It penetrates every corner of this cesspit.

How I loathe this place.

“Well, well.” The voice slices its way through the darkness. “What do we have here?” Read the rest of this entry

Quaking the Periwinkle Moon

I apologize for not posting anything last week. And I apologize in advance, because this may be the only post for this week. Explanation (excuses): I’m currently taking two condensed college courses, making last week and this one MIDTERMS. (Yay! Essays! Exams! Studying! Probably not in that order!) Besides, I warned you all early on I may not be consistent. I’m simply living up to my promises.

Secondary warning: This post will be very random. Please suspend all expectations for coherence from this point onward.

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Last post, I celebrated having reached four followers. Well, I am proud to announce, I now have SEVEN. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. The Potatoes are on their way to fame and fortune.

Seriously, though, thank you! It blows my mind. So, as a reward, I’ll treat you to one of my fantastically brilliant humble drawings:

Unexpectedly, hippopotami can't fly.

Unexpectedly, hippopotami can’t fly.

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In case you hadn’t guessed Read the rest of this entry

The Sky is Falling!

So, I’m taking a poetry class. As such, I’ve decided to share one of my poems every week on my blog. [pauses to wait while 90% of the readers click away]

This is what I look like when I write poems. Except minus the goatee. And the beret. I really need to get a beret.

This is what I look like when I write poems. Except minus the goatee. And the beret. I really need to get a beret.

[coughs] It’s okay. I understand. Broadly speaking, I hate reading poems (on account of it requiring actual effort on my part, thus nullifying my hard-earned title of Lazy Butt), but strangely, I love writing them. I love writing in general, but when I’m feeling particularly emotional or irrational, my thoughts tend to come out in poems rather than stories or blog posts. (My emotions also occasionally come out through artwork, but that’s another blog post entirely.) That being said, the fact that I’m sharing one of my poems with you today means I am baring my soul to you. So be nice. (P.S. Flattery works wonders.)

I also wanted to celebrate one momentous occasion: I have four followers/watchers/ stalkers/whateveryoucallthosepeoplethatarechronicreadersofablog! (!!!!!!!!!!!!) I about died of happiness. This is only my third post. I HAVE MORE STALKERS THAN I HAVE POSTS. (Sorry. I’ll stop shouting. I was over-excited.) I love you all. You are my best friends. In the whole world. Thank you for inflating my ego to drastic proportions.

Anyway. Here is “Thirteen Days, Thirteen Skies.” Read the rest of this entry

I Hate Ninjas

My eyes flew open.

The room was dark, empty, the windows closed and the curtains tightly drawn. I strained my ears, listening for even the barest whisper of a sound, but the night was still as death. My bedroom was silent, noiseless, nothing out of place. There was nothing that should have disturbed my slumber.

I hate ninjas, I thought, annoyed Read the rest of this entry

We is Me

There comes a time in one’s life when one simply becomes too much for one’s own self, so one’s self must divide into multiple Ones in order to cope with one’s inner lack of oneness.

And if you’re still reading, then you’re either a) really bored, b) pretending you’re so intelligent and philosophical that the above sentence actually made sense, or c) other: [please specify].

Either which way.

This is not Ham.

This is not Ham.

Hello! We are Ham and Potatoes, in case you missed those big letters at the top of this page. You know, the ones that say “Ham and Potatoes.” Yeah. Those ones. Right there. Uh-huh. Yeah, you got ’em. And as we are of the opinion that there is no such thing as a good first post on a blog (you know, one that will inspire the masses and cause hundreds and thousands of subscribers to flock to our blog), we have decided to go for what is likely the most cliched and boring first just to get it over with: The Introduction Post. Read the rest of this entry

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