Playing A Zombie For Your Grandson Is Hard Work
I don’t know how it works in your house, but killing zombies is hard work at my grandson’s place.
After a very good dinner at my stepdaughter’s house (tater-tot casserole, thanks Lindsey) my grandson decided he was a zombie and he wanted me to “take him out.”
I assumed this is zombie talk for bonk him in the head with a couch pillow, which seemed to work just fine. He would put his arms out, all stiff , like a mini Frankenstein taking his first steps. He would moan a little and then tell me he was a zombie, at which point I bonked up side his head with the couch pillow.
This is good to know that a common couch pillow can ward off zombies, so in the future when everything goes to H-E-double-tooth-picks, I’m covered.
Well, after knocking the pint sized zombie to the carpet several hundred times, he decided it was my turn to be the bad guy. This is where things changed a bit. Apparently when the zombie is older, the pillow whack in the head is not enough to subdue the zombie. I got whacked, smacked and rode like a lame pony, and when all of that didn’t work I was blasted with a special zombie laser gun.
After ten minutes of being whacked and wrestled into submission, he declared me dead. I had declared me dead nine minutes earlier.
Conner said we could now be nice zombies and watch TV together, and offered me his water bottle. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I really needed was oxygen and a Bud Light.
My wife and I invited Conner over this weekend to spend the night, I’m going to strongly suggest card games and puzzles as entertainment, or I could really end up as a zombie. Conner and Bailey Boo, I love you both very much. xxxooo