On the drive home from seeing Zombieland, my girl blurted out, “We should try to go home.”
I said, “That’s where we’re going. Because that’s where the beer is.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, “I meant if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, we should go home.”
“Sure we should. After all, a townhouse a block away from a main street in a major urban center will be the last place that zombies wander around.”
“I mean my home. My childhood home. Out in central Mass.”
“Okay. Sure. How exactly do you anticipate we get there?”
“How do you think? We drive?”
“Sure we drive. After all, it’s only a few miles down the Mass Pike. You know, the Mass Pike that turns into a rage-provoking fucking parking lot every Christmas Eve. And Christmas Eve is, you know, scheduled. So I’m sure it’ll be four lanes of easy travel during a sudden zombie attack.”
“So we take Route 20.”
“The road doesn’t matter. We’d never make it.”
“We could.”
“No, we fucking couldn’t. Number one: who’s behind the wheel during our flight from armageddon? Me? Because I drive a roadster. With a ragtop. To a zombie, my car’s the world’s biggest microwave fucking burrito. We’d be yanked out and turned into street sushi before we got to the end of the block.”
I was watching something on live TV rather than pre-recorded on the TiVo last night, meaning I was subjected to that rarest of beasts for the TiVo owner: commercials. And I saw an ad with Brooke Shields for a 