How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse

Hard to believe it’s come to this. Never have I seen such a sorry group of simpletons, so undone by woozy bands of narcoleptic vegetation. Still, humans need sympathy and guidance, and I’m here for them. So let’s go over this so y'all can sleep at night without waking your Teddy Bears.

First let’s keep in mind while planning our zombie apocalypse survival strategy that the enemy is the easiest-to-outwit foe on the planet. There may be oodles of them, but they’re listless, limp-wristed, incapable of concerted planning, have a known Achilles’ heel (their spongy skulls), forgo weapons of any kind, are distracted by anything that so much as farts, and are motivated only by the occasional desire for a hot meal. Sure they want to consume you alive, but so do mosquitos, so lets get real.

The ineptitude of these half-dead meatbags is rivaled only by that of their sole nemesis, the hapless hillbillies of the Deep South. Were I a surviving member of that inbred contingent, this is what I hope would occur to me while I was busy stashing my beef jerky where no one else could find it:

To survive, I need potable water, food, shelter and clothing. Thankfully these items are a snap to acquire during a zombie apocalypse. Even so, the featured Mason Dixon misfits will hazard a trip into town for home pregnancy kits and hootch, while neglecting to pick up a fresh set of panty liners. Jesus, do they need a punch list? I’d trade Barney Fife and that bovine quack lush for a competent bean counter any day.

Every mall in America is full of the stuff these clowns need to survive, and they remain oblivious to the fact. That spousally abused doormat hasn’t changed her shirt since the series pilot. If you ask me, that’s why the zombies keep surfacing: they can smell her greasy tits from the next county.

A safe water supply is simple during your modern end-of-the-world scenario. Countless jugs of it have been bottled in the biggest retail scam of the century. A lifetime supply of designer H₂O is waiting throughout the nation at 7-Elevens, Super Stop & Shops, and in stalled trucks along the interstate. You can afford to be particular. Still feeling patriotic? Poland Spring comes straight to you from some landfill in God’s country. If your taste for the tasteless runs more exotic, there’s Fiji (we can forget about carbon footprints at this juncture). Got erectile dysfunction? Go with Jennifer Anniston’s brand.

In the time it takes to drown yourself in esoteric hydration, learn to sink your own damn well. I‘ve done it myself. Water is everywhere, flowing under your feet. But if you’re lazy as a zombie, by all means head to the river and collect it. There are filters that will protect you from the runs at Home Depot, which is now open twenty-four hours a day and has a great sale running right now: everything off everything. No coupon required.

Thanks to modern technology, enough hermetically sealed astronaut food has been prepared to keep you till you learn to fend for yourself. Here in the mean time are some ideas for what to do with your leisure time. Teach yourself to hunt, fish, and forage amongst the vast fruit and vegetable agribusiness tracts that will continue to self-pollinate for decades to come. You’ll probably find a lifetime of canned food in every town you pass, but you might want to augment your diet with some fresh stuff. Trespassing is allowed.

Learn to read. The library is open. Survival guides, subsistence gardening tips, how-to books of every ilk abound. Porn will require a special stop, but take heart. Zombies don’t get turned on by anything but a whiff of your sorry ass.

Safe shelter given the limited capabilities of zombies is easy, since every industrial facility in the nation is surrounded by structures designed to keep out more capable riffraff. You can thank Homeland Security for keeping such a tight lid. Which is to say thank yourself, taxpayer, for being so afraid of the boogeyman.

Zombies, as we have seen, can hardly manage the latch on a picket fence. You could set up shop in an ex-municipal utility fortress. These cocoons of capitalism are generally equipped with independent power generators that are easy to manage. All you have to do is make a run for diesel every month or so. Better still, drive a tanker onto the compound. Everything is free for the picking during a zombie apocalypse. Frankly I’d welcome a zombie apocalypse, and by the looks of the recent field of presidential wannabe’s we’re halfway there.

Proper communication is important. Fortuitously easy forms of communications are everywhere, though TV humans still can’t seem to keep track of their own shadows. What they need to do is get to a Radio Shack and pick up some walkies. Add rechargeable batteries and solar chargers to the order and you’re good to go. Here’s the great thing. You don’t have to fork over your family history to complete the transaction.

This should all be fun. Instead, non-walkers insist on splitting up, getting lost in their back yards and flipping cars as if they’ve never driven before, which is all hillbillies ever do, all the time, usually while swilling Jack Daniels. Makes you wonder what the “Walkers” would call them if they had minds as sharp as a possum’s. “Tards” would be my guess.

Shall we talk self-defense? Seriously? Because this show should be called “Toss Me Another Clip, I’m Batting A Thousand.”

The Deep South is riddled with gun shops. Just Google “ammo” with your crosshairs on downtown Atlanta. The hits will obliterate the map. Oh, that’s right, Internet is unavailable during a zombie apocalypse. Thankfully, zombies don’t read, so pick up a copy of the Yellow Pages next time you set out in search of self-enlightenment in the middle of the night, douchebags.

Regarding transportation, need I say it? You want a Maserati? The keys are in the ignition. In this case though, a Hummer might finally make practical sense. One caveat: your fuel supply will start to sour in a couple years unless you plan ahead a little. In any event you have time to learn how to get around in some other fashion down the road. Bikes abound. Horses used to work too. You’re Southerners. Mount up.

Much is made of the fact that zombies can only be killed with a head wound. But it’s clear their bodies are eminently wreck-able, and respond to the same physical affronts we do. Break a zombie’s legs and it becomes a pile of pulsing guts on the lawn, hardly any more a concern than the gator out back in the community pond. So lighten up, folks. These aren’t the Taliban you’re facing here.

I would eschew the shotgun, which is bulky, carries few rounds, and is really loud. Plus the kick can bruise a gal’s shoulder. No, this is a silly TV weapon designed for guys who come up short in the caliber that counts. A better choice would be a small handgun that is either silenced or makes little noise (22’s sound like a kid popping his gum), is easy to carry and will do the trick without alerting the Michigan zombie contingent. As for the crossbow, listen Tonto, whatever blows your loincloth up. The guy and his lone arrow? That’s not a weapon, that’s a fetish.

Also useful when you get those pesky large batches of trespassers are high-speed automatic weapons, for mowing down hordes of zombies when they respond en masse to a random noise like a helicopter fly-by. The Uzzi is superb, and there are many others of similar merit (check out FPSRussia on YouTube for entertaining suggestions). The spoils of a single gun shop should keep you in business through the current zombie hunting season.

Speaking of helicopters, I really don’t care who was flying it. What caught my attention was how he caught the zombies’ attention. They headed for his exhaust note like guppies for flake food. But we’ve always known this about them, and the hillbillies keep forgetting, popping off their weapons during target practice, no less. Here’s a thought, Gomer: drive to the other side of town for your GI Joe exercises, and the Zombie Tide will start heading for Vermont at two miles per hour while you double back and “hunker down, cuz ’ats whut hillbillies do, in the Everglades or whichever swamp you feel comfortable sweating like a damn varmint in.

Let’s steel ourselves with the knowledge that zombies only need to die one more time, so think of it as a carnival arcade game to knock off the waddling duck population while you reconsider the meaning of life. I can see you’re struggling, what with all the sexual tension (looks like Southern gals will bed down with just about anybody) and the mixed feelings you have about staving in the head of what used to be Grandma. It is kind of poignant how you ache for new human contact, only to torture and kill it whenever it shows up. I guess no one can be trusted with one’s feelings in a zombie apocalypse. Hey, what’s that acrid smell? Could it be the stench of hack writers trying to teach us a lesson about human nature?

We’d like to root for you goobers, but you’ve got to shake this morose attitude. Stop hoarse-whispering about your lack of choices, Barney, which is hillbilly code for "I feel compelled to always make the worst choice available to me." And clean the zombie shit off your face. There are ladies present, but that's not how to get laid.


Admit it, y'all: you still have it better than most of the Third World. They’ve got real problems, and they tackle them with far more equanimity than you at your bucolic countryside estate. For everyone’s sake, start behaving like adults.