My brains, my brains...

The power went out last week for a little bit. I know, no big deal right? I'm not afraid of the dark. Except that it was right in the middle of my attempt to overcome my fear of zombies. I was absolutely terrified because I realized that even though I've made a lot of progress toward being able to laugh hysterically at the undead (a.k.a. the living impaired, I don't know if they're protected by the Constitution to be able to sue for political incorrectness so I better play it safe) I'm still going to be a blubbering baby when the zombie apocalypse happens.
"Waaaah! But I don't want to see wrinkly Uncle Gerald again! He was scary when he was alive!"
Tough luck Timmy, he's 3-feet up from 6 already and yours is the first house he's looking to score some brains at! Hey Timmy's mom, are you still proud of your honor student and his big head?
I'm not that worried about global warming anymore. Don't write this off as some conspiracy theory, it's just the next most likely and completely original catastrophe to take place.
For the longest time I thought survival would be as easy as point and shoot but I've noticed some startling signs that indicate I won't last long. First of all my family doesn't own guns. We just don't like them. We have plenty of food and water saved up so step one to evading the hordes is to get some guns and ammo! That means I (it's my manly duty) have to make the trek to our local Wal-Mart armed with one of my precious guitars and the will to crack some skulls (thanks for the tip Left 4 Dead 2!!) before we can even board up the house! Why not go to the gun store which is much closer? Because all the good guns with the fancy gadgets and doo-dads that won't break from faulty construction will have already been taken by the redneck population. Not fair, I know. They already have enough weaponry to warrant another amendment guaranteeing the right to bear that many arms, but a reason to loot is a reason to loot. Knowing my luck if I actually do make it to Wal-Mart there will be one living employee who insists to help me (hooray for customer service) and when I tell him that I'm looking for firearms he'll take me to the Nerf section. Yay. Foam darts.
I even thought I could rely on my Mexican cousins, some of them could be cholos with low-riders and trunks full of pistols. But just like the movies, they'd be the last ones to believe in the impending crisis and the first ones to be zombified.
On my way back to save my family is when I'll hit the wall 'o' zombies. That's when it always happens, on the way back. Shooting games have taught me to aim for red barrels for large explosions and maximum points. On a recent gentleman's stroll between my house and Wal-Mart I counted a total of zero red barrels. Zero barrels of any color for that matter, so I took out a small loan and purchased a sizable number of 50-gallon drums, Super-duper-uber-premium gasoline (with Techron), and red paint. It took some hard work but I got a pretty sweet row of crimson death barrels (undeath barrels?) lined up. My escape route was guaranteed safe for about a week until every school and business for a mile south of me began reporting possible bomb threats. Excuse me for saving the world one street at a time!
After many failed attempts and thought experiments, I came to the conclusion that I will not survive Z-Day (zombie D-Day for all those who aren't on the same page as me). Too bad, so sad. Hopefully the city council will approve my petition for placing tarps on the ground in all the cemeteries. That should buy us some time.