"Brains. brains. brains"The be all and end all of being a zombie. Right? Wrong.
Bloody lifeist bigots.
It's not all "brains brains brains." We've got hopes, we've got dreams. I know that you all think that the, beg my pardon here, life of a zombie is nothing more than staggering after brains. Maybe a little confusion here, and maybe a little scratching at the door there, but all in all "brains brains brains."
You disgust me.
We've got culture. We've got poets and play-writes. We've got teachers and philosophers. We've got woers and lovers. But no. You living have to taunt us with your tasty brains. Always with the sweet-smelling, culture-destroying brains. I hate you so much.
Have you seen what brains do to us? No. None of you have. There is no Jane Goodall of zombie culture. One moment we're pondering the nature of eternal life, the spenders of the universe, the sublime beauty of mathematics, and the next we get one whiff of brain and everything goes to pot. I've got to tell you, crack's got nothing on the smell of tasty brains. It's like some sort of zombie tower of babble - we're being punished for the effrontery of being undead.
The state of zombie culture if disparaging enough, but the cruelest day yet was the day I had a head cold. There we were... Lucy, Marcus, Percival and myself, discussing the blind voice of love and it's impact on the truth of the universe. Lord knows I was miserable already, for how could I court the lovely Lucy with a skull full of effluvia? (You think having a cold is easy when you're alive? Try it when all your nasal cartilage has rotted away.) When suddenly the scent of brain wafted across our afternoon of enquiry. One of you and your damnable living brains, with it's will-destroying come-hither scent. That smallest of hints, that suggestion of brain, was all that was needed to turn my companions into slathering monstrosities. I grasped Percival by the shoulders and shook him firmly...
"Percival, my dear comrade, what has come over your fevered brow?"It was at that moment that I was compelled to sneeze... I do not recall what happened next, but I came to some half hour later, covered in the blood and ichor that could only have come from one of you. You... you... you damnable vendors of brain. I curse you, and everything you have brought to our fine society.
I am filled with a melancholy the width and breadth of my entire race when I think what we could accomplish if only you did not distract us thus. Have you no shame? Must mankind always destroy everything it comes across? I can only hope that, in god's great plan, soon we shall dine on the last of your accursed brains. On that day, the dawn of the zombie race will at finally shine on in all its necrotic beauty.
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