Before you ask, yes it is probably true that my lengthy silence has been due to the fact that I’ve been caught within a net of ever deepening gloom as I single-handedly fight off hordes of the undead in a small, fortified shack in the Scottish highlands. Also the internet signal is, like, really bad up here. And I’m nearly out of mini-pizzas.
I find myself beginning to lose hope that we will ever win this Endless War. Maybe we should have given it a more optimistic name.
But a shining beacon of hope has found me in my dank, semi-internetless cabin, and as I read this post, surrounded by decapitated corpses, I felt that this uplifting feeling must be passed on. For Death himself (yes, I will make gender assumptions here), has offered humanity the lifeline we so desperately need.
First of all, I had never thought to name my shovel. I’ve named my rifle (Carl), my chainsaw (Bertha), my last box of mini pizzas (12 Carl Jrs.), every maggot that comes within six feet of me and that head in the corner that looks like it is winking at me (I think he’s hitting on me. I can’t deny I haven’t thought about it, but really, can love be conceived in such hell? What future would our children have?).
But my shovel – well that just seems so silly. But who am I to defy Death’s own personal recommendations? And so Shandy the Shovel has been welcomed into the fold.
But his key piece of advice – the idea that I think will see us all through these dark days – is entertainment. So simple and yet so brilliant. I personally have fashioned myself a set of both Jacks and Yahtzee using the teeth and various bones left scattered around me by the decomposing flesh of my enemies. With this, my new friend Shandy, and a potential love affair on the horizon, I think thinks are most certainly starting to look up!



