Member-only story
Zombies Don’t Have Surgery
They discard rotting body parts like the worst kind of road kill trail.
The Architect went in for surgery on a Friday morning, many years ago. (The doctor was late, of course, while we were very early). My mother-in-law (MIL) showed up, too, and we were having a grand old time hanging around with the zombie architect while he wore a stunning purple gown and fantabulous footie socks with skids on both sides (idiot proofed so that the only way you could put them on wrong was sideways, as the Architect pointed out).
A nurse came in and told us that we could blow hot air into the professor’s gown. I couldn’t resist the joke about hot air being blown up his ass — I really couldn’t. They could have cooked him with hot air, and zombie smells terrible baked.
On every piece of linen in the hospital there was a hefty paragraph sentence of a warning about stealing their sheets, and they called it “theft by conversion.” My zombie mind roams in odd places, it immediately brought to mind that we’d be trying to convert their sheets to a religion. I had to giggle and resist actually taking the ugly things (who steals hospital pillowcases anyway???) just to proclaim the heathen pillows required saving.
The Architect was so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open. When the nurse said he was going to give the Architect the med to…
