I Still Can't Get Enough of that Dancing Baby!

Wow. I don't even know where to begin.

This is definitely NOT my department

by Steve Bosworth

Trust me, you can ask questions all you want, but I can assure you right now: This is NOT my department. I may have the outward appearance of a very nice, approachable and knowledgeable individual, who is eager to answer all your Do-It-Yourself related home construction queries. This is true, but happenstance has caught us in a zone of the store in which I am unable to formulate a response.

I know what you are going to say next. That, my friend, is another question I cannot answer. Being that I am so far removed from the designated area in which I am mentally apt to answer your questions, I would not be familiar with the employees who actually DO work in this particular section. Remembering all the employees throughout this D-I-Y mega convenience center would be both mentally and socially straining, detracting from my ability to provide focused and informed answers to the questions directed at me whilst inside my zone of questionability.

I understand that your question is simple and just requires a general direction in which I believe a certain item might be located. I apologize, but again, I must assure you that my perception is significantly altered once I leave the zone designated for my employment. Answering such a question could rip a hole in the D-I-Y space/time continuum, which would be both the end of time and existence. Heaven and Hell would collide on earth, causing a massacre of epic proportions and the end of humanity. In such a circumstance, NO ONE would be able to answer all your home project related interrogatories or soothe your construction related concerns . That would most certainly detract from the 'convenience with a smile' attitude we are trying to convey.

What's that you ask? No, again, I'm sorry, but I cannot inform you of what particular department I work in, or the name of my manager. Being that I started work two months ago, I have yet to actually find my department, or meet the manager of aforesaid department. However, when I do find it, I can assure you that I will be happy to answer all of your questions in a friendly and appropriately educated manner. Until then, I will continue to wander around the store appearing busy, because this is definitely not my department.

Looking For: Friends

by Young Zombie Professional




I feel like I'm a real outgoing Zombie. I'm up to date on politics, have a pretty good sense of humor, comparatively good fashion sense, and a fervent love of Indie music. Hell, I even breeze up on pop culture news now and again, just in case I get caught up in a random conversation about Shiloh's new wardrobe or Bono's latest trip to a third world country. But contrary to popular belief, being a Zombie doesn't exactly make you prime real estate in friend country. When was the last time you heard someone say, "Hey Zombie, you want to go grab a beer and watch the Phillies Game?" or "Hey Zombs, could you help me out and play wing man on friday?" Last time I checked, that happened never. Apparently, trying to eat a girl's brain while she leans over to ladel clam chowder into her mouth during a double date ruins the mood. (Thanks for the heads up on that one, Dad -- Maybe if you spent less time wandering around the countryside moaning and more time at home with your family, I wouldn't be so emotionally inept)

Do you how it feels when you go to the trendy store to buy a pre-worn shirt with a sexually suggestive quip across the chest and every 18 to 25 year old runs out screaming in sheer terror? The only people that even debate helping me try on clothes are those burned out freaks that work in the commercialized excuse of a rebellion. You know what I'm talking about, that place that sells metal records and 80s memorabilia to kids who got made fun of in 4th grade. No Thanks, weirdos. While we're on the subject, just because I'm a Zombie doesn't mean I love Hell, Satan, JNCO Jeans and Iron Maiden. And no, I don't want to hang out and smoke cigarrettes with you while you talk about how much your parents suck.

UUUUHHHHHHHHH!!!! (low guttoral moaning, slowly getting louder)

oh, sorry, I got sidetracked there for a minute. What were we discussing? Oh yes. I'll continue.



Despite the obvious advantages of scaring away everyone within a half mile radius, smelling like a rotting deer carcass and having the mobility of a 95 year old on meds, being a zombie doesn't have many advantages. I literally can't leave my studio for more than an hour without some gung-ho, ex-marine meathead, flying high on a cocktail of anabolic steroids, trying to decapitate me with some kind of powertool. Seriously Rambo, chill the fuck out.


Given my predicament, I had all about given up on the idea of finding a bunch of like-minded, witty, informed and active colleagues, with which to exchange thoughtful conversation and playful banter. That was until I found the beauty that is FaceSpace. Finally, a forum so detached, yet intimate, that even beings condemned to wander the earth decaying and feasting on the flesh of the living can know intimate details about someone's life, interests, and favorite television programs!

For instance, just the other day, I got to know Stacey H in a way I thought I never could. She loves the OC, likes coke over pepsi, Hates asparagus and NEVER kisses in public, cause she had a baaaaad ex bf experience. LMAO!!! Haha, I'd tell you the story, but ONLY people in her designated top friends area know about it.

Plus, I can let people know a bit about me -- although my interests of stumbling in large groups, moaning and eating brains are a little lackluster -- so I've picked up some fake ones to make friends, like sipping lattes at Starbucks, reading, and Tai Chi. Also, I replaced my pic with a random guy i found on google with a six pack. My schedule is too tight for me to go to the gym, do abs at home, or really do anything except think about eating human flesh. So I figured I would just use his photo instead. It's been a choice move for making friends -- I already have 50 within 5 miles of my postal code!

So if you are from my particular area and spend a fair amount of time on the internet, look me up! I'd love to exchange messages with you and add you to my friend group.
www.facespace.com/youngzombprofesh. Lata Playa!



(if you are sitting there thinking, 'hey idiot, Zombies have no capacity to think or speak, let alone listen to music, purchase a t-shirt, pay rent for a studio or to use a computer or access the internet -- [first off, you are a nerd, NERD] -- but I have one question for YOU. when was the last time you met a zombie? just because you read a book by Max Brooks doesn't mean your an expert. In addition, his views are completely bias against zombies as a group -- I wouldn't take everything you read as fact)

Bitchez betta step off in tha Blockbuster Line

by Lil' Doug Fresh

I kno its always like I’m playin an shit. Everyone’s always like, Lil Doug Fresh, you hilarious, you laid back relaxin like you Baby Boy Da Prince, but more fly. I kno, shouts to my peepz an holla at cha boy. But I gots to get serious right quick. I ain’t frontin and bitches best not be trippin, cuz I’m THE TRUTH when I say bitchez best be steppin off in tha Blockbuster Line.

It’s been a minute since I’ve holla'd at cha. Things have been goin good in Lil’ Doug Fresh’s life. But I GOTS to be honest. Get tha fuck up outta my ass when I’m tryin to rent Ghost Rider. Broke ass kakhi wearin polo shirt sportin goofy punk ass wanna be punk ass. Shiiiiit. With your ugly ass baby’s mama tryin to rent Little Nemo or some shit. Go put on some boat shoes and talk about golf or some shit an quit breathin down my neck when I’m tryin to jack some twizzlers before I roll up outta this piece. Of course I didn’t pay for that shit, asshole. Stop blowin up my spot fore I slap you like a bitch.