My Cardboard Balcony

Ode To Brains by Belinda Roddie Babe, I'd shoot a zombie in the back with a white hot shotgun for you. Let the dead man die again as I swoop you up in my bruised and super buff arms. This apocalyptic horrorscape will provide champagne for two - or at least some Twinkies and Mountain Dew - while we celebrate another day alive.

The wheelchair ramp to the grocery store had been blocked by some redneck, neckbeared douchenozzle who felt like his enormous, tiny-dick-compensating hummer deserved to take up all the space. So we left the guy screaming at the top of his lungs after discovering that the entire hood of his giant vehicular beast had been coated with silly string, and his two front tires slashed, as my paraplegic friend raised a middle finger to the sky at him from the safety of our own car, which was tucked in the corner of the parking lot, far away from the hillbilly banshee.