I dragged my plague-riddled self to the dinner table tonight, only to be greeted by the sight of Big G brandishing a whisk, chanting, “Zombie whacker! Zombie whacker!” Of course, Car looks at me and says, “I blame this on you.”
What the crap, Car? Okay, yes, I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl. I thought Shaun of the Dead was a fantastically funny movie. But it’s not like I sit and talk to the boys about the impending zombie apocalypse. Heck, I couldn’t even sit in the same room when Car played the Resident Evil games. They were too creepy for me. Shut up. I know I’m a pansy, and I’m okay with that.
This is like when I asked Car to stop saying “butt” (I prefer “bum” coming out of a toddler’s mouth) and he claimed innocence, but then a minute later I heard him tell Little G, “We need to change your stinky butt!”
But I’m a very mature person and won’t blame this on Car. I think I’ll pin it on preschool. Big G is five, after all. We can’t expect him to be oblivious to brain-eating monsters forever.
In completely unrelated news, I now have over 1000 followers on Twitter. I find this 1) awesome 2) bizarre and 3) a frightening statement about approximately 1000 people.