An Apology for Zombies

No one asks to be a zombie. Whether thrown into the "life" by nuclear holocaust or viral catastrophe, the zombie is a victim, just as we, his meal, are victims. What must go through his mind, so deliciously existential in his pursuit of protein! I would wager that it's fairly basic stuff ("lady brains", "man brains", "Baskin-Robbins", etc.) Though apealing in its simplicity and as fun as it sounds, do not think for a minute that he has chosen his career. It was foist upon him as suddenly as the responsibility of mowing was for us.
Zombie anthropology is a rather limited field, given the near annihilation of the human species. But, for those who have committed themselves to the study, zombie "life" is the most intriguing and rewarding subject available for anyone hiding in a boarded cellar.
The science is greatly handicapped by the fact that zombies eat bones, so researchers consign themselves to social studies. Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the tried and true model for zombie culture, is being revised as we speak by a little known anthropologist in Chicago who has survived for nearly five months. He says that Maslow may have missed a very salient aspect, at least as it applies to zombies... that "self esteem may be only as far away as your next dinner." The researcher has also documented the zombies' rejection of morality and sexual intimacy as higer needs.
And it is just on this point, that I launched my most hopeful business initiative to date: Zombie Daniels Midland. I began discussions with the zombies on ZDM about a month after the Big One. Television was still carrying Nick at Nite and I quickly learned that zombies absolutely love Barney Miller. I was able to find an affiliate in Waterloo Iowa with working cameras, and got a message out (being careful to keep it short and displacing only advertisement spots) to a couple of true visionaries of the zombie race. I kept it simple - "If you eat ALL of us you're gonna die out. Wojo and Barn don't want you to die out: they need the residuals." I was contacted by Stan and a guy I'll just call Chewy, by snail mail within the week (the US Postal Service - always awesome.) In reading their response "brain brains bra brain brrrrr braaiinnsses!", I was taken with their business acumen. They were suggesting that some zombies could, in fact, be trained as people farmers, and that they were willing to provide seven figures in capital for the R&D effort.
As we got into the "brain and potatoes" of the deal, as Stan puts it, they were looking for an exclusive on the intellectual property rights, but I just couldn't go there. I had filed with the US Patent office before even sending the TV message, and told them quite simply that my hands were tied (for some reason this got Chewy to drooling and grunting.) While very disappointed at the prospect of sharing the technology, Stan and Chewy still agreed to set up the Mid-West branch of ZDM with Chewy as CEO and Stan as my liaison to other regional zombie co-ops. Believe-you-me, it ain't easy to find another Chewy from this rabble of misfits. No sooner than Stan sets up a farm co-op, the locals get whipped into a frenzy and eat all the human breeders - it's a real mess out there.

Sometimes Stan laments, on the big HD screen in my concrete bunker, that he'll never have children of his own. And I have to remind him, that with every bite he takes out of someone's neck he's passing on that most important part of himself, that he's creating new dead people every single day. I don't think he really buys it though. Despite all of the money and power he has amassed, Stan is empty. He would trade everything, I think, for a girl that he could love and eat a little bit at a time.