By Marty Russell
It was Halloween, just weeks before the first presidential primaries and all the zombie candidates were running, actually shuffling, toward the finish line but the voters were still lukewarm toward the field although lukewarm was still considerably warmer than the candidates themselves.
“What we need are brains,” moaned one of the zombie candidates.
“Yes, BRAINS!” the other candidates drooled.
“But brains cost money and we’ve spent all of ours,” one candidate reminded the others.
“On attack ads?” one asked.
“No, just attacks. Remember last weekend’s zombie apocalypse in Times Square. Those occupy protesters sure tasted good.”
“Yeah, especially with a little barbeque sauce,” said one of the Texas candidates. “But the voters didn’t seem very appreciative of us attacking that rabble.”
“Why not?” asked one candidate.
“Because most of the ones we ate were also voters.”
Just then one of the zombie candidate’s eyes grew wide and popped out of their sockets.
“Hey,” he said, trying to stuff them back in. “Don’t we have lots of friends on Wall Street, friends with lots and lots of money?”
“Yeah,” said another. “But they’re vampires. They don’t really like us. They just use us to get to the real people, you know, the middle class, the ones who still have blood. Then they suck them dry and charge them interest.”
“And debit card fees,” chimed in another.
The moaning continued until one of the zombie candidates suddenly snapped his fingers, which promptly fell off.
“Hey!,” he said. “I’ve still got that equipment I was going to use to electrify that fence. Maybe we could use it to reanimate a corpse and steal its brain!”
“Naw,” another replied. “We tried that 12 years ago, remember? Wound up with a candidate who couldn’t form a complete sentence or feed himself.”
“Oh, yeah, nukler. I remember now.”
“What about the werewolves?” someone asked. “They’re mean and aggressive, they could get us some brains.”
“Too hard to train. Besides, don’t we have enough flip-floppers already?”
“Look, guys, why don’t we just hit up the Wicked Witch of the West for help? After all, she owes us big time.”
“Naw,” said one, “Sarah would never part with her hard-earned millions.”
“Hard-earned?” said another, but it was difficult to look sarcastic when you don’t have any eyelids or lips.
“Then we’ll just have to make a pact with the devil,” someone suggested.
“Naw, I don’t think Rove likes us that much either.”
“Then our only choice is to join up with Ted Nugent, form a band and go on tour to raise money for brains.”
“What would we call ourselves?” one asked.
“The Grateful Dead?”
Marty Russell writes a Wednesday column for the Daily Journal. He can be reached at 222 Farley Hall, University MS 38677 or by email at email@example.com