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Can They Be Stopped??*

So I'm driving home from work, just minding my own business, when this boat of a car - I'm thinking '78 Cadillac - about 100 feet ahead of me starts drifting into my lane. This isn't your ordinary pull-into-my-lane-without-using-your-directional thing. No, it was a definite drift. I was about to lay on my horn when it drifted back the other way. Fine, just an accidental drift, then.

Five seconds later, it's back in my lane, but not quite. The car is straddling the yellow line between the two lanes. We're moving at a nice clip, about 50 in a 40, and I slow down a bit and pull back because I don't want some drunk old man in a Caddy sideswiping me. The Caddy slows down, too, and swerves all the way into my lane.

That's it. I lean on the horn. Normally, I'm not big on honking, but if it's winter and my windows are closed and you can't hear me screaming a string of nasty words at you, I'll just settle for loud, obnoxious beeping.

The brakes lights on the Caddy start blinking. The driver is stepping on and off the brakes and I don't know whether it's to annoy the hell out of me or because he's just a really bad driver. But I can't get into the next lane to get around it because of traffic. Besides, I need to make the turnoff right after the next light. So I'm stuck with the Caddy for a few more feet. I survive the next bout of brake lights and swerving - there was one moment when I thought the car was going to end up on the wrong side of the road - and I'm muttering death threats under my breath by the time the Caddy pulls into the turning lane for the Wal-Mart parking lot.

So we're stopped at a red light, the Caddy on the left, me on the right. I turn to look at this person who should be banned from every driving again. The first thing I notice is not the driver, but the massive pile of paper cups, bottles, cans and newspapers inside the car. It's like a mobile recycling center in there. I can see that some of the cups are dirty. I can also see on the front seat about four Poland Springs water bottles filled with a dark, yellow liquid. I shudder. I do not want to know what is in those bottles. My imagination tries to shout "It's piss, you idiot!" but I tell myself to shut up.

Finally, I look at the driver. I let out a small scream. It's woman. And she's fossilized. Or mummified. Or zombified. Whichever it is, she's clearly been dead for at least 100 years. The light turns green but I am still gaping at this...thing in the Caddy and as the car behind me beeps impatiently, the mummy/zombie turns her head slowly towards me and gives me the most evil, vile grin I have ever seen. A chill descends down my spine as I pull away from the Caddy.

As I drive away, I wonder what this world is coming to. First they give licenses to illegal immigrants and now they're giving them to the undead? When you start handing out driving permits to people whose business it is to kill you, you're walking a god damn slippery slope to the end of civilization. First, they lumbered after us. Then, they ran. Now, they're driving. I know these are politically correct times we're living in, but this is ridiculous. I'm writing my legislator today.

When there's no more room in hell, the zombies and mummies will take over our highways? I don't think so. I don't know about you, but I'm going to start carrying albums around in my car.

*which was the tagline to.....


... turning into Wal-mart, I rest my case ... where's my wife? I tell her all the time Wal-mart is where the mutants and incestuous backwoods families shop. I can now add zombies to my list.

I'm with Ferd. Sounds like just a typical Wal-mart shopper. We call it the Retard-Rodeo.

I don't know what you're writing to Norma Gonsalves for. She's not even on the House Undead Activities Committee.

Yea but I know her, so maybe I can bribe her to spread the word about the dangers of driving zombies.

Ahhhh ... life on Long Island. But it's all worth it, eh? The shows. The museums. All of NYC just down the road??

Well ... except for the crazy old bittys driving down the street ...

Writing your legislator is a lost cause. The undead are a crucial electoral bloc!

How does a woman piss into a bottle?

I guess it's easier if you're a Zombie?


George Carlin often opined about these kids of drivers.

Beware of any driver over the age of 70 wearing a hat. Especially a checkered cap, with ear-flaps.

Old drivers like ride around and point out what things used be:

That over there, before they built the mall, that used be.... used to be... oh hell, I don't remember...