Small Talk is a new “feature” here on Whiny Baby, dedicated to the preservation of the brilliant conversations I have with five-years-olds five days a week.
Yesterday, a small zombie ate my brains. He stood about as high as my hip, and walked with his arms straight out in front of him, with his head cocked to one side. He ate my brain out of my thigh, making a “nom nom nom” sound as he used his fingers to pull my brains out of my leg and into his mouth.
“You’re a zombie now too,” he said. “You have to follow me.”
And so I followed him. He had my brain, after all. We shuffled over to a small patch of dirt, where he showed me around.
“This is where I live. It’s a graveyard,” he told me, gesturing with his arm toward the dirt surrounding us. “And this is where the explosion happened.”
I waited for an explanation that didn’t come and then I asked, “What explosion?”
“The explosion when I came out of my coffin,” explained the zombie, making a face that said: “DURRRRR, Sarah.”
“Right,” I said, playing it cool. “How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty-five days. Only the days. I explode out at nights to eat.”
“What do you eat?”
“Um. People?” he replied, incredulous. “I just ate you, remember?”
This was my second stupid question, but I no longer had a brain, so it really wasn’t my fault.
“Oh yeah. How do you get them?”
“I sneak up behind them very quietly and then just eat their brains.”
“Do you ever worry you’ll get caught?”
“Nope. I eat police brains too.”
Apparently “devouring police officers” is a classroom trend, right up there with Angry Birds lunch boxes and light-up glitter shoes.