I’m dressed up like zombie Michael Jackson. The shiny red
jumpsuit getup and everything. Tabitha is dressed up like Elvira, even though
she doesn’t have the tits or hips for Elvira.
We’re over at Eli’s apartment, drinking before we go to out
to the bars, and I think I might already be drunk. Sometimes it’s hard for me
to tell, but I keep bumping my knees on the coffee table when I get up to grab
another beer and I just managed to spill Keystone Light all over Marilyn Monroe’s tits. I think those are pretty good signs that I’m drunk.
“You need any help, baby?” I ask Tabitha. She’s helping wipe
beer off Marilyn’s tits. They are nice big tits, and I’m jealous.
Tabitha just rolls her eyes at me and keeps wiping.
“There there,” she says to Marilyn, whose white dress now
has a piss-yellow spill down the front. “I’m sure it’ll wash out. Why don’t you
go back in the bedroom and take it off, and I’ll throw it in the washer.”
“Okay,” Marilyn says, and she goes ahead and pulls the dress
off right there in the kitchen.
X
There are three zombies standing with me in the kitchen, but
I’m the only zombie Michael Jackson, so that makes me happy.
One of the zombies, who has a screwdriver in his neck, says,
“Where’s your white glove, man?”
“It’s in my pocket. I took it off because it was hot.”
“You should wear the white glove,” says a second zombie, who
has an exposed eye socket.
“Michael Jackson doesn’t wear a white glove in the zombie
scene of Thriller,” I say.
“You don’t really look like Michael Jackson without the
glove,” the first zombie says. “You just look like a dork with a Jheri curl.”
I burp beer and pretend I didn’t hear him.
Fucking zombies.
