It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Zombies by Michael P. Spradlin Page A

imagine that you are not gathered around the table waiting for the credit-card bills to descendlike the war hammer of a vengeful Santa. Instead, you are all together, barricaded inside your house, stockpiling your supply of canned goods and preparing to fend off hordes of rotting carolers outside. And if one of you should be bitten, well, the more the merrier…
     
    “Bring a hatchet for little Nell.
    Or a nice pump shotgun will do her well.”
    Happy Holidays!
Christopher Moore

I’LL BE UNDEAD THIS CHRISTMAS
    It’s not a question of if.
    It’s a question of when.
    The swine flu. SARS. The Spanish Influenza of 1918—all walks in the park compared to what awaits us. I’m talking of course about the Zombie virus. Right now, scientists are working on the undead around the clock in secret government laboratories to come up with a vaccine for the dreaded bug. Personally, I don’t like their chances. And I should also mention that many of these secret government laboratories are located right in your own communities. (After all, Zombie scientists still need to send their children to good schools.) This is only going to cause the virus to spread faster when it breaks.
    And it will break.
    Their efforts are futile. There is no escaping the Zombie virus. So when the world falls down around us, when we’re forced to spend every waking (and sleeping) moment with machetes duct-taped to our hands, let us not forget our most sacred holiday traditions. Just remember that, in the Zombie age, our holidays will be different. Canned goods will become like currency, so don’t look for any cranberry sauce on your Christmas table. In the post-Zombie apocalypse, a can of cranberry sauce will bring you at least two shotgun shells from the survivors in the compound across the river.
    And you can forget about the traditional lighting of the Yule Log. Use it instead to smash a Zombie’s head in. There won’t be any time for ceremonies when there are Zombies scratching at your door. You won’t be hanging stockings, you’ll be wearing them for warmth. Yes, even those tacky ones you get at the mall with your name embroidered on them.
    But one tradition that doesn’t need to change is the Christmas carol. It only needs to be altered slightly. And that’s why you’ve picked up this book—just to hedge your bets. Because when you are turned (and you will be turned), you won’t want to be shunned by all the other Zombies as they gather around a steaming pile of brains. You’ll want to know the words to all the Zombie Christmas carols so you can sing along with your new peeps. So pick up a copy. (Or better yet, two or three, since you’ll want everyone in your future Zombie family to be prepared.)
    Good luck. Happy Holidays. And here’s hoping you won’t get bitten. Even though you probably will. And here’s one last bit of advice: When the virus breaks out and everything around you is going south, just look at the Christmas fruitcake in a new light. No one ever eats them and now you won’t need to re-gift them anymore.
    You can take a Zombie’s head off with one of those suckers.

 
I S AW M OMMY C HEWING S ANTA C LAUS
    Sung to the tune of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”
    I saw Mommy chewing Santa Claus
    Underneath the Christmas tree last night.
    I snuck up without a peep
    Behind Mommy, the Zombie creep,
    Now she’s biting off Santa Claus’s cheek.
    When I saw Mommy chewing Santa Claus
    Underneath his beard now turning red,
    Oh what a laugh we would have said
    If Daddy weren’t already dead
    While Mommy chewed on Santa Claus last night.

 
Z OMBIES ON THE H OUSETOP
    Sung to the tune of “Up on the Housetop”
    Up on the housetop, Zombies pause,
    Eating poor old Santa Claus.
    Down through the chimney come Santa’s parts.
    Once a Zombie bites—ouch that smarts!
    Chorus
    Ho, Ho, Ho, better not go.
    Ho, Ho, Ho, better not go.
    Up on the housetop, snack, snack, snack.
    Down through the chimney comes Santa’s back.
    First