I’m not sure about the legal ramifications of this document, but I’m pretty sure no lawyer would be willing to write up an official one (well, they’d doubtless be willing–but they’d also no doubt charge me for the opportunity). I’ve seen far too many zombie movies and read way too many zombie books for my own good, but in watching all of these movies, it seems quite clear that the sole reason a zombie apocalypse is able to really gain critical mass and take over the world comes down to one basic reason:
People are stupid.
Seriously. Everybody seems to somehow think that they’ll be immune to the zombification process. They get bit. Or scratched. Infected. And instead of doing the reasonable thing–liquefying their brain as quickly as possible–they try to ignore it. Maybe they’ll get better. Maybe this time will be different.
I suppose I can understand this mindset for the people who get infected. Liquefying your own brain is no doubt a scary prospect. But it’s different for the person’s loved one–you know the one I’m talking about. Maybe it’s the person’s sister. Spouse. Parent. Child. Whoever it is, they’re always there when you get infected. Every. Single. Movie. Mary gets bit, and Johnny wants to hold on to Mary for as long as he can, denying that she’ll really turn. And then Mary becomes a zombie and Johnny either has to shoot her anyway, or else she bites Johnny and down they both go.
(Note: one possible explanation for this is that all people in zombie apocalypses live in worlds that never speculated about a zombie apocalypse. Maybe they’re in some strange alternative universe, where George Romero was hit by a car when he was a kid or something. At this point in time, can’t we all assume that anyone involved in a present day (or future) zombie apocalypse is familiar with how this is going to play out?)
In any case, it’s for this reason that I’m writing up this online undead will, which delineates what my wishes are in the unfortunate event that I turn into a zombie.
Please, loved ones. Neighbors. Military. Do whatever you need to do to turn my brain into mush before it’s too late for me. No shots to the abdomen or heart. There’s only one way to take me out once I go zombie.
Off with my head.
You can use a cricket bat, axe, oar, shotgun, pistol, sniper rifle, proximity mine, club, baseball bat, sledgehammer–anything that happens to be handy when I turn. Just get it done fast. No tears. No drawn out dramatics. I’m a zombie, people. Take me out.
If everybody would just do that right when their loved one gets turned, then we all can avoid the impending doom of the zombie apocalypse.
Thank you–that is all.