Zombie Evacuation? More like Zombie Buffet. New Yorkers by the millions are packing themselves in the narrow streets, like salmon swimming upstream, many of them snatched in mid step by a zombie lurching from an abutting lobby or under a parked car. Yet despite this horrible danger, New Yorkers line up with their belongings on their backs, just waiting to be the next morsel for some brain dead ghoul. Why? Why do they do this?
Because of me.
All right, New York, I get your point. I’ve stepped down as Mayor, the City Council has control of the city again, so everything’s back to normal. You’ve made your point– Jimmy’s a naughty mayor. I get it. What do you want, me to write it on a blackboard fifty times?! Jesus!
Message received, okay? You can all turn around and go home, pull your children from the gaping maw of that zombie and live your friggin’ lives, okay?! If you’re only doing this to humiliate me, mission accomplished. Oh, and by the way, naming the evacuation after me? Nice touch. That really put the nail in the coffin. Now I can’t answer the phone without people asking me “Rudolph? Hey, any relation to the evacuation?” My relatives are changing their name to “Hitler.” Thanks!
Now some of you may have a legitimate problem that requires leaving New York City– like when I tore down your home to erect my bath house. You can go. But for God’s sake, do it with some dignity. Get in a car, rent a van, fly out on a plane. Hell, I’ll pay for the ticket (coach only, I’m not made of money.) But for God’s sake, stop trudging through the streets moaning about your miserable plight with your suitcases strapped to your back, pulling your little old mother behind you in the barcalounger she can’t get her fat ass out of! Show a little sensitivity to my needs. Can’t you see how this hurts me?
Seriously. You’re killing me.