Here’s something I wrote in one of the Uncyclopedia forums after a sudden burst of sarcasm struck me. It’s based off of my username (Dr. Skullthumper) and another user (Cajek).

There are many challenges that come with being a zombie. Eating, for one thing. Zombies don’t really have to eat, except for the occasional snack once a week or so. There’s none of that “BRAAINZ” business going on, believe me. Brains aren’t the squishy, juicy things science makes them out to be. In fact, they’re quite tasteless, unless of course you’re eating the brain of a gay guy.

At any rate, if you’re going to look normal, you have to look like you eat. I was out at a restaurant by myself this particular Wednesday afternoon, attempting to disguise the fact that I wasn’t actually eating my hamburger and French fries by repeatedly dropping things on the floor. I think it began to get a little suspicious as the pile of fries slowly grew underneath my feet, but no one paid it much attention.

An old man hobbled over to where I was sitting and sat down across from me. I didn’t recognize him, but he looked like he recognized me.

“I know you,” he grunted just after a silence long enough to make things awkward. “You’re that doctor guy I saw on television. Performed emergency surgery on the two guys that crashed in the middle of the highway.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” I said modestly, making sure to knock over my hamburger with my hand motions. “That was nothing. The one guy had some bits of glass wedged inside him, and I gave the other guy a quick run through and he was fine. Except for the brain tumor. Figured I may as well get that out while I was there, and I had a spork handy anyway. Damn! Do you know how hard it is to crack a skull open with your teeth?”

“Listen to me,” the old man rasped, clutching his chest. “Doctor Skullthumper. I want you… to fix my heart.”

I paused for a few beats. Then: “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“No! I mean, I need you to get inside me.”

“Quite to the point, are we,” I said flatly.

“No!” the old man repeated, more firmly this time. He smacked his forehead. I could hear the distinct sound of his decaying brain smashing against the back of his skull. Old people tended to fall apart like that, with bits coming loose and whatnot. “I need you to cut me open and fix my heart. All the doctors I’ve gone to say they don’t know what’s wrong with it, and I feel like I could have a heart attack any minute now.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. I picked up the knife and looked at him. “Do you want me to do it now, you know, get it over with?”

“What?!” the old man exclaimed. I thought one of his eyeballs would come out of his skull. Which would have been funny, you know, having an eyeball rolling around on the table. Maybe we would have played football with it, or stuck it in someone’s soup as the waiter passed by. Oh, the fun it could have been, but both eyeballs remained fully stuck in his head. “You mean now? Here? Don’t you have an operating table?”

“Well, I guess I could clear off the kitchen table.”

“What?!” That was another thing about old folks, they tended to repeat themselves. Poor fools. “You’re not a real doctor at all, are you?”

“Of course I am!” I said, insulted. “I charge ridiculous amounts of money to look at people inside and out. What else is there? I’ve even got a stethoscope!”

The old man considered this. “I suppose you’re right. Or you’re crazy, but you’re the only chance I’ve got.”

“Right on all three counts.”

“Fine. When can you operate on me?”

I gave him the location of my apartment. He wrote it down on a napkin and left.

Later that week, he stopped by my apartment to get the surgery done. My apartment isn’t much, just the standard things: Refrigerator, television, couch, bed, and a goldfish named Oliver who just wouldn’t die. I didn’t even have the tank anymore, and the thing was still flopping around. Sometimes it even woke me up in the morning. Stupid bastard.

“Come in, have a seat,” I invited him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Not important,” the old man grunted.

“Well, Mr. Important, I’m very glad to be your surgeon today!” I exclaimed happily. “Hold on while I fetch my stuff.”

Not Important grunted a bit more as I grabbed some items from the kitchen. He seemed increasingly worried as I brought out more utensils and a small rectangular-shaped object covered in white cloth.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the thing covered in cloth.

“General anesthetic,” I told him. In less than a few seconds, I took off the cloth, grabbed the anesthetic, and applied it. Mr. Important only had enough time to say “That’s a bri – ” before it started working.

I went to work. I operated feverishly, only stopping for a brief hour to watch American Idol. After I’d got done shifting things around a bit, I looked at the heart.

It was a tired old thing, still pumping along somehow. It looked old and weary, much like its owner. If only it had a little spark of life in it.

Ah! That was the answer! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Why do people get heart attacks in the first place? Because their hearts have lost the will to pump! I mean, it must get boring in there, in pitch-darkness, doing the same thing over and over again. So of course they get depressed, of course they give up eventually. And this one looked like it was about to. There was only one solution.

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