Terry was depressed. His girlfriend was mad at him for being a lousy boyfriend, she was going to get even more mad at him once she opened her poorly-wrapped (in Christmas wrapping paper no less) gift of war bonds, his mother was complaining that he had hit a sewage pipe while digging out his “crazy giant hole” (or “crazy giant in-ground pool” as Terry referred to it) and it was flooding the yard with feces, and zombies were seemingly everywhere and killing everything in their rambling, brain-hungry path. As luck would have it, he was all out of the anti-depressant medication he had stolen from Jeffrey’s house before the police found the bodies in his cellar. Terry attempted to call up Dr. Richard Feldings, his psychiatrist of many years, but Dr. Feldings had recently gotten caller ID and decided against taking any calls from his patients, especially those on his “Super Crazy Top Ten Patients” list, which Terry had narrowly made at number ten. Terry, naturally, assumed Dr. Feldings wasn’t answering because the zombies had already gotten to him and turned him into one of their own.
“Either that, or he’s not accepting calls from anyone on that “super crazy” list of his,” sighed Terry, who had seen the “Super Crazy Top Ten Patients” list of Dr. Feldings’, who had inadvertently hung it from the wall in his office next to his many degrees from extremely prestigious universities and internet colleges.
Something in Terry made him decide to look at the issue of Giselle’s birthday present differently. As he stared confusedly at the war bonds he had recently wrapped in old Christmas wrapping paper, filled with Santas and snowmen, he decided that this was important. He ought to at least try to make Giselle happy before the zombies destroyed all humanity on earth. If he had the ability to create some happiness amongst the infinitely depressing environment of flesh-eating zombies and constant death that surrounded them, it was his sacred duty to do so. Even if it was just the briefest smile on his girlfriend’s face when she saw the puppy she desired so, it would be worth it. Even if it meant he had to risk life and limb, sacrifice all he had, and even if it meant fixing the sewage pipe he had ruptured in his mother’s yard, he would get Giselle some scotch. Or a Scotsman. Or a copy of Braveheart. Or whatever the hell it was she wanted.
In a fit of passionate outburst, Terry set the war bonds he had bought aflame and threw the burning symbolic gesture into the trash, which contained a fairly large amount of unused lighter fluid containers that Terry had stolen from work. Terry ran out of his blazing apartment building and into precious oxygen-filled, unburning freedom. It was going to take all of his wit and cunning to find Mel Gibson or whatever Giselle wanted, and now he was out of his home, and hence one step closer to his goal. First, Terry decided to call Giselle again and ask her what it was she wanted for her birthday. After all, Terry would only have one chance to get this right, as the zombies would surely have killed all of mankind by her next birthday. Terry searched desperately for a payphone.
“HELP! THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE AND MY PARENTS ARE INSIDE! THE ADDRESS IS –”
Terry knocked the middle-aged woman, who was so rudely and uncaringly hogging the payphone, away from the phone and onto the ground. He hung up on whoever the rude middle-aged woman was calling and threw in the proper amount of change and dialed Giselle’s number.
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” screamed the now-irritatingly loud, rude, middle-aged woman.
“Shhhhh!” reprimanded Terry impatiently, using his index finger over his mouth in the appropriate “shushing” motion. He turned away from the woman, who ran off screaming about something or other. Giselle picked up.
“Hello?”
“Gazelle!”
“GISELLE! My name is Giselle¸ you knucklehead!”
“Yes, my darling, it’s Terence. I was just calling to wish you happy birthday!”
“You said that three days ago, when I told you my birthday wasn’t for another four days. Then you pretended like you knew that and were just joking around. Well let me tell you this, you bastard: you had better damn well get me a fucking Scottish terrier puppy for my birthday, or I’ll save the zombies some time and eat your brains myself!”
Giselle had hung up.
Terry scribbled “scott. terrier pup” as illegibly as possible onto a business card of Dr. Richard Felding’s that had been in Terry’s wallet for some time. After shoving it back into his wallet, he was off on his quest to make the woman he sort of enjoyed being around happy, at least until the zombies killed her and most likely the dog, assuming he ever found it.
Before he got started on any quest, Terry felt he had to stop by his mother’s house. As much as he didn’t really like being around her or talking to her or listening to her yell at him about how he has single-handedly ruined her life, he would feel somewhat guilty if he left her high and dry with the sewage flooding her yard. Well, low and soiled by feces and sewage. Plus, she was going to be eaten by zombies in a few days or so anyhow, so he figured he might as well say goodbye to the person who gave him life.
“I knew I should have had an abortion,” muttered Terry’s mother when she opened the door to see her unaborted adult son, Terry, standing before her. His shoes and socks were covered in feces and sewage, which he failed to wipe on the rug as he trudged into the house and subsequently ruined his mother’s well-kept white carpet.
“Hey ma,” greeted Terry, with a stupid grin of obliviousness on his oblivious face.
Terry’s mother merely looked at the mess her son had made within seconds of being in her presence and walked away to the kitchen for a cigarette and possibly a cyanide pill, if she could find one.
“I’m here to fix the leak, ma,” shouted Terry.
Unable to find a cigarette or a cyanide pill, Terry’s mother sighed in despair and decided she might as well talk to Terry, as he would probably be taken by the zombies within a day or so, as he had no sense of danger or logic and would never have the sense to avoid them. Plus, she had plenty to yell at him about.
“I complained to you about that sewage pipe you hit three days ago! What made you decide to fix it now?” yelled Terry’s mother at Terry. “The sewage is nearly a foot deep out there. I haven’t been able to sleep since it started because of the goddamn smell!”
“Well, with the zombies ‘n all, I figured I’d help out a little before it was all over,” replied Terry.
“Oh, how kind of you. What a good son. Digs a giant fucking hole in my yard without my permission to make a pool I don’t want and can’t afford and, in doing so, hits a sewage pipe that floods my yard with shit and then doesn’t return my calls for three days!”
Terry sensed some sarcasm in his mother’s tone, but then again, he also sensed the smell of feces everywhere, and that couldn’t be. His mother had probably soiled her pants, assumed Terry. He had heard that the elderly lost control of their bowel movements once they started going senile.
“Mom, I think we should get you some adult diapers.”
“WHAT?” Terry’s mother looked furiously senile, thought Terry. “Dia-…you idiot. Goddammit, the smell is from the sewage pipe you hit in the front yard! The one you supposedly came here to fix!”
“Ahhhhh,” said Terry to himself in a moment of revelation.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Terry’s mother, throwing her arms in the air. “I’m going upstairs to watch the news until the zombies kill me. Are you going to fix the pipe now or what?”
“What pipe?”
With a huff and a steely look in her eyes, Terry’s mother turned and ascended the stairs, as she hated nothing more than sharing the same elevation with her son. Terry, unperturbed and vaguely remembering why he had returned to his mother’s house, went out into the front yard to survey the damage.
“Hmmmmmm…”
There was sewage covering the entire yard, and it was clear by the bubbling pool in the place where the giant crazy in-ground pool used to be that that was the source. Terry at first had assumed that the problem would be taken care of by the city, but they had become negligent and unreachable after the stupid “zombie thing” started. Swimming around that area was Terry’s mother’s dog, Scotty, a Scottish terrier puppy she had bought about a week before the zombies started popping up because Terry had run over her last dog, Scruffy, with the lawnmower. In the house. In the middle of the night.
“Get out of here, Scotty!” yelled Terry. “Go in the house before you poop all over the yard!”
Scotty swam to a shallower area of the yard and trotted inside the house, covered in sewage and feces. Now that that bothersome puppy was out of the way, Terry began trying to figure out how to inspect the situation. Terry was, at the very most, not a plumber and knew absolutely nothing about plumbing or how it worked or how to fix a problem involving plumbing. Terry was also grossly unaware of the health hazards of standing in a giant puddle of sewage and feces that had been sitting still for over 72 hours. Needless to say, Terry was not the man for the job. But considering it wouldn’t matter in a few days anyhow, that wasn’t really important.
“This is gross,” complained Terry to himself. It was gross. And Terry knew that it had been going on for far too long at too great a rate for him to stop it now. Plus, finding the broken pipe would involve submerging his head below the depths of the sewage water surrounding him, something he was not at all prepared to do.
“I should be wearing boots or something.” Terry’s socks and sneakers felt squishy and disgusting. It began to dawn on Terry that he was, by no stretch of the imagination, going to fix this problem. And he had begun throwing up due to the rancid, unimaginable stench filling the air.
Failing at this was of no concern to Terry. He often disappointed his mother, and took comfort that this would most likely be the final disappointment. Something far more important required the majority of Terry’s already immensely divided attention anyhow: finding a Scottish terrier puppy for Giselle. His whole life had been leading up to this, he felt.
Suddenly, a moment of clarity overtook Terry. Of course! The answer was right in front of him. How silly, how could he not have thought of it before? Terry dashed into the house and searched desperately for Scotty’s leash. Upon finding it nudged within a couch cushion (which he ruined with sewage and feces stains), he leashed Scotty and burst out of the door and away from that general area, which had lost a great deal of property value recently for two reasons: firstly, Terry’s mother’s lot was covered in sewage and feces and, secondly, zombies were on the loose and absolutely no one was interested in purchasing new real estate.
BJ Craps? UrbanDictionary would define that as a "blumpkin." $1 BJ in 
The Hoff, spreading joy throughout the world. And magical fairydust.
I am a mature adult.
