Only Dead on the Inside

by James Breakwell

  “Okay,” you say to yourself, “a minivan is a great ride. But what’s that have to do with the zombie apocalypse?” It’s like you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Probably because these words are printed on a page and don’t make sound. Go back and read this chapter out loud. Actually, shout it. The only reason I didn’t type this entire thing in all caps is I slammed my keyboard so hard I broke the caps-lock key.

  If you want to go anywhere in the zombie apocalypse, you need a minivan. Do you know how much stuff you can cram into one? A lot. Like, a boatload, which is like a regular load, but proportioned for a boat. That’s right, I went nautical. You can shove in all the blankets and pacifiers and stuffed animals your kids need plus knives and booze, too. Think you can put all that stuff in a sedan? No way. If you jam all that stuff in a four-door car, there won’t be room for oxygen. Do you want to hold your breath for the entire zombie apocalypse? I didn’t think so.

  A minivan has room for luggage. It has room for air. And it has room for liquids. That’s right: It has space for THREE states of matter. Kids shoot liquid out of every orifice, and it constantly needs to be replenished. The minivan knows that. It knows everything. Each minivan has at least twelve state-of-the-art liquid stabilization chambers, known to commoners as cup holders. That’s way more than any other vehicle. It’s basically a cup holder collection with an engine attached. If you want to, you can haul a dozen slushies at once. Can’t find a slushie after the end of the world? Not my problem. I don’t have problems. I drive a minivan.

  Don’t want to spend the end of the world drinking happiness in liquid form? How about watching a film instead? Minivans are mobile movie theaters. Once the world ends, they’ll have the last working TVs on the planet. There won’t be electricity anywhere else. Sure, you could try a portable DVD player, but AA batteries run out fast, and new ones corrode in the package. Besides, portable DVD players barely exist anymore already. You might as well scrounge up an eight-track player and a sundial while you’re at it. “But what about my phone?” you say. “Can’t I charge it in the van and use that?” What you are you going to watch on it, smart guy? Phones don’t have a DVD slot. Minivans do. It’s like they were built for the apocalypse.

  But I can still hear doubters. “You’re just ranting about sex machines,” they say. “We want facts.” Well, strap in because I’m about to take you on a wild ride to Truth Town, population: you. That’s right, you’re moving in. I already informed the post office. Two quick points for the naysayers: (1) You’re wrong. (2) You’re wrong. That was actually the same point twice, but the second time was slightly more condescending. Minivan drivers got that. We understand each other. We understand everything.

  The anti-minivan crowd always starts with same argument. “I don’t need a minivan to haul my family,” they say. “I’m too cool for that. I’ll drive an SUV.” So what happens if you follow through? Congratulations, you bought a lie. If you think that makes you young and hip, you’re driving 4,000 pounds of pure self-delusion. It’s a heavier, slower minivan with worse gas mileage and double the price tag. The only reason to own one is to show off to other people. Spoiler alert: No one cares. They’ll be too focused on being eaten by the undead. Soon you’ll join them thanks to your poor vehicle choice. And when that happens, minivan owners won’t stop to help. They’ll be too distracted by what’s happening to Nemo.

  “But, but, but,” you stammer, oh unfortunate SUV owner, “SUVs can tow stuff.” What are you going to tow in the zombie apocalypse? Here’s a great idea: Let’s attach a giant trailer to the back of a large, slow SUV to make it even larger and slower. That totally won’t get you attacked by other survivors or the undead. Also, why do you have so much stuff that you need a trailer? Declutter a little. It’s the end of the world. You don’t need to take the china hutch.

  “But,” you say even more defiantly, “SUVs can go off-road.” Really? When’s the last time you saw an SUV drive anywhere that wasn’t a road? America has millions of miles of streets and highways, and once everyone dies, they’ll be largely abandoned. But instead of driving on these gigantic concrete thoroughfares that span the entire country, you want to go driving through some bean field? Okay, have fun. Guess what? In 100 yards, you’ll run into another road. Might as well drive on it—but only if you make it there. SUVs have power, but they also have weight. There’s a good chance you’ll sink in the mud and get stuck. Then who you gonna call? Read the fine print on your AAA card. It’s null and void at the end of the world.

  “But,” you say yet again in a huffier voice, “SUVs are better for ramming zombies.” Let’s break this down. When’s the last time you saw an SUV driver ram a deer on purpose just because they could? Never? That’s because living matter wrecks SUVs just like it wrecks everything else. Zombies are bigger than deer. Have you looked around lately? We’re not a country of small people. Finding someone who weighs less than 300 pounds is like spotting Sasquatch. How are you going to run that over? It’s like hitting a wall made of ham.

  “But,” you say for at least the millionth time in a row, “if SUVs aren’t the answer, surely there must be something else I can drive.” Let’s consult the chart. It’s not just any chart. It’s a chart printed in a book. That means every word of it is true.

  Best Vehicles in the Zombie Apocalypse

  Vehicle

  Pro

  Con

  Horse

  Doesn’t take gas.

  Will serve as an appetizer for zombies before they eat you.

  Bicycle

  Fast on paved surfaces.

  Hard seat will make you envy the dead.

  Dirt Bike

  Great for pointlessly jumping small hills.

  Loud enough to attract every zombie in a three-mile radius.

  Motorcycle

  Looks cool.

  You’ll die if you hit anything larger than a squirrel.

  Sedan

  Easy to get one since they’re everywhere.

  Can only fit all your stuff inside if you leave your children behind.

  SUV

  Great if you need to tow a boat.

  Zombie apocalypse will limit chances for aquatic recreation.

  Tank

  Invincible death machine.

  There won’t be enough gas left in the world to drive it off the parking lot.

  Minivan

  Will keep your children alive.

  So perfect it hurts.

  There it is in black and white. A minivan is better than every single vehicle out there. And why wouldn’t it be? It’s not a single vehicle. It’s a transformer. Fold down the seats or take them out and BOOM, you’ve got a truck. I used mine to haul lumber for a 240-foot-long fence. Sure, the men at the hardware store laughed at me behind my back—and to my face and to both sides of me—but their ignorance isn’t my problem. Once the zombies come, those jerks will wish they had my minivan’s transitional hauling capacity. I may or may not have yelled that as I drove away. And that’s why I can never go back.

  The minivan is also a combat aircraft. Other than the missiles. And the flying. But its dual sliding doors open like an attack helicopter’s. Swoop into a hostile environment with the doors wide open. Your armed party can jump into battle while the minivan is still rolling. Those sliding doors are stealthy, too. They open with a whisper at the touch of a button. A minivan is a ninja. I’d show you to prove it, but you couldn’t see it. That’s the point.

  “But how will you power this ninja attack helicopter?” the doubters ask. Easy. It runs on pure adrenaline. And regular unleaded fuel. But mostly adrenaline. Unlike an SUV, a minivan gets great gas mileage, so there’ll be more than enough processed petroleum to keep it going. You just have to know where to look. Start with other people’s garages. A vehicle left inside was likely parked there on purpose and still has gas, as opposed to one abandoned on the road, which someone probably drove until the gas ran out. More importantly, many garages have beer fridges. The power won’t be on
, but a warm bottle is better than none at all. Drink until you believe that lie.

  So what have you learned today? The world is full of big, powerful vehicles that seem perfect for the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Every single one of them will get you killed. Only the minivan has what it takes to keep your family safe from zombie hordes. It offers the right combination of protection, power, and hauling capacity to get your loved ones to hell and back—and then back to hell one more time because your kid forgot a stuffed animal there. Heaven forbid she ride out the apocalypse without Mr. Fluffers.

  Sedans, trucks, SUVs, and all two-wheeled vehicles are nothing but high-end death traps. If your goal is to look stylish while zombies rend you and your family to pieces, by all means splurge for that brand-new truck you saw advertised between two erectile-dysfunction commercials. But if you want your family to make it to tomorrow, put them in a minivan. You’ll all survive, even if you’re dead inside.

  THE END OF THE END

  If you made it to this chapter, pat yourself on the back. Actually, pat me on the back. I kept you alive for the length of this book. Let’s be honest: You’re as surprised as I am. Neither of us expected this guide to be useful. Maybe you got it as a gift from someone who hates you. Or perhaps you picked it up to see if anyone hollowed it out and hid a flask. But whatever the reason, twelve chapters later, you’re still with me, upright and breathing. Those extra minutes are nothing to scoff at. Too bad you spent them all reading this book.

  It’s possible I don’t deserve all the credit for your survival—although I’m claiming it anyway. Maybe you’re still alive simply because nothing has had a chance to kill you. If the zombie apocalypse hasn’t reached your area yet, don’t get cocky. Soon you’ll have to put my strategies into practice. If you think my ideas sound bad now, wait until the survival of your family depends on them. I hope you read that panic section closely.

  So let’s say the zombie apocalypse already happened. What’s next? That depends on your outlook on life. If you’re an optimist, you just have to keep your family alive until the world is up and running again. For the first time in history, people won’t exploit a worldwide tragedy for their personal gain. Instead, they’ll put aside their petty differences, slay all the zombies, and rebuild civilization with a new sense of camaraderie and purpose. Of course, it won’t all be easy. Your hand will hurt from too many high-fives, and you’ll lose your voice after the one millionth round of “Kumbaya.” To reach this future, all you’ll need to do is believe in humanity. And fairies, pixies, and unicorns.

  If you’re a pessimist, you know the only time things stop being bad is when they get worse. Once civilization collapses, it’ll be gone for good. It was only held together by dental floss and glue in the first place. There’s no way to put it back together again. It’s outside the warranty period, and replacing it with a newer model isn’t in the budget. Once the world collapses, the hellish dystopia that takes its place will be here for good. That much should be obvious from the start. That’s why it’s called the zombie apocalypse, not the zombie temporary setback.

  But even in the worst-case scenario, there’s an upside. If the world never bounces back, it’ll take the pressure off you as a parent. You won’t have to worry about your children competing with other kids socially or academically. Peer pressure will end with the deaths of their peers, and scholastic rivalries will be buried with them. There won’t be any more prestigious universities with a limited number of available slots. Instead, education will be more personal and practical. Teach your kids to do the basics—reading and writing for lists of punishment chores, counting for diaper trades, etc.—and they’ll be fine. Your parenting will be judged solely on a pass/fail basis. If your kids are still alive, you did a good job. And if they’re not alive, you still probably did a good job. There’s a 99 percent chance if they died, it’s their own fault. Remember that when you meet them again as zombies.

  So what were you supposed to take away from this book? Probably nothing. If people were capable of learning from their mistakes, the world would be full of only children. So why did I write this guide at all? To be honest, I didn’t set out to help people. When I started this book, my motives were strictly financial. But now that I’ve finished it, well, my motives are exactly the same. Sorry if you expected me to have an epiphany. Writing a book didn’t make me a better person, just a slightly less poor one. If you want character growth, stick to the fiction section. Still, it makes me feel good to know you and your family survived because of me. Of course, if at some point you stop surviving, I’ll feel good, too. Then I can loot your stuff. In hindsight, giving away all these tips was a bad idea. All I did was help my competition.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is a group effort. The following people deserve a share of the credit. And the blame.

  •My literary agent, Mark Gottlieb of Trident Media Group. This isn’t the most commercially viable book concept I could have chosen, but it’s the one I wanted to write. Thanks for supporting my bad decision making. You’re the perfect enabler.

  •Glenn Yeffeth, publisher of BenBella Books. I don’t know why you took a chance on this book when so many other publishers passed. Maybe you saw something in me that everyone else missed. Or maybe you lost a bet. Either way, this book wouldn’t exist without you gambling on a first-time author with a weird idea. Hopefully I don’t ruin us both.

  •Leah Wilson, BenBella editor in chief. I admire your grace and professionalism in the face of insurmountable absurdity. I made up all this stuff off the top of my head. Then you had to critique the logic of it line by line for 200 pages. It occurs to me now that this book, while the high point of my life, was probably the low point of yours. Thanks for toughing it out. I don’t owe you a drink; I owe you the entire bottle.

  •My wife and kids. I complained about your interference constantly, but the truth is this book wouldn’t exist without you. I base all my jokes on your daily antics. Without that material, I’d have no audience, and without that audience, I’d have no book. Thanks for putting up with me for the months and months it took me to write this. I promise to never put you through that again. At least not until the sequel.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  James Breakwell is a professional comedy writer and amateur father of four girls, ages seven and under. He is best known for his family humor Twitter account @XplodingUnicorn, which has more than 885,000 followers. The account went viral in April 2016 thanks to a feature article on the front page of BuzzFeed. The resulting attention from media outlets around the world transformed Mr. Breakwell from a niche comedy writer into one of the most famous dads on social media.

  Mr. Breakwell has been profiled by USA TODAY, Us Weekly, Daily Mail, Metro, the Telegraph, Cosmopolitan, Better Homes and Gardens, The Huffington Post, Upworthy, the CHIVE, Bored Panda, various ABC and FOX TV news affiliates, and countless other TV, radio, and internet outlets. Pictures of his smiling girls have been displayed in newspapers as far away as India. His articles have appeared in Reader’s Digest, the Federalist, and AskMen. He has been a guest multiple times on HLN’s The Daily Share, and the show hasn’t banned him yet. He can open most jars on the first try and is only a little afraid of the dark. He still can’t load the dishwasher right.

  Keep track of Mr. Breakwell’s ongoing failings as a father and a human being at ExplodingUnicorn.com or on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/ExplodingUnicorn.