So wait… what? You want me to type something funny? That’s really difficult you know? Especially for me! I mean… this stuff doesn’t just come to folks.

You can’t just sit down and start writing…

Like… you can’t just make a zombie story out of nowhere.

“I see the zombie in the corner of my eye. My gaze hardens.

Immediately my hand flies to the nearest desk drawer. With lightning quick movements I pull out my weapon – a rubber band. My plan would surely lead to victory, but I had to work fast.

Spinning around in my swivel chair, oiled just that morning (in the event that such an encounter would occur), I face the monster. It is barely recognizable as human, its maw open in a twisted leer that seems to mock all that is good and natural in this world.

With a primal scream I form a gun-shape with my right hand, the index finger extended like the mightiest of cannons and my thumb ramrod-straight. I like to shoot rubberbands like this because when I try to just draw it back I sometimes let go at the wrong time and it hits me in the face.

At any rate, I draw my mighty elastic ammunition across the dread frame that is my gun-hand. My eyes are now slits. The only things left in this world are me, my hand, and my foe. He is in my sights.

Target locked.

BANG BANG BANG I yell, bringing my thumb down and releasing my kinetic cannon, Bearer of the North Winds, Bringer of Destruction. The glorious hoop of industrial polymer sails across the room, striking my enemy between the eyes. It explodes, sending chunks of foul meat in every direction.

Silently, with a smirk, I wipe the remains from my eyes. And then, with them now clear, cast them toward the heavens.

I have won this day. I have made peace with my demons.

At last, my homeland will be free.”

See, you can’t do that!

Nor could you post up some odd little story

“The entire hall was in ruins and still in the process of being destroyed, as dozens of combatants hurled weapons, deadly, arcane magics, and themselves at on another in a desperate struggle to be the last one standing. Plumes of acrid green smoke rose from the pile of limp bodies you dragged yourself out of, having barely escaped the wrath of some fiendish spell. There it was – across the way, through the battling throng, through the bloodthirsty battle ahead of you, sitting untouched on a miraculously upright table – your pint of mead! And you’d get it back, if you had to kill every last one of the brawling tavern patrons to do it!”

It just wouldn’t work you see?

So yeah, obviously I lose… I’ve got nothing