28 Inches Later: Or How I Survived the Penis Apocalypse

Nothing could prepare us for the sheer psychological trauma of 28 Years Later. Or, as the internet is now rightfully calling it: 28 Inches Later. That’s right. We have now officially entered the era of the hungpocalypse.

Gone are the days of the fast vs. slow zombie debates. Because now… we’re arguing about girth. It’s no longer about how quickly they can get to you. It’s about what gets to you first. And unfortunately…it’s the penis. Now we must reckon with the Alpha Infected, aka Samson the Swinging, a feral, shrieking, biblically ripped man-thing whose giant, flopping pretzel-can dong slaps against his thighs with every undead stride like a wet mop slamming a church floor. He’s not just infected. He’s endowed.

Imagine running for your life, diving through rubble and looking back to see a naked demonic linebacker with a Thor hammer of meat charging at you through fire and moonlight. Do you scream? Do you laugh? Do you trip over your own soul? The answer is yes. Yes to all.

28 Inches Later is the scariest movie of the decade. Nothing can compare with the visceral terror of a fully naked, 6’8” rage-infected man chasing you through a foggy wasteland like a sexually confused centaur. It’s biblical. It’s traumatic. It’s high art. We’re witnessing a revolution in cinema anatomy. This is more than a movie. Its an experience! You can shoot a zombie. You can outrun a horde. But how do you unsee that infected zombie dick?

One man. One swinging nightmare. One day at a time. That’s how we survive the penis apocalypse.

Scoop by Biggus Dickus