A day in a life of zombiebusters

My son has asked three little friends over to play. Somewhat to my surprise, they all behave very well and I can hear no fighting or arguing.

At three, I call them outside for a snack. We gather around the table and I pass out juice and cup cakes. In my most severe voice, I say:
"Mind you all, do not eat the paper. No paper is to be eaten!"
My son, who's well used to my sense of humor, giggles. The others look at me, wondering why I forbid them to do something they never had the slightest intention of doing. Except Will.
"Hey, the paper is the best part!" he says.
He got me. It's my turn to be speechless.

"So," says Will through a mouthful of cake, "can I see the carcass of the dead cat?"
With a shock, I realize he's talking about my beloved Bondi.
"Absolutely not. It's buried over there" I answer dryly.
"But is it really there or is it burned somewhere else?" insists Will.
"No, it's really there."
"So why can't I see it?"
"Because it's buried, Will! Just like when you go to a cemetery, you don't see corpses all over the place because they're buried!"
"Oh" says Will, clearly disappointed. The he brightens again.
"When they find a bone, they check out the DNA and bang! It tells them what kind of dinosaur it was!"
They all agree that bang! It tells you what kind it was.
"You know, each one of you also has DNA..." I say.
"Yes," confirms Will promptly, "in my hair."
He seems so convinced that for half a second, my eyes wander up to his hair looking for a lump of DNA.
"...In your hair and in all your tissues" I continue. "And each DNA is absolutely unique to each individual."
"Except twins" says Hugo.
"Even for twins."
"Well," says Gabriel as if that settled it, "my cousins...They were born six months ago...I think they're one year old now...They always dress the same."
I try to keep a straight face thinking of the one year-old twins born six months ago.
"Guys, let's go to my secret shelter!" calls my son.
They depart, heavily armed. The secret shelter turns out to be the empty pool. I suppose secrecy is in the eye of the beholder. For a while, they happily slaughter zombies. Until my son shouts victoriously:
"All the zombies are dead!"
"Well don't throw them away" I say calmly. "They should be recycled."
"Recycled?" asks my son in a doubtful tone.
"Yeah man. All zombies are recyclable nowadays!"
"Yeah!" shouts my son. "They're recyclable because they're living dead people!"
He runs over to inform his men. I gather the glasses and get ready to head back in. I hear Gabriel protest:
"Mine is not recyclable!"
But my son put his foot down firmly:
"They all are."
"Yeah" agrees Will "'cause they're dead carcasses."