It's a Mad, Mad Word

You guys did a fabulous job supplying me with an odd assortment of words. You guys are a league of extraordinary writers! But here's the truth: my Mad Libs story was a train wreck. It wasn't your words: it was mine. I seem to have that problem lately. So I doctored the story a little. OK, OK, I doctored it a lot. OK, OK, OK, I completely rewrote it. (You guys know I can't tell a lie, which is odd considering authors are professional liars.) So, much in the same way I did this post, which I know was THE BOMB, I give you this Mad Author Libs story. Your words are in red.

Oh, and my legal advisors want me to read this: This story is purely fictional. Any similarities between any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl who lived in fantasy land. But the weird thing was—everything around her was real. No unicorns. No mermaids. No vampires. The fantasy was entirely in her head. She was (dun dun dun) an author.

Her name was Andrew, but people called her Andy-roo for short. She was dazzling with a long face and brown shoulders. But, as we all know—it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Andy-roo was not noticed for her looks, but for her large, sub-par, yet fascinating vocabulary.

She wanted to write a story for her favorite singer, William Pumpernickel, because as she always said, his voice was better than the pyramids. Everyone thought she was silly for wanting to immortalize him with polka-dots, but she wasn’t languishing about the unlikelihood of her story ever making it big in Arco, Idaho.

As Andy-roo saw it, her plan could go two different ways. 1. If all the planets stopped flailing around, she could find success.  Or. 2. She could fall flat on her face and end up in rehab with Lori Folkman and Hugh Jackman. She tried to think positively, but then the naysayers would say things like, “Stop sitting around: don’t you have better/more important things to do?” Yes, she would say to herself. But I’m not going to do those things because I want to pretend like I’m in Morgan, UT.

After her hopes had been squished, she grabbed her wireless keyboard and began to shoot out words like she was possessed by the ghost of Mark Twain. The naysayers didn’t know what hit them though because she was as fast as a peanut in a tutu. It was like dodging pajama-clad shoppers at Wal-Mart. While she really hoped her story wouldn’t be boring, she figured at least it wouldn't be as bad as driving a Ford!

 

She spent so much time at her computer that her bum felt like it was stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey and her eyes were red as a rose and her body weight was 95% almonds, she joyfully stood up and yelled from the top of her toes, “This is better than how purple guys dance! I’m going to take this all the way to St. Jude’s and tell them I’m the next Jonathan Rhys Meyers!” (He’s related to Stephenie Meyer, ya know.)

It did not go well for Andy-roo at St. Jude’s. Basically, they tossed her out like a three-day-old pineapple and told her she was barking up the wrong tree. After that bad experience, she felt like she could no longer write. It was like the koala got her armpit.

But then she bounded back from her slump. She looked at everyone she loved very smugly and said, “I thought I had lost my mind, but it turns out that I had only misplaced it. Now that I found it again, would you please give me back my keys?” Keyboard keys, that is. You see, her family had taken away all her keys so she couldn’t type anymore. They complied and put all the keys back in place, except for one. Do you know what letter it was? It was the Scarlet Letter. Andy-roo figured she could continue to type, even without that well-known letter. If she could have kids moon-walk right out of her womb, she could certainly write with one less letter on her keyboard.

While her story still wasn’t finished and she still knew she had much work to do, she decided it was time to make a platter of homemade empanadas to send to William Pumpernickel to see if she could persuade him to open up his nose and sing, “Moses supposes his nose is roses but Moses supposes erroneously.”

 

But alas, this story is a sad one, as it is laden with misfortune. The package of empanadas was sent to the wrong address and Mr. Rogers ate them instead of William Pumpernickel. And get this: Mr. Rogers sued poor Andy-roo for reckless cooking when he found a fingernail inside one of the empanadas!

Andy-roo has decided that cooking empanadas is not her chosen calling and she will persist in writing silly stories until the day that unicorns grow fins and swim. 

The end ... or is it just the beginning?