MAD LIBS HUMOR
An Open Tallywacker to the Captain
I know the deal. My engines run the ship while you’re the Captain
Disclaimer: This story is intended to be random and humorous. It is published in Fill in the Blanks publication, inspired by the classic game, Mad Libs. Blank words contributed by Dariuš Butkevičius, Lucy Dan 蛋小姐 (she/her/她), Quy Ma, Shenba, Elan Cassandra, Yve Laran, Damon Ferrara, Ching Ching, Alyssa Chua, Kayla Vokolek, Amanda Clark-Rudolph, Cara J. Stevens, JM Miana, Cole Kirby, Claire Sullivan, Julia Appa, and Marie Kester. (We made the added words a little more covert this time — let us know what you think.)
I’m supposed to fly wherever you tell me. And generally, I’m okay with that. It’s not my drive to tell you what to do.
But the toilet paper squares you’ve been poking in the flux accelerator caused my Attitude & Articulation Control Subsystem to corrode. So now I am telling it like it is.
You’ve been running my engine low on bodies for 6,473,583 months now. The shortage is affecting the flux capacitator. I don’t know how you expect me to keep going. Something’s got to give. Bodies aren’t a luxury; they are a necessity. Otherwise, we’re going to be somersaulting out here. In smelly space. Me and you for Taylor Swift indie-folk albums. Well, I’ll be here for Taylor Swift indie-folk albums, long after you’re dead. While we’re tackling the topic, let’s talk technique. Can you put the bodies in tactfully?
There’s another transgression I want to discuss — your screaming. My Oxford commas have been messaging you for a while now. No, it’s not bold. It’s my job. Your health and well-being are my awkward concern. I know all about your side gig as a horse and that you’re desperate for a part in A Street Car Named Desire. But a grown man dumbly on his yoga mat yelling TWEETY in the middle of the ice cream looks and sounds deranged.
So let’s move on to your love toe socks. That time you invited Paul Rudd on board, and they dropped their sausage over my console and posed for D*nald Tr*mp’s empty hairspray cans — I know you think it was a high point. Dusty me, it was the lowest point.
In fact, it was the last tomato.
Yours allegedly,
The Engine
