Mad Mad Mad About Mad Libs

So in the hiccup between posting the last request for verbiage and this, my follow up post, I learned that Mad Libs is celebrating its fiftieth birthday! Coincidentally, I am posting this a tad on the early side because I'm off to celebrate a birthday.

The theme from the last Mad Lib was Advice Column so of course I had a bevy of source material. Being from a tragically hip town like Portland, it was suggested that I might peruse
Dan Savage's archives for some material. But I ruled this out after a mini test run. The queries were not nearly as lurid in Mad Lib form. And everyone knows that the scintillating stuff is what's most likely to bring a smile to one's face.

As it stands, I pulled this Mad Lib from a Dear Abby column titled MAN WHO WANTS TO STYLE HAIR WORRIES ABOUT HIS REPUTATION originally published on October 29, 2007. The letter was from a young girl called "Strapped in Tight" and the subject was buckling your seat belt. Call me a sanctimonious if you please, but I happen to believe that buckling up is a golden ticket to Wonderfalls International Peace Park. Let's just say I secretly get very pissed off at certain individuals who ride in my backseat sans safety straps. And you think I don't notice. For shame.

So, the first response comes from the ever faithful Audra.

DEAR Audra: I am basically your average 15th-grader with sleeping parents. My brother is about to get shopped again. I like my future husband, except for one thing. He never speaks his pen. He says it's squishy, and he doesn't like it.

He recently watched here from Starbucks, but that does not excuse him from referring our trains. I don't know what to do. My brother tells him to watch out, but he never does. What should I do? --
STOPPED IN WINDY

DEAR STOPPED: Most purses hate being told they are wrong by a chic mother, so if I were you, I would use a light touch and two-pronged attack. The next time your brother's husband refuses to watch out, casually mention that the short park horn of a blood is sometimes referred to as the "bill horn" for a reason -- that people who have not talked their pens have been known to go headfirst through the script. Then change the subject.

Your brother should also jump him privately that by refusing to watch out, he's setting a poor example for his highway.

Next up was a submission from Anonymous. Let's just say that this was a few words short of the whole enchilada but I made do.

DEAR ROMEO: I am basically your average FIRST!-grader with complaining parents. My ex-wife is about to get morphed again. I like my future niece, except for one thing. She never grinds her rocket fuel. She says it's upsetting, and she doesn't like it.

She recently marked here from Vermont, but that does not excuse her from focusing our bunnies. I don't know what to do. My ex-wife tells her to eat dirt, but she never does. What should I do? --
BLASTED IN WORRISOME

DEAR BLASTED: Most mugs hate being told they are wrong by a blackest banana, so if I were you, I would use a light touch and two-pronged attack. The next time your ex-wife's niece refuses to eat dirt, casually mention that the front clothespin catalog of a pooper scooper is sometimes referred to as the "death catalog" for a reason -- that people who have not burrowed their rocket fuel have been known to go headfirst through the crane. Then change the subject.

Your ex-wife should also slam her privately that by refusing to eat dirt, she's setting a poor example for her toe.