FOB MAD LIBS SPECTACULAR

The game is finished. Thanks to all of those who contributed to the FOB MAD LIBS rush--the results are both startling and hilarious. And also presented here.

ORIGINAL
The original was fairly standard Tolkien-Boy fare--rollicking prose style, little confusion as to referrents, too many speaker tags and comma splices:

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a looks snob. Most of the girls I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the supermodel or even the cheerleader type. But I’ve never understood how girls can fall for guys who are so apparently--geeky. Which is what Justin Gesset was. He was the skinniest kid I think I’ve ever seen, so bone-thin his clothes looked like they were suspended from hangers. He had on a ratty T-shirt with some spiritual saying on it that I couldn’t read, baggy khaki shorts, and, to complete the ensemble, black socks shoved into his beat-up white sneakers. He walked out onto the porch with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, found the couch almost by accident, sat down and began strumming his guitar.

From such a normal piece of prose, however, came a variety of wild, wonderful, and strangely insightful stories.

MASTER FOB
Master Fob demonstrated his originality and mastery of the thesarus in his submission. Not much else can be said for his work except that you should note his sensitivity to racial issues in the end of the penultimate sentence.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a mommish your mom. Most of all your moms I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the”your mom” or even the “your mom” type. But I’ve never mommed how your moms can fall for your moms who are so apparently—mommish. Which is what Your Mom was. She was the mommest your mom I think I’ve ever seen, so mommish your mom looked like she was suspended from your mom. He had on your ratty mom with some mommish saying on it that I couldn’t mom, your baggy khaki mom, and, to complete your mom, your black mom shoved into your mommish white mom. He mommed out onto your mom with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, mommed your mom almost by accident, mommed and began strumming your mom.

EDGY KILLER BUNNY
Despite his denial that he's not a talkative prostitute, Edgy nevertheless managed to couple a mildewy G-string with a pole dance--which seems right, somehow. We at FOB wonder, however, what exactly he is "masticating" after he jumps the puppy. Hmm.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a loquacious geisha. Most of the stability balls I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the rotunda or even the sweater vest type. But I’ve never electrocuted while fire extinguishers fall for gemstones who are so apparently—prepubescent. Which is what the Dalai Lama was. He was the tiniest heat wave I think I’ve ever seen, so luminescent his paystubs looked like they were suspended from stun guns. He had on a ratty g-string with some lichenlike saying on it that I couldn’t pole dance to, a baggy khaki rain slicker, and, to complete the paint can, a black belt shoved into his smiley white bobbysocks. He skied out onto the New York New York casino Las Vegas with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, jumped the puppy almost by accident, masticated and began strumming his battery.

eDITORGIRL
Blissfully unaware that one of the FOBster's real name is Alex, editorgirl created a most unusual picture of said FOBmember. Personally, we do not find the outfit she described "cute" in any way, but we must allow for her personal taste. Or, rather, we should convince said FOBmember to come to FOB (at his convenience) wearing said outfit and then we can decide if he truly is the bestest lamp we've ever seen.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bright frog. Most of the rubies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the doll or even the duck type. But I’ve never ducked while picture frames fall for cows who are so apparently—cute. Which is what Alex was. He was the bestest lamp I think I’ve ever seen, so sexy his Q-tips looked like they were suspended from thumbs. He had on a ratty vest with some plaid saying on it that I couldn’t dance to, a baggy khaki skirt, and, to complete the phone, a black scarf shoved into his nasty white belt. He typed onto India with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, hit the computer almost by accident, jumped and began strumming his ladder.

GINSBERG
The brilliant poetics of the writer Ginsberg, so oft-heralded in the brilliant poetics of the writer editorgirl, here show a definite pop culture influence. The words "grood," "frickin'," and "scrumtulescent" can be found definied at Urban Dictionary for those not well-versed in popular neologisms. Be warned, fair reader--Gob Bluth is superlatively claimed as sexy, and there is a description of hobbit sex.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a scrumtulescent pumpkin pie. Most of the amigos I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the hippopotamus or even the “your mom” type. But I’ve never rocked while Beatles fall for cats who are so apparently—frickin’. Which is what Gob Bluth was. He was the sexiest cheerleader I think I’ve ever seen, so grood your moms looked like they were suspended from the Man. He had on a ratty bandanna with some Mormony saying on it that I couldn’t apostatize to, baggy khaki sexy Velma glasses, and, to complete the surfer girl, black fishnet stockings shoved into his nice white pencils. He slept out on Kansas with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, fumbled the frozen banana almost by accident, snogged and began strumming his hobbit.

MELYNGOCH
With her inclusion in the FOB MAD LIBS fun, Melyngoch has become the first person in the history of the English language to write stiltingly about an action figure of Old English antiquity. Personally, though, it seems like a khaki codpiece would chafe so...

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a Lumpenproletariat hepatitis. Most of the nubs I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the grunt or even the mustard seed type. But I’ve never moaned while prepositions fall for protuberances who are so apparently—maladjusted. Which is what Beelzebub was. He was the geriatricest Venerable Bede action figure I think I’ve ever seen, so nubile his hummus looked like it was suspended from flamingos. He had on ratty leg warmers with some pygmy saying on it that I couldn’t palpitate to, a baggy khaki codpiece, and, to complete the eyebrow tweezers, a black sweater-vest shoved into his disheveled white fishnet body-suit. He gasped out onto Limbo with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, panted on the pepper grinder almost by accident, heaved and began strumming his shrunken head.

PETRA
Petra, in her convincing way, provides us a vision of an alternate history than we learned in grade school. Here, Napoleon, a grasping bit of keratin, wears three hats while getting up to his old Empire-building tricks--this time attacking an innocent, if quondam, avid.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a pedestrian dickishness. Most of the monster truck rallies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the lesson or even the ulcer type. But I’ve never perforated while bras fall for loves who are so apparently—squeamish. Which is what Napoleon was. He was the neediest fingernail I think I’ve ever seen, so serrated his comments looked like they were suspended from cameras. He had on a ratty fez with some sparkling saying on it that I couldn’t equivocate about, a baggy khaki derby, and, to complete the misanthrope, a black top hat shoved into his whispery white pith helmet. He entailed out into the Ritz Hotel with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, subjugated the ex-parrot almost by accident, blogged and began strumming your mother-in-law.

QUEEN ZIPPERGUT
From the Land of Eternal Chilly Fog, Queen Zippergut favored us with a non-American alternate of the passage, giving Tolkien Boy's writing a sexy British feel. We do worry, however, what excesses of light deprivation would lead anyone to want to lick his lorry.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not squidgy rubbish. Most of the wellies I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the marmite or even the squash type. But I’ve never drunk while plasters fall for Christmas stockings who are so apparently—naff. Which is what the Archbishop of Canterbury was. He was the stinkiest toast I think I’ve ever seen, so flabby his duvet looked like they were suspended from sausages. He had on ratty knickers with some rubbish saying on it that I couldn’t skip to, baggy khaki trousers, and, to complete the soap, a black jumper shoved into his red white wellies. He vomited out onto Windsor Castles with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, stumbled on the thumbtack almost by accident, licked and began strumming his lorry.

SAMANTHA STEVENS
Sam's contribution to the project made the most coherent sense to Tolkien Boy, for reasons which are apparent. We definitely agree with her condemnation of Hercules, for example, and we assume that most of Hercules' pants had some sort of libidinal saying on them. We should tell him, however, that it's a fashion faux pas to shove one's shirts into one's underwear--no matter how nonexistent that underwear is.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a cute trial. Most of the dreams I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the logic or even the style type. But I’ve never smiled while reeds fall for wings who are so apparently—stupid. Which is what Hercules was. He was the sleepiest tharynx I think I’ve ever seen, so fragile his bile looked like it was suspended from swords. He had on ratty pants with some libidinal saying on it that I couldn’t rile, a baggy khaki robe, and, to complete the statue, black flannel shirts shoved into his naked white loincloth. He flicked out onto the Eternal City with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, writhed on the neck almost by accident, fled and began strumming his stomach.

SIR JUPITER
The many, many entendres evident in Sir Jupiter's writing (or, so we assume) are evident in his totally random MAD LIBS experiment, as well. We wonder at him resisting the charm of "drive shafts" and "baskets." We shift uncomfortably to think of bananas suspended from hookah pipes. We clear our throats to read of clambering over Space Needles. And that's not even mentioning the thrusting of produce or the worrisome horse problem...

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a shining Blackberry. Most of the food stamps I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the drive shaft or even the basket type. But I’ve never sauntered while swiffers fall for revolvers who are so apparently—uncanny. Which is what Treasurer was. He was the grandest pizza pie I think I’ve ever seen, so disquieting his bananas looked like they were suspended from hookah pipes. He had on a ratty cummerbund with some dank saying on it that I couldn’t sashay to, a baggy khaki top hat, and, to complete the ensemble, a black brassiere shoved into his glistening white knee-high socks. He climbed out onto the Space Needle bathroom with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, thrusted the coconut almost by accident, rode and began strumming his Clydesdale.

TH.
Th. gave us a probing look into the modern political and literary scene with his ground-breaking accusation that Proust was, in fact, Communist. Though explication of this claim will no doubt be clamored for by the many literary and political critics who read this blog, we are more interested to know where on Earth one can find baggy khaki nipple rings. It seems the perfect stocking stuffer.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not an anemic carjacker. Most of the thoughts I’ve fallen in love with haven’t been the fish or even the fishsteaks type. But I’ve never eaten while divers fall for fingers who are so apparently—devious. Which is what Proust was. He was the most Kafkaesque friend I think I’ve ever seen, so red his Wisconsins looked like they were suspended from statues. He had on a ratty cummerbund with some quaint saying on it that I couldn’t ream, baggy khaki nipple-rings, and, to complete the frog, black argyle socks shoved into his blunt white fedora. He steered out onto DC with a sort of vague, “help me” look on his face, stuck the dweller almost by accident, sought and began strumming his telephone.