Yesterday I sifted through some boxes in order to make more space in our woefully undercloseted apartment. I found a book of Mad Libs from our college days and thought I’d spread some Christmas cheer by transcribing one herein:
From Goofy Mad Libs, Copyright 1988 by Price Stern Sloan, inc.
IRELAND
Ireland is a beautiful, green island lying directly west of (a place) my vagina.
In 250 B. C., Ireland was inhabited by short, dark (plural noun) baked gonads who were later called “Picts.”
They intermarried with (adjective) scrumdilly-umptious and sequined Vikings and with Celts who were (plural noun) mealy-mouthed virgins from Northern Europe.
In 1846, a blight ruined the (noun) succulent rotten dog crop in Ireland and over a million Irishmen migrated to the United States.
Many of their descendants have become very important American (plural noun) sarcastic possum placentas.
The Irish are noted for their poetry and songs. Some of these Irish songs are: “When Irish (plural noun) Sad Cro-Magnon Pandas are Smiling,” “Did Your (noun) Hopelessly Transvestite Ska Band Come from Ireland?” and “McNamara’s (noun) armpits of Ricky Schroeder that glow in the dark.”
Thousands of American tourists go to Ireland every year to visit its capital, (a place) Sherman Helmsley’s Bidet, and buy Irish linen (plural noun) naked, disgruntled street mimes and see the beautiful (plural noun) pulsating acne scabs and lakes.
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Memories.
And here’s an interview with Leonard Stern, a co-creator of Mad Libs from Just My Show, in which he reveals that they were intended to be a party game for grown ups and took up a lot of space in Stern’s apartment.
The one good thing about insomnia (apart from the legitimate medical need for Ambien) is the late night movie. Tonight I was physically tired but couldn’t sleep. I decided to watch whatever was on, which allows me to go into movies without any prepwork or biases. I just finished watching Bernardo Bertolucci’s “La Luna” and feel … aesthetically full? If you set aside the melodrama, aerobicizing, convenient twists, heroin-as-metaphorical-plot-device, and an infamous maternal handjob scene, what you have is a truly gorgeous film to watch. It’s beautiful like “Days of Heaven” is beautiful, with exquisite moody tableaux. And I loved the performances, especially the one by a very young, precocious Matthew Barry.
You know the old saw about the 1970s as a “turning point” in moviemaking – the dominant narrative is that mavericks like Scorsese, Lumet, Coppola, etc. turned filmmaking around with their unvarnished, realist styles. It seems like those flashy fellows have taken the spotlight away from the other wonderful films of the decade that went for quiet instead of loudness. “La Luna” (1979) is one of them, as is “Days of Heaven” (1978) and “A Little Romance” (1979).
Anyway. Good flick. The story arc is a little sloppy and the dialogue sometimes far-fetched, but it’s still so lovely to look at, and rather poignant. And a wonderful surprise at 4 in the morning. Unfortunately, it’s 5 and I still can’t sleep.
Oh Buns. Family quarantine is seriously snot funny. But the fanciful concept of a full-time mucus factory kind of is funny. I’m really happy for your bro. I remember when I first met him – he came to the dorms and gave you a bottle of Goldschlager for your 18th birthday. Just the type of thing older brothers should do!
My November was nasally unclogged and uneventful. Only two things of note happened:
1. Monty and I hosted Thanksgiving. Allegra and her boyfriend Ike stayed with us for a few days and our friends Andre and Stefi (from this post) spent the afternoon and evening with us. We gorged ourselves on wine, turkey, spiced nuts, cheese, starches, and two fantastic pies that Allegra brought down from this bakery in Manhattan. We also spent five days straight drinking whiskey and playing Guitar Hero, which Ike thoughtfully brought with him. It was beautiful down here too, since the leaves were still on the trees and decked out in reds and yellows. So that was the sweet, fun, nearly-Norman Rockwell thing that happened last month.
2. Also, one bizarro thing happened. One night, Monty and I met a couple friends at our favorite dive-y (meaning beers are less than $4) bar in Arlington. I’m still not sure how Jay can afford to sell beers for so little; maybe he owns the building? Anyway, it was really smoky and crowded and there was only one table available. It was a table for 8, at which only one man and one woman were sitting. So Monty asked the man, “Are those seats taken?” The man, who was about 50, s-l-o-w-l-y turned his head, looked cockeyed at Monty, and said all slurrily, “YOU can have whatEVER you WANT.” We kind of knew that the table was deserted for a reason, but since we are oldsters out of our twenties, the idea of standing around on our tender arches was a worse option.
Except for Monty, who got the “privilege” of sitting right next to the couple, we all sat directly across the table from them. Our group tried to make small talk, but it was very difficult since we were really just watching those two. Our conversation was basically just a string of non sequiturs: someone would say something, someone else would give a blank look for a second, then reply with “Ooookay, but how about this….” and say something completely unrelated.
We were just pretending to talk to each other because that wasted couple was impossible not to notice. They hardly moved, their mouths were slack and bubbly with saliva, and they didn’t talk to each other – just stared into the middle distance. After a few minutes, the waitress set two cheeseburgers in front of them. They slowly raised their heads at her, then slowly reached for the burgers, and then (again, slowly) smashed the food into their mouths and dragged their fingertips down their chins. I swear it was like the sloth exhibit at the zoo. And like zoo animals, they took no notice of us watching them.
Finally, they finished their revolting meal and decided to leave, which was a lengthy process of its own and took another 15 minutes. The check was right in front of them but they didn’t see it. The woman looked straight at me all intensely and strung a sentence together:
“Is ……. there ……. something …………………………………………. there?”
Assuming she meant the bill, I pointed and said, “Is that what you mean?” She elbowed her husband, who opened up the folder, picked up the change in both hands and goggled it. They jointly decided that “money,” “change,” and “tipping” were too complex to fathom so they just left their change strewn over the table with a couple lit cigarettes, crumpled ketchuppy napkins, and a full bottle of Rolling Rock. Then they shambled out. All of us were pretty nauseated. I haven’t seen anyone that disgustingly far gone since college, when Glossy Eric aimed little pearls of Wonder Bread into Crack Chris’s open mouth while Crack Chris slept in a puddle of vomit. Only this time, the general consensus was heroin, not crack. The only thing I could make of it was that it was a cautionary lesson about getting your shit together before you turn 50. Also, if you end up serving a very very wasted couple, you might get a $38 tip on a $12 tab.
