gord is my copilot

Mad Libs:

My life was pretty terrific. I had a (an adjective) wife, (a number) kids, and a split-level ranch home in the suburbs. Best of all, I had a new identity and brand new fingerprints, so my days as a mercenary-for-hire were finally behind me, or so I thought. Imagine my (a word expressing surprise) when my phone rang, and a digitally scrambled voice on the other end asked if I could get my team back together for one last mission. My pulse raced with excitement, but I coyly feigned hesitation, telling the voice I was pretty out of shape, given that as a suburban dad most of my spare time these days was spent catching up on (a menial household task) or, if I was lucky, (a shockingly depraved act of self-pleasure) with (a vegetable).

Another obstacle was the fact that getting my team back together wasn’t an option. Most of those (a plural noun) were either presumed dead or enslaved in secret prison labor camps, having been bartered away to warlords in exchange for (a type of fuel) for my (an amphibious vehicle with armor plating) so I could get out of  (a third-world country) with my (a sensitive body part) intact.

“Maybe I called the wrong guy,” the voice said, and I took the bait, growling, “Listen up, (a pejorative term for homosexuals). I’ve committed (a wartime atrocity that calls the narrator’s very humanity into question) so that you could enjoy Family Board Game Night every week without worrying about whether the thimble, race car, or top hat had been covertly replaced by ones made of C-4 plastic explosive or radioactive Polonium-210.”

The phone conversation went on like that for what seemed like (a plural unit measuring time), with each of us volleying statements of braggadocio about our masculinity, creating a tense, charged atmosphere that, had we been speaking in person, would have no doubt led to us making out, our hands racing all over each other’s shirtless bronzed glistening torsos as we finally gave in to feelings we knew had been inside us all our lives, the repression of which had fueled countless murderous rampages of unarmed villagers in faraway lands on the American taxpayers’ dime. Unfortunately, we were unable to agree to my financial demand of (a number, expressed in a difficult-to-trace currency), so the voice and I wished each other well and hung up. And although I know I had done the right thing for my family by rejecting his offer, I couldn’t help wondering what tantalizing adventure I had passed up for the continued privilege of (an activity in the garage to procrastinate yet another episode of passionless sex with one’s wife). Dejected, I considered dosing myself with (a date rape drug) to erase any memory of the phone conversation.


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September 2010
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