Chapter 16 West’s Mad Libs
West’s Mad Libs
This was a gift for McCormick’s birthday. West created it while sitting on the toilet.
Wienerpocalypse
You’ll need:
A type of sausage
A verb ending in -ing
Something greasy
A number
A bodily noise
A word that rhymes with “bun”
A body part
A flavor
An object you can’t legally deep fry
A bad decision
A weird pet name
Something found at a gas station
A celebrity you’d never trust with your wiener
A texture
A verb ending in -ed
An emotion
A type of condiment
A terrible place to find a hot dog
A verb ending in -s
An insult
A bodily fluid
A dramatic declaration
The Story:
It was a dark and stormy sausage. Not just any sausage—(1). I was (2) behind the dumpster of a (3) stand when I saw it.
A hot dog. Glowing. Whispering. Pulsing with the power of (4) years of forbidden toppings.
It let out a low (5) and said, “Come closer, you magnificent (6).”
I reached out with my (7) and felt something (8). I should’ve stopped, but I couldn’t. I was too deep. Too far. Too full of (9).
“This is a (10),” I muttered to myself, as the hot dog slowly unwrapped itself and called me (11) in a sexy voice.
Out of nowhere, a truck full of (12) exploded. From the smoke emerged (13), slick with (14) sweat, and holding a mustard-stained prophecy.
“You’ve been (15),” they said. “And now... you must face the Wienerpocalypse.”
I screamed in (16) and flung a jar of (17) into the void, but it was too late. The portal opened—in the middle of (18).
Everything (19). Nothing made sense. Even the buns betrayed me.
“You dirty (20),” the hot dog whispered. “You forgot the relish.”
And just like that, I woke up, covered in (21) and shame.
I stood, clenched my fists, looked to the sky, and screamed:
(22).