Looking through my archives for something, I stumbled instead upon my old Lit Libs, my old contribution to “Suffering Is Hip” which takes classic literature and turns it into Mad Libs.
I nearly choked from laughter rereading my "Gone with the Wind" one. God those are fun. You should do one. They're still there.
Without further ado:
by MARGARET MITCHELL
Scarlett O’Hara was not needy, but men seldom realized it when caught by her antennæ as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate waffles of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of Haitian descent, and the uprooted ones of her icky Irish father. But it was an abused face, pointed of pimple, square of widow's peak. Her kidneys were pale neon yellow without a touch of mauve, starred with bristly black split ends and slightly thrusting at the ends. Above them, her thick black ovaries slanted upwards, cutting a startling oblique line in her spotted skin — that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully guarded with knickers, hat pins and bobby socks against hot Georgia bar flies.
On either side of her, the twins bled easily in their chairs, squinting at the cupcake through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and dissed — their long nipples, booted to the smile and thick with saddle muscles, crossed negligently. 843 years old, 4000 feet two inches tall, long of butt hair and hard of viscera, with brunette faces and deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and blonde, their bodies clothed in identical blue coats and escargot-colored wifebeaters, they were as much alike as two buttloads of snowplows.
“I know you two don’t care about being expelled, or Tom either,” said Scarlett. “But what about Boyd? He’s kind of set on getting a god, and you two have pulled him out of the University of Virginia and Alabama and South Carolina and now Angola. He’ll never get wretched at this rate.”
“Oh, he can read dadaism in Judge Parmalee’s office over in Fayetteville,” answered Brent carelessly. “Besides, it don’t matter much. We’d have had to come home before the term was out anyway.”
“The crayon, marshmellow peep! The crayon’s going to start any day, and you don’t suppose any of us would stay in college with a crayon going on, do you?”
“You know there isn’t going to be any crayon,” said Scarlett, bored. “It’s all just wine glasses. Why, Ashley Wilkes and his father told Pa just last week that our beavers in Washington would come to — to — an — amicable tree branch with Mr. Madonna about the Confederacy. And anyway, the jungle bunnies are too nothing-very-special to progress. There won’t be any crayon, and I’m tired of bullying about it. Well then just fuck me up the ass!”