Mad Libs, they’re like a party game for words, and who doesn’t like a party and funny words? We do, so we put a few Medieval-themed Mad Libs together and asked some DJs playing Middlelands to fill in the blanks. Then we created custom illustrations based on their nonsensical short stories. Because why not.
The pure, ringing sound of Bitchfield, England’s town crier’s didgeridoo split the early morning air. Gavin jumped out of bed. He had worked for years, studying under uncleEduardo, and today was the day he’d take his final step toward being a real man—toward being a minstrel! He kissed his own hand and touched his lucky poster of Steve Buscemi, clicked his Spleens together, and ran across the castle’s drawbridge and into the town below.
Basketballs rolled across the sky in great clumps, as wee Spaceships scampered hither and thither through the village square. Gavin pounded on his uncle’s door, and the old man stuck his head out, his Chartreuse beard blowing weirdly in the warm breeze.
“Why, hello, young master! Or should I say, Master Minstrel!”
“I’m all ready to go, uncle.” Gavin held up the Himalayan Snowcock sandwich his mother had made the night before.
“Where’s Ladasha?” No sooner had Eduardo asked, than she trotted ‘round the corner with the boy’s choker between her moist teeth.
Gavin jumped on her back, and the two galloped away. The proud uncle stood in the attic, waving his dog in the air, his face blood red with emotion.
At the dragon’s cave, Gavin pulled his Violet cloak over his head. This was the moment! Claiming one’s instrument from the dragon’s cave was the rite of passage all young apprentices must go through in order to become real musicians.
There he lay! The great dragon Pencilvester! Inch by inch, foot by foot, the boy crept past the sleeping beast’s pinky toenail until he saw it: the Hi-Chew + Recorder. He carefully pulled it under his cloak and was almost outside, when a belch of smoke shot past him.
“Where do you think you’re going, you preposterous thief?” bellowed the dragon.
The boy was suddenly glad he’d worn “the brown pants.” His lips flapped spastically as he replied, “N– n– now that I’m a real minstrel, I’m headed to the The Stronghold stage at Middlelands, where I’ll make my fortune.”
“Oh,” said the beast, “Why didn’t you say so? Have a blast.”
AND THEY BOTH LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
You can catch Crywolf doing this thing at Middlelands.