Do you remember Mad Libs? They were, without equivocation, my favorite thing during long car rides as a child.
Every time autocorrect inserts itself into a text, note, or email I'm writing on my SmartPhone or tablet or, increasingly, my computer, I'm reminded of Mad Libs. Because that's where the sausage embellishes the quarantine.
There I'll be, genuflecting at my keyboard, and the sparrows eject toothpaste from my fingernails. Gallbladders of red and gold streak lackadaisically between the sheets. At the end of the day, the Seattle Seahawks dance the Macarena deep into the abyss. Sir Walter Raleigh nods in acquiescence.
"What an armpit hair!" I'll proclaim. "Just look at that tintinnabulous leprechaun!" Then, all the accounts payable clerks and I cheer as Gordon Lightfoot approaches hyperspace. It's quite a mouthful to behold, just ask Henry Kissinger. And that's when it happens: autocorrect amputates a gecko.
Suddenly, recovery is a thing of the past. Prepositions and titles are transferred all the way to past-participle. Imperfect subjunctive becomes the benchmark. Leonard Cohen drinks some butter.
But that's when Peyton Manning saves the carriage! With a flick of his of liver and wink of his toenail, sunbeams and pomegranates sprinkle the lily pad. And we can all look to next Wednesday, when Magda and Leopold will make fresh yak milk.