This is a test of the MoronicArts patience system. It is only a test. AAAAAAAANNNNT!
Had this silly person been an actual friend, any calls, messages or emails would have been mutually exchanged. Any family, friends, neighbors, cops, dogs or birds of any human on this planet could unsubscribe at any time and we do not not sign up readers without their consent, nor do we condone it.
This writer supports their actual friends, cares about their health, shows empathy and does not ghost. This includes actions like exchanging rants, checking on each other, reaching out to a mutual friend or perhaps a neighbor when concerned for their safety, and can stop at any time when requested.
This writer suggests writing as a great outlet for coping with these crazy times and giving out cartoon awards to those who deserve this type of recognition. I now bestow upon this obsessed former fan, the Golden Moron Award.
This concludes any communication about an ex-communicated MoronicArts reader.
The main inspiration behind fictional character Damien Hurlbutt has is so self-centered, he thinks this blog is all about him.
Seriously. I hope over time more people learn about communal narcissists and how they insidiously abuse people. Overts and covert narc-a-doodles are bad enough; communals are even sneakier. I would not wish narcissistic abuse on my worst enemy and wish no ill will. I just wish they would all form their own narc colony on a deserted island and leave the rest of us alone.
Or better yet, drop them from planes into an erupting volcano, and vaporize them so they cannot make more narcissists (OK not really, but it would be cool).
I was married to one of these evil souls. Had I known he was the son of Satan, I would not have dated him, moved to Illinois to marry him, leaving behind a job I loved to take one that was less than pleasant. 0/10 would not recommend.
I wish I had been given the omen.
Now divorced, this real-life neckbeard and “men’s rights activist” has told his friends that I draw cartoons of him and write stories about him.
Has he heard of Squirrely Dan?
My ex works as a senior library specialist and loves to read. I would hope that someone like him, whom I would think has a good grasp on literacy would understand that Damien and all the other morons on this blog are fictional characters — as in pretend people, not real ones. DUH.
Apparently my former husband thinks he works in a movie theater, like the random stranger whom I had met in 2004. Just like the fictional Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, this real-life despot had been offering cloned movie tickets in return for a date, to us call-center coworkers taking breaks outside. I did not meet my ex until 2008.
I will never forgive my ex for trying to turn the spouse of my late friend against me in his smear-campaigning. Such a tender-heart, a self-proclaimed “old soul” writes lunacy letters like the drivel below and sends them to his estranged spouse’s medical providers.
Because, umm, a librarian knows more about psychology than an actual mental health provider? yeah…no.
My ex thinks so. Behold part of this lunacy letter he sent to my mental health team:
Projection: A narcissist’s calling card, as is pathological lying. Methinks narcissists have their own code of misconduct, maybe even a manual.
I will never forgive him for telling me he was “a nice guy for not throwing me into oncoming traffic” while we were walking into the hospital. Yeah, a really nice guyNiceGuy™ does that, right?
I will never forgive him for manipulating the divorce judge into letting him take custody of my cat Holly, whom he repeatedly hit (“it’s just a light tap” he gaslit when caught) and put into the shower to “punish.” Who does that to a cat? Has he helped move a body or something? Sadly he took the cat from me…
I will never forgive my ex for idealizing, devaluing me and then attempting to discard me, shortly before I left him. Rumor has it, he still obsesses over me, and makes feeble attempts to smear campaign me using the same DARVO tactics and made-up mental health diagnosis he had used in 2017. I imagine he pushes away what little friends narcissistic supply he has left.. Like his bootlicker friend once said to me, I wish he would “get over it, just move on.”
With narcadoodles, every projection is a confession.
I write and draw MoronicArts stories to cope with having been abused. I feel it helps and I am a lot happier back in New York State, doing my own thing, living with my sweet kitty, creating music, learning to speak other languages and making Youtube videos.
My hope is that my stories help others who have been abused by these monsters cope and process the crap they have been going through and hopefully bring a little joy to them, and myself also. Oh and it s fun to draw silly cartoons of fake events and pretend people doing moronic things to each other..
Do you think you may going through domestic violence or know someone who suffers it? Emotional abuse is still abuse and a form of domestic violence. Please click this link to learn more and to find help in your area: https://www.nomore.org/the-no-more-global-directory/
Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.
Tired of eating corn for his hot and getting yanked from his cot, captured trespasser, communal narcadoodle and neckbeard nincompoop Damien Hurlbutt asks if he can write a letter.
“You can only send inter-departmental mail here.”
“I know, I know, I know, I know…”
“Stop acting like a clown and get back in your cell.”
“Hooo!”
“I don’t know who. You’re the one who asked, fool.”
The guard slams the door, then the world’s largest source of natural gas starts scrawling, before he gets hauled away for his thrice daily flatulence testing. After returning to his cell in the Alternative Fuels Division at Dreamland Resort, Damien finishes his letter to President Turnip (no relation to Jamie Turnip), then gives it to the staff to type up so he can sign it.
The letter is put into inter-office mail and sent forth to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC.
Bored with inventing new recipes for covfefe to barf up all over social media, the president reads the mail with his tiny hands and aging mental acuity. A couple hours later, Donnie reads Damien’s desperate cry for help.
After giggling, Turnip divides up the letter into strips, chucks it into the fireplace along with his other mail and proceeds to fall fast asleep in his chair, dreaming about how to bigly cheat at golf.
Sybil Kibble unveils the new “Enigma” computers for her debt collection team at Credit Recovery Associates in Kankakee, known better by their acronym CRASS.
“How do you get on the Internet?” asks a quizzical Dale Davis.
“Just type “INTERNET” and then “RUN.”
“How do you load the Collect-o-matic 2000?” a wary Judy Avelli asks.
“Just hook the machine up to a parakeet cage and type away.”
“Oh not her again. She only calls when she wants something but never picks up when I need a friend.”
Sybil royal flushes her full house and returns LTL’s call.
“Hey my buddy Sybil Kibble! It’s been a busy-busy month with lots of running around to do, but I’m free today for just the next hour.” LTL begins to read off next month’s agenda until Sybil interrupts.
“But I’m not. I have business to take care of. Call me tomorrow.”
“Okay. But we didn’t hang out on Easter. I wanted you to come to church with me. JC’s the man!”
“I’m not free on Sundays anymore. How about I call you when I am free and we can take it from there?”
“Okay…but I only want to see you for a few minutes.”
“I will call YOU when I am free. Good night.”
The next day, LTL calls anyway — despite Sybil having expressed her wishes for her to wait, and gawd-forbid respect HER time — and she asks again if they can hang out.
“Are you mad at me? You haven’t answered my texts.”
“I’m busy. What’s up, are you OK, LTL?”
“Let’s visit.”
Worried about her friend, Sybil reluctantly gives in.
“I’m pretty tired but I can see you for a bit as long as you actually show up. When will you be down?”
“Get ready.”
“I will. How long will it be”
“Not long”
“Ball-park, one hour?”
“Oh less than that.”
The two disconnect and Sybil fixes up her face-frame, straightens out her black-and-white top and applies her makeup. The clock ticks. No sign from lazy LTL because she’s too busy farting around, so Sybil gets understandably fed up. Setting a boundary is hard but important, so Sybil makes it clear as daylight that she’s done waiting around:
“It’s been two hours and you said to get ready because you would be right down, but you never showed up. You live a half mile from me, if even that. I’m not waiting around on you anymore. I’m going to bed. Have a good weekend.”
Within ten minutes, someone relentlessly knocks on Sybil’s door while she is busy folding laundry in her bedroom, vertical blinds drawn to give her privacy from nosy neighborhood nitwits.
“Sybil!”
knock-knock-knock
“Sybil!”
knock-knock-knock
“Sybil!”
Ms. Kibble dons her headphones and cranks up the volume to the bird and squirrel videos her ma JK had sent her, literally drowning out the noise from the door-pounding and her phone being blown to bits by all the texts:
“I am here”
“I am by your door now”
“I cannot see you”
“I am already here”
“I saw you when you walked inside”
Time is money, yet LTL thinks only HERS matters. L drives home and texts Sybil “Good night.”
The following day, ennui’s calling but nobody’s home. LTL tries to call Sybil so she can make excuses, instead of apologizing because why do that? Only smart people take personal responsibility.
“I am pert near fed up with all the times L has done flaked out! You snooze, you lose.”
Sybil decides to gets inventive instead of even. She checks her itemized log to look up the number of hours LTL has wasted over the years and drafts up a bill, which she then mails to LTL’s house:
Needless to say, LTL fails to pony up, so Sybil sells LTL’s debt over to her debt collections farm Credit Recovery Associates so her team can hound her instead.
What kind of songs do the denizens of the Moroniverse like? Here’s a list. Have fun!
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble misses eating King Kuts dog food.
JoAnn Kibble raps along to this safety song while rearranging her collection of school bus parts.
Robbie Hurlbutt sure thinks he’s number one.
Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt used to jam out to this tune while driving to work at the Teirant Cinema-13, before he got captured trying to storm Area 51.
Wacky inventor and drugstore owner Wally Green doesn’t accept “no” for an answer when he thinks he has found the magnet to his steel.
Konrad Teirant plays a lot of Dirty Games.
Bernadette M. Cacca had loved her Turd Machine Deluxe so much, she went out and bought 19 more of them.
Gothic Diana Ross turns the men upside down with her long, long notes.
Ant D. Yu was having fun spinning this tune at the Manteno Optimal Club until Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies had showed up and made a stink. Word has it he still plays it when she’s not there.
Basic bill-collector babe Sybil Kibble lives/laughs/loves to fill her Kankakee home with the most boring decor.
Is that a lighthouse or are you just happy to see me? Tour her wannabe McMansion to see her nautical crap — err, you could have done that in the past. She got so bored of it all, she gifted gave it to her mother JoAnn who lives in her basement. JoAnn and her squirrels plays rocket-ship with the pointy wooden trinkety things.
And then there is this Santa Elvis she permanently borrowed from her next-door neighbor and best friend PJ Hurlbutt. Rumor has it, her son Robbie Hurlbutt had got it after it fell off the back of a truck.
Sybil keeps it out all year because she is too lazy to put it away.
“Why take down all my Christmas stuff when Imma just gon’ have to done put it up again next year?” — Sybil Katrina Kibble, Kankakee
“Don’t you see the sign?” Sybil Kibble asks shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran after she had taken a massive dump all over the tree branch, spilling onto the Manteno strip mall pavement.
“I don’t give a hoot, I pollute!” Carla squawks back at Sybil who has run for the hills, clapping back “clean up after yourself!” at the dirty birdy and her pile of giant turdies.
“Why does your brother Damien keep buying pool toys in the middle of Winter?” Wally Green asks his Illinois pharmacy-chain clerk, Kankakee Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist, Robbie Hurlbutt.
Robbie says nothing, chooses to ignore his boss and keeps on stocking shelves as he hopes to leave early so he can skip out on closing.
“Has he moved a body or something?” Wally says of Robbie’s equally creepy and narcissistic brother Damien.
Robbie ignores Wally, finishes stocking and sneaks out the door while the store owner is not looking so he can head down to the bar. First, he has to meet his speedball dealer.
Robbie, high on uppers, spends 20 minutes chatting up the bartender, while other customers grow impatient and angry as he is holding up the mixing of their cocktails and the pouring of their beers.
Robbie downs his downers and chases them with prescription painkillers he stole from his elderly mother PJ.
The inebriated Elvis impersonator texts his brother Damien, hoping he will join him and take him home, however after multiple selfies and text messages saying how much he loves his brother, Damien does not reply.
Cinema-13 clerk, bulbous neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt strokes his dayglow-orange facial coiffe, and sets out a clipboard containing a sign-up sheet requesting email addresses for a newsletter. A theater customer walks up to the movie theater counter and asks what the newsletter is about. “It’s just a newsletter,” the sneaky narcissist Damien replies in his typical smug tone.
After the picture finishes its run and the ushers escort all the guests, Damien collects the newsletter sign-up sheet and heads to his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest to sleep on the floor. Before he can retire for the night, he get annoyed over the mess of texts and photos from his brother Robbie. Damien would rather sleep in his mess of plastic tubs, and boxes of the things he loves more than people, than head back to Kankakee to pick up a drunk. Thinking he can gain something from helping his brother, he drives down to the Kankakee bar at which Robbie is performing slurred Elvis Presley Karaoke. The two bumbling idiots get into Damien’s beat-up van and head home.
“What about my purple clown car?” Robbie asks Damien.
“Get it tomorrow.”
Damien gets a text from a coworker whose birthday is coming up soon. Knowing well it is illegal to text and drive, Damien messages his coworker, lovebombing her about the $50 gift card he is going to buy her, bragging about the surprise she clearly expressed she did not feel comfortable accepting.
After nearly crashing, Damien flips off the other driver and heads to Robbie’s Kankakee apartment, crashing on his floor instead.
Damien and Robbie wake up to snow on the ground. Damien retells the same story about his father N. Ron’s obsession with the weather channels he has already bored Robbie with at least 80 times now. Robbie leaves the room, stumbling on record albums he dumped all over the floor to get to the bathroom. Even though he is terrified of getting locked in the washroom while pooping, Robbie wants to get away from Damien.
Robbie emerges, and Damien pulls out the newsletter sign-up sheet, filled with names and email addresses. “Hey Robbie, my number-one brother? I would love to ask a favor from you. Can you contact Pat Splatt and try to sell him these email addresses? I collected them to send out messages getting out the good things us tender-hearts at the Bourbonnais Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) Club can do to help us men fight misandry. I would like to sell him a copy because I need the money to buy my coworkers gifts. I spent my paycheck already on action figures.
“What’s in it for me?” Robbie asks his equally self-centered brother Damien.
“Well, our theater has an extra Gothic Diana Ross poster from when we sponsored her show a couple years back.”
“Sold.” Robbie grins ear-to-ear and dials up Kankakee criminal and email spammer Pat Splatt.
The Hurlbutt brothers drive over to Pat Splatt’s flat, where the straggly long-haired Pat is busy harvesting emails from the Internet using his Spam-O-Matic computer program. The three group together to organize their petty crime.
“Damien, I can pay you per email reply, that’s it.”
“Oh come now!”
“Oh go now, Damien. That is my final offer. Take it or leave it. I don’t have to offer you anything.”
“I know, I know, I know…” Damien says like a broken record, mimicking a certain furniture commercial emanating from Champaign.
Damien reluctantly hands Pat the photocopied sign-up list containing contact information he collected from unsuspecting moviegoers.
Damien then heads to Wally Green’s to buy more pool toys and chucks them in his bathroom. After whizzing, he washes his hands with far more water than he needs and sprinkles the water all over the bathroom floor, leaving on the bathroom light and fan because he does not care.
Damien begins typing up his MRA “newsletter” in a word-processor program on his 10 year old desktop computer, resting atop a wooden folding table, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. The rotund neckbeard emails his diatribe while wearing his graphic tee displaying the text:
“I can
EXPLAIN
it to you
But I can’t
UNDERSTAND
it for you.”
A few days go by, however nobody takes Damien up on his offer to join the Bourbonnais MRA Club. Nobody clicks on the ads for the 21 Conference either.
Damien realizes he needs to get ready for work now so he can make it on time after taking his two-hour shower.
Mr. Hurlbutt walks into the theater barely on-time. His boss, theater owner Konrad Teirant, calls him into his office.
Damien’s heart sinks and he utters a melodramatic “gulp” as he walks over to Konrad’s office.
“Damien, you really dropped the ball this time. I have been receiving numerous complaints from customers who have been getting emails about some misogyny club.”
“What?“
“This is unacceptable. They told me they signed up for a newsletter here? I never ordered you to or anyone else to put out a call for contact information. Do you want me to get sued?”
“Well…no” an embarrassed-because-caught Damien tells his boss.
“Damien, you have been working here a long time. You know that if we want to gather contact information so we can sell it, that would come from me. And only so I can profit, not you Damien. You’re not that important. Not at all. In fact, I can fire you at any time. I am telling you that because I am your friend. Oh by the way, why do you wear that dumb fedora? It looks stupid. And wash your beard. It smells. Don’t tell anyone we had this meeting. Go home and stay home the rest of this week. I will call you about next week’s hours.”
An excited Damien rushes home to play with his pool toys because he is happy he has the week off, not wondering at all if his boss will even call him back to work the next week.
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