Sybil is busy calling up people and bothering them right now, so this is Jen here filling in.
I created Sybil in response to the constant harassment from the moronic debt collectors who could not care less about my situation, and started writing to help cope with my extreme physical and emotional pain.
Dale Francis Davis moved to Kankakee, IL from Snowflake, AZ to seek work after his relationship with Juli-Irma went sour.
His two year engagement with his dear poopiehead, and fellow Snowflake, Juli-Irma went downhill rather quickly when Miss Juli figured out dear Dale’s tablet and mobile telephone password, “password.” In a fit of jealous rage, she discovered that he had one contact other than his mother and his buddies from the town saloon, a Sybil Kibble, and blocked her promptly.
She then destroyed both devices by throwing them in the toilet, perplexed why they did not go down the bowl when she flushed.
A few days later, Dale hit the road to interview for his new position as a Collections Representative at Collections Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee, IL. He pulled out his new phone and confirmed the time. Today was the first day of the rest of his life.
Dale thanked Ms. Sybil Kibble for the offer, shook her hand and gladly accepted the job.
Sybil will do anything to make a buck. Spotting an ad for an MLM company, she gives it a go. “If the girls at Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) can sell essential oils, I can do it too, only better!” Sybil tells herself. “There is a sucker born every minute.”
Wanting to outdo the competition, Sybil creates her own oil to sell. “Essential Snake Oil” Sybil dubs her new concoction, and she labels it “made from real snakes.”
What Sybil does not tell plan to tell her potential customers, is that her product contains no snake content at all. It is made from 100% Canola oil.
“I cannot wait to rip people off! With all the money I make, I can buy lots of dog food for dinner! Yum!” Sybil plots in her head.
The following day, Sybil heads to the cheapest grocery store in Bourbonnais to get canola oil. Customers looking for the best deal from nearby Manteno and Sybil’s hometown Kankakee look puzzled as a conniving Sybil fills her cart with gallons and gallons of canola.
As Sybil approaches the cashier with her cart, she can barely move, it is so heavy.
Sybil loads her stash onto the conveyor belt, and the clerk immediately gives Sybil the stinkeye. “You are sure buying a lot of oil there, girl! Are you frying up a bunch of fish?” The clerk giggles, unaware of the scheme Sybil is trying to cook up.
“Okay, ma’am, that will be $413.83.”
Sybil gets out her Wally Green’s credit card.
A few uncomfortable seconds pass, which seem like hours in Sybil’s mind.
“What is the matter?” gasps Sybil.
Sybil’s heart sinks.
“This cannot be. Run it again!” Sybil snips.
The clerk ran the card two more times.
“Get me your manager!” Sybil screams.
“I am the store manager and owner.”
“Why was my card declined?” Sybil asks defensively.
“NSF – Insufficient Funds. Pretty bad for a bill collector like you. There was a time I was down and out and you called my house relentlessly, usually at dinner time. I could not afford to make my payments because you doubled the amount you would accept. Now you are broke. What did you need all that oil for any way? Are you you going to oil a snake or something?”
Sybil backs away with her head down and slowly heads out the door, and to her home alone, in Kankakee.
Meet Kankakee bill-collector Sybil Kibble’s favorite neighbor and her wacky sons, The Hurlbutts.
On the right is Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt of Bourbonnais, IL. He is the 46 year old neckbeard son of Pearl Hurlbutt.
Communal narcissist Damien is divorced because he verbally abused his ex-wife Lori, to whom he only refers as “Grimace”. A shopping addict and hoarder, he would rather sleep on the floor and on top of his boxes than furniture, because he spends all his wages on impressing co-workers and single ladies when not buying useless crap he does not need. He mops up the lake he creates every time he showers with his moldy socks. Prone to outbursts and wearing socks with his $125.00 sandals, Damien thinks he is a hit with the ladies…yeah, no.
Damien works as a clerk at the local multiplex’s ticket counter. He offers free movie tickets to local and online young ladies in his feeble attempts to woo them. He snores incredibly loud due to his innattention to his diagnosed sleep apnea. He blocks his sleep doctor’s telephone calls on his flip phone so he can avoid dealing with it.
He loves to sleep and wishes he could sleep more, however he spends too much time lying awake thinking up new ways to emotionally swindle people. Damien was last seen outside Area 51.
In the middle stands Kankakee’s very own Pearl Josephine “PJ” Hurlbutt. She wears the same muu-muu inside and outside the house, every day of the week. She even had worn it into her call center job at CRASS, before she retired. Sybil Kibble thinks PJ is “just swell” and considers PJ her best friend.
On the left you see Robbie Roy Gary Hurlbutt of Kankakee, IL His mother PJ likes to brag about that time in Gary, Indiana when Robbie was conceived.
He is the 43 year old son of Pearl Hurlbutt and brother to Damien.
Robbie is a ladies’ man, Elvis-obsessed and is as big a hoarder as his brother Damien. He has a room in his apartment just for his record collection. He is 42 and never married; covert narcissist Robbie would rather “make love to the audience” at the Kankakee County karaoke bars because the women with whom he has been in relationships eventually have figured out his con game. When he is not committing love-fraud, petty criminal Robbie pals around sociopath Pat Splatt cooking up ways to rip off innocent people for fun and profit; ideas inspired by his father N. Ron Hurlbutt.
He is thoroughly convinced he is the reincarnation of Elvis and has an intense fear of being locked in a bathroom.
Manteno communal narcadoodle, port-o-dump proprietor and charity-kazoo-cover-queen Bernadette Cacca wishes she could figure out why her biggest fan, Greg Schneissder, can blast blue flame from his bum when hers always come out yellow and orange. Bern plots revenge on Greg, because, you know she has nothing better to do with her time. Bernadette needs to get a life. Bern gets out her sparkly EyePhone 28 and dials him up. Nobody’s home.
“Why is he so good at farting?” Manteno pretend do-gooder and entramanure Bernadette Cacca asks her husband Peppi upon his return from the half-way house.
“Oh not now, I just showered…” Bog witch Bernadette answers Peppi’s mating call, that same one which had attracted her years ago, while Manteno’s queen of the porcelain throne was bathing in the swamp.
“I dunno…Why don’t you go over and ask him?”
“Just like the last time…” Peppi responds to Bern’s superlative, giving her the stinkeye as he takes his first puff of a skunky joint, one of many to follow, not the first by any means. The Caccas love anything that stinks.
“Oh no, that’s Bernadette. Don’t let her in, she’ll never leave!” The Midnight Supremes shout out the arched window of their dark stone Gothic Victorian home. All Gothic Diana Ross wants to do is cut the grass. Bern peels out the driveway, around the corner and back by the Midnight Supremes house again.
As Bernadette rolls by she, shouts all mockingly “take the pictures” at the Midnight Supremes who are minding their own business taking video of the weather.
“Grow up, you child!” Gothic Flo defends herself against the abuse spewed by spoiled-brat Bernadette.
“Methinks the trolls are crawling out from under their collective bridges and mothers’ basements again,” Gothic Diana Ross addresses her bandmates, The Midnight Supremes.
“Peppi and Bernadette gang up on me like a bunch of schoolyard children. I am 42. I am starting to think that Bern harassed us out of fear that maybe I was videotaping her, because it’s all about her you know? The funny thing is my video was of the rain; it was raining in one spot only. But those spoiled entitled brats it’s all about them you know? Because nobody else deals with the weather here on Earth right?”
“Yes. The rain is there to annoy those morons.” Gothic Flo deadpans.
Bern Cacca peels into her driveway, runs into the bathroom with her smell-phone and replies to a Fakebook post looking for “10 models” to “type yes in the comments.”
“I’m a plus sized model is that okay?” Bern asks Leona Krabalsky.
“Oh yes, we have a special bonus for you,” sister Doris Krabalsky answers Mrs. Cacca’s query.
“Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt. I never want to see him, again. However, here I am. Mamma and I unload the van containing the remaining items from our broken marriage he demanded back: pooped-on record albums, Elvis dolls, countless cardboard tubes formerly holding paper of the wrapping and toilet kind.” Robbie’s former girlfriend dictates into her phone.
Back at his unit again, Kay feels bad for Robbie’s new source of narcissistic supply.
“I am sorry” Kay whispers into the young lady’s ear, her eyes’ micro-expression meeting in agreement.
“Just put that over there” Robbie says to her mother carrying a heavy box of ratty blankets.
“Where is Heidi?”
“I gave her away,” Robbie speaks of the cat Kay wanted to keep, the poor lil tortie Robbie speaks about as if she were part of the furniture, mere chattel. Robbie walks over to the washroom and leaves the door a-crack. “Don’t lock me in.”
“Ann. I go by Annie.”
“Yeah. I work over at the taco place. I am getting promoted.”
“Congratulations! I am happy for you.”
“It is not much. I got this new name badge which reads “King.”
“I catch your drift. I am thankful for you retail workers.”
Bernadette is running behind to meet The Krabalskys under the I57 underpass for her “modeling.” Extremely impatient, Bern throws a hissy-fit at the Krow-Grrr self-checkout whinging because it doesn’t take CraptoCoin.
“You guys are too woke! I am too good for this! I play all these songs for the Manteno Optimal Club and raise money for them and Ukraine. I wanna talk to the manager! My aunt Sonya knows the owner of this entire plaza!”
“Karen! Karen! Karen!” emerges from the crowd of customers wishing to shop just once sans harassment from the activity-impaired crowd and their ensuing ennui.
“What a dope!” Store clerk Annie King says as she yeets Bern out the door.
“Oh good, I got it! Ha!” Gothic Diana thinks to herself of the exposure captured of her narcissistic neighbor Bernadette Moran Cacca throwing a childish tantrum at the supermarket.
Bernadette meets Kankakee County trolls Doris and Leona Krabalsky under the bridge.
“You need to remove your twitter post about my friend Undead Greg. Especially when you were selfish enough to do what you did and then block him. Because he is the only person who ever farts and that’s all that matters! Look at me, I’m a troll who crawled out from under my bridge because I need to get a hobby and I hate myself. I don’t appreciate the way you treated him about his farts looking prettier than yours. Yeah.”
Gobsmacked, B. M. Cacca’s jaw drops to the floor, realizing she has been duped by people almost as narcissistic as she.
“But if you would like to try our product, we can still get you our special deal.”
“Product? I thought this was a modeling gig.”
“Oh yes, I have these lovely magic beans just for you. They will clean your colon FAST!”
“Will they make me farts turn blue when I light them?”
“Oh yes, they will alright.”
“Sign me up!” Bernadette says to her sisters-in-narcissism as they sell her the overpriced coffee beans. The Krabalskys will do anything for a sale and Bernadette will do anything to brag about her precious farts.