Behind the Moroniverse – Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds

Oh man, the main inspirations for Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds are people I hope you never encounter.

One hundred per cent miserable, and equally evil as her counterpart Barry, there is no pleasing Ms. Terry. She gets joy out of seeing others suffer. She’ll bite the hand that feeds her and once you’re sore from the fresh wound, she’ll bite it again to make it hurt that much more…

Imagine going on a trip overseas to study, experience different perspectives and have fun. That was my hope in the summer of 1999. when I took classes through my university for a study-abroad program in Italy.

What comes to your mind when you think about traveling?

Being forced to share a room with strangers who hated me was the last thing I expected.

Scary Terry was one of the haters. Much older than me, Terry made it a point to harass and belittle me. One time she woke me up and called me “whiny” because I was, you know, groggy like most people who just got up?

And then there was the time Terry told me to cover my legs. I have an autoimmune condition which affects my skin. get over it. Terry, if you don’t like it, then don’t look at it. Find something else to do in Italy than harass a fellow student.

I did smile when Terry had the audacity to talk trash about me at dinner, in front of all the other students from the United States. They told her to shut up and said they did not want to hear it. Neither did I.

Sadly, this Terry person (yes, the real name is Terry, different surname of course) majored in education. I feel bad for any student of Terry’s. No wonder we have some awful teachers in the school system.

When I got home from Italy, I told my family about the abuse I endured from her and her cousin, with whom I was forced to room. Since I did not grow up in a supportive family, they invalidated me by acting like it was no big deal. My feelings are valid.

To help process the trauma from repeated verbal abuse by Terry and the cousin, and the gaslighting I faced when i went home, I created my character Terry Reynolds. I will discuss the cousin in a separate entry.

Taking your road test is nerve-wracking enough. Imagine living in a small city where the sole proctor is a malignant narcissist, taking joy in seeing people fail. Meet the inspiration for Scary Barry Reynolds.

Barry (again, real first name) loved telling students “YOU FAILED” in a stoic tone, with a hint of an evil grin.

And now we get to learn about the psychic attack crap. Back in 2001 (No not 1991, sorry Greg Snyder), I received this junk mail:

Imagine greeting your proctor as you enter the car “Hi Barry” only to be screamed at, likely out of fear “How do you know my name?” And then told “I. Don’t. Like. That.”

Barry may look like Leon Kowalski from Blade Runner, and act like him. It goes without saying he would fail any empathy test. Maybe I should run the V-K Test on him and watch him fail. I just won’t ask him about his mother.

After failing my road test five times with Barry, I passed my test when I took it in another city and of course a different proctor. I had called his supervisor, per advice of my driving instructor, who failed to address the problem, saying “he makes his quota.” Yes, some doctors graduate at the bottom of their class. What do you call them? Yeah, a doctor. .

When I first got the spam, I thought it was for EarthBound cheat codes. Think again.

These morons tried to sell a psychic attack self-defense e-book. The spammer only accepted a check mailed to them, and then they promised to email you the electronic book after they got your check. Yeah, sounds legit.

The email was so funny, I had to save it, and use it for something.

Around the time I got the Defense Against Psychic Attack spamvertisement, I spent a lot of time on message boards chatting about metaphysics. Fans of Dragonball Z asked how to make “PSI Balls” and some even made videos pretending to “psychic attack” people using them. I thought the whole darned thing was so funny, it needed to prompt a story idea. Most of my ideas sat dormant in a different series, which I merged into MoronicArts.

Don’t Get Hacked!

Press your buttons and land on one of these great prizes. But don’t land on Lizzie Borden, she’ll put an axe to all your winnings!

Coming November 31st to The Manteno Optimal Club

Let us hear, hear from our donors!

“I donated a whole buttload of freshly mined craptocoins because I’m so generous like that! I even designed the game board! You can win a date with yours truly, also! Free admission, with just a two drink minimum. Tip generously or I’ll shove the gratuities jar in your face!”
— Bernadette M. Cacca, owner of Peppi’s Portapotties and (very) part-time actor.

“I donated this trip to Gary, Indiana to let everyone know that was where my dear boy Robbie was conceived!”
— PJ Hurlbutt, retiree

“Ma, shut the heck up!”
— Robbie Hurlbutt, clerk at Wally Green’s


I would create my own dictatorship: Carla Moran

Daily writing prompt
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, sterile supply technician and self-righteous narcadoodle Carla Moran is in one of her daily foul moods, plotting out loud her newest grandiose idea.

“In my kingdom, they won’t know how good they’ve got it. Rules are important and I will make sure everybody follows them:

“We will only have one language, English, because I don’t understand any others nor do I care to learn.

All cars will be silver, no exceptions, no decals either.

Everybody will be required to brush their teeth four times a day, use a water pick and report back to me.

Want to see a therapist? Good. All sessions will be recorded and sent to me to make sure you’re not complaining about the supreme leader. It’s MY kingdom, MY RULES.

Everybody will be required to wax the hair off their face. No exceptions.

Only baggy clothes will be worn by everyone.

People will only be allowed to collect practical things and read non-fiction.

We will have three national TV channels, nothing else: HGTV, Fox News and baseball.

Nobody will be allowed to wear underwear or stick their tongues out. In my world–“

“Lady, this is a handicapped spot.”

“I’m only gonna be here for a minute! Calm down!” Carla remarks to the traffic cop out her car window.

“Move your vehicle now or I’m writing you a citation.”

Carla slams her beak on the horn and peels away from the Bradley strip mall, then flies down I-57 hoping to not get caught because in her insecure little bird-brain nothing she does is ever wrong.

“To get to the washroom, yes” – Bernadette Cacca

Daily writing prompt
Do you need time?

“Butt, officer, I just gotta poop really bad!” Bernadette Moran Cacca tells the officer who had just pulled her over for speeding (again).

Brought to you by Brandon’s Imbecile Machines, Peppi’s Portapotties and Pat Splatt’s Pantherware films, the worst drivers in Kankakee County get their instant karma when caught by convenient cops.

Now playing every day, all day at Teirant Cinema-13 and all over Kankakee County.

Damien’s desperate Dreamland letter to Donnie

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.

Then he poops.

Don’t Get Ego on Your Face, Becca.

Ennui fills the home of the bill collector and and banjo player for The Haggs, Becca Frickfrick.

Since her twin sister Pamela got arrested for leaving her young grandkids alone to go out stealing lawn ornaments, the desire to seek get revenge has boiled over. Instead of, you know, getting a hobby, Becca chooses to bother people instead.

“It’s all them kids fault. They never work, they sit around on their phones and they broke our Frickfrick towers that we made ourselves from their LEGOs! Dang kids don’t respect their elders. Imma gon’ done teach them pert near a lesson!”

“Ma’am, this is a Buckstars.”

Becca seats herself while waiting for her pumpkin spice latte, and starts talking at Wally Green who is busy dumbing down his newest Artificial Stupidity Robot.

“I hear that Gothic Diana Ross has been stealing lawn ornaments. I’ve been doing an investigation. You know what that is right?”

Wally continues tuning out Becca, searching for the perfect computer voice, so it can to answer his pharmacy chain’s calls instead of paying humans to do it.

“Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?”

Desperate for attention, Mrs. Frickfrick takes her index finger to Wally Green and repeatedly pokes him in the back until he looks up.

“Oh hey lady, why don’t you smile more? I’m Wally, and very single by the way. Did you know our family almost inherited Manhattan Island? The pirates stole the deed from—“

“Nevermind.”

“Read it on the internet. Trust me, it’s true!”

Becca walks over the sinks to wash her hands, a wild bog witch Bernadette Cacca appears.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“6pm”

Thanks!

“No, it’s only 4pm,” the self-righteous narcadoodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran says to her daughter Bernadette as she sits down at the table to drink her coffee.

“It’s 6pm, look at my watch.”

“You watch is broke, that’s why you’re always late.”

“Look up there!” Bernadette points to the coffeehouse clock.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I was only trying to help.” Carla gaslights her own daughter.

In walks a slender blonde woman wearing white-and-purple leggings and a purple-grey shirt.

“Ah, someone new to harass!” Becca thinks to herself.

The woman gets her cake slice and sits in front of Becca, back facing her.

“Hey, did you hear about those missing lawn ornaments, Gothic Diana Ross and her sisters been going round stealing.”

Sybil Kibble turns around.

“Oh hi boss!” Becca sinks back into her seat.

“Why didn’t you come into work today?”

“You have no right to ask me that. Our investigation will be brought forth. You will be in trouble for stealing lawn ornaments. Anybody who stands in the way of what we want to get will be punished.”

”That’s nice.”

“If you want to get right with us, you have to do what we say.”

“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Your contract is up this month. Go back to work. This is your final warning.”

Mrs. Frickfrick starts slamming her arms on the coffeehouse tables, slides her feet on the echo-y concrete, pirouhettes her way out the door shouting “I’m not coming baaack! Byyyyeeeeeeeee!”

“This is not an airport, no need to announce your departure,” Sybil Kibble deadpans.

The customers shake their heads and giggle.

A minute later, one of the baristas puts a hot coffee drink up onto the bar.

“Pumpkin Spice for Becca?”

Sybil just rolls her eyes and goes back to her paperwork.

Moronic Racing is a Drag

“Would you like to hear the good news about our religion?” asks the elderly gentleman, sporting a “JC is the Man” tee shirt.

“No, would you like to hear the good news about the Flying Spaghetti Monster?” quips Diana.

“If you don’t join our religion, you will not go to paradise when you die.”

“I’ve died and come back three times and I am in the Rush University Journal of Medicine. When people talk about tunnels and light, I know they’re lying.”

Diana slams the door and gets ready to rehearse with Gothic Mary and Gothic Flo.

A knock is heard at the door.

“Go jump into Manteno Lake” yells Diana.

The knocking persists until the person holds down the doorbell.

Furious, Miss Ross heads out to chase her unwanted visitor.

Miss Ross opens the door.

“Oh hi Deeanna.”

“Di.”

“Is that a threat? Because I can call police–“

“No, you dimwit, that’s my name. Bernadette, you have been calling me by the wrong name since we were in third grade together.” Diana tells her next-door neighbor, communal narcissist and portapotty proprietor Bernadette Moran Cacca.

“Oh. I just wanted to tell you I have been doing these gigs to support the Manteno Optimal Club. I sing showtunes and play accordion. I am collecting donations if you want to chip in, since I know you love music, and it’s going to great cause because I love the community so much…” Bernadette rambles, not realizing Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes are slow clapping to insult Bernadette’s lame attempt at asking for money.

“Oh I am so glad you want to help! How much are you going to give?”

“A blow to the head if you don’t exit.”

Diana closes the door.

Bernadette Cacca walks home and tests the crank on her window-mounted Turd Machine. “Pep, did you forget to oil the turd machine hanging in the living-room window?”

“No, Bern, it’s out of turds.”

“Oh. Where did they go?”

“Little lady, you burned them last night in the fireplace. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I had too much moonshine.”

Diana outside the Cacca homestead

Gothic Diana Ross looks out the arched windows of her home to see if the coast is clear, hoping to dodge any Caccas, and heads outside to board the bus.

Since her turd machine collections are out of turds, Bern devises another way to annoy Diana.

As Diana is just standing there waiting for a bus, Bern starts spamming her with unsolicited, incorrect information.

“Deeanna. This bus is not coming for an hour.”

Diana ignores Bern, enjoying her New Beat mix through her headset.

“Deeanna, it’s raining out. Where’s your umbrella?”

“Do you need to borrow one?” Diana sarcastically replies.

“See, Dee — I can drive you to where you’re going. I love to drive because I am a good person who helps the community.”

Diana continues to enjoy her music.

As Diana sees the bus approach, she takes off her headset so she can communicate with the driver, waving so they can see her.

“You know, Diana, you don’t have to flag the bus down. It will show up anyway,” Bern advertises her unsolicited advice.

Diana boards the bus, pays the fare and sits down in the back. Bern sits a few seats away, since the one next to Diana is already occupied by another passenger.

Diana exits the bus in front of a building near the garage where she dropped off her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest to get repaired, stopping to pause and gather her thoughts.

“That business is closed. Can’t you read the sign?” Bern nags Diana.

Bern Cacca’s turd-eating grin

“Don’t you have a pool to crap in?” the 5’11” Diana says, turns away and makes big strides using her long, slender legs toward the repair shop.

The rotund, 5’4″ Bern gives up as she has run out of ideas, for now.

“What can I do ya fer?” asks the mechanic behind the counter.

“I am her to pick up my ’88 Chrysler Conquest.”

“She’s not done yet. Give ‘er a couple more hours.”

Diana falls asleep in the chair while listening to music on her phone, the playlist changed to heavy metal and experimental noise.

She restfully dreams, drifting off to outer space, not a soul around to ask nosey questions. The beautiful goth queen and the boss of herself snores every so slightly, lightly. As Gothic Diana enjoys her peaceful rest away from her batty neighbors, she is starkly awakened.

“Diana? Diana?”

“Yeah…” a sleepy Miss Ross replies.

“Your car is good as new. She’s all fixed up. You owe us $1991.”

Diana reluctantly swipes her card, and drives onto the highway. It is getting dark on this cold Illinois night.

“Glad to have her back,” Gothic Diana thinks out loud.

Bernadette Cacca pulls up beside Diana in the lane to the left.

“But not her…” Diana also thinks out loud.

“Come on Diana, I’ll race you.”

“Get lost!” Diana exclaims, wishing the pest that is Bernadette Cacca would leave her be.

“Chicken! Bok-bok-bok-bok” the narcissistic Bern eggs on the unwavering Diana.

“Beep! Beep!”

The angered motorist behind Diana driving the white 1980s Toyota is in a hurry. Diana moves ahead.

“Yeahhhh!” an excited Bernadette exclaims as she burns rubber.

Diana and Bern race up and down the highway. Diana drifts as she tries to make her way very far from the trailing Bernadette. All she wants to do is go home.

The two arrive at their Manteno block, Diana first, Bern second.

Parked in Bern Cacca’s driveway is the white 1980s Toyota AE86.

A young man exits the Toyota and asks the approaching drivers.

“Did someone order tofu?”

Bernadette grabs her food and runs upstairs to eat because she cannot wait to poop again. She loves to poop.

An exhausted Diana enters her Gothic Victorian home and hits the silky black pillow atop her wrought-iron bed, falling asleep as soon as she lays down.

Sybil Says…

Daily writing prompt
What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a meal? Was it worth it?

“A couple bucks maybe? I got them on sale at Schmucks. These Scooby Snacks taste way better than them Elon Musk bones…that’s fer sure.”

Running From Morons Like These.

Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite form of physical exercise?

“Pooping…it’s great for the body! Everyone let’s get REGULAR!”
— Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno

“Flying, well yeah!”
— Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran, Albion Indiana

“Martial arts kicks, dancin’, anything to impress a groovy girl well enough to date this Elvis impersonator. I want to find the Yoko to his John.”
— Robbie R. G. Hurlbutt, Kankakee

“Anything I can do to break free from this cell already, m’lady madame.”
— Damien U. Hulrbutt, Area 51

Duhhhhh…I’m just vertical, roaming the free earth forrrr brains brainzz branesssss!
— Undead Greg Schneissder, Kankakee

A Bird Outta Hell

Dead slumlord, malignant narc-a-doodle and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Mare Smith Moran wants out of Hell. “Boss, can I enter the new externship you announced?”

“No, Sonya, we need you to keep filing these intake forms of the newly damned.”

“But boss?”

“Don’t talk back to me. Now get to work!”

Sonya files for another 666 hours until the bell rings. “I wanna ring the bell, I wanna ring the bell, why can’t I ring the bell?” Sonya screams as she throws a childish tantrum because she’s not getting her way, much to the annoyance of Hell’s CEO Satan.

“Sonya, you can do your externship on Earth for up to 12 hours, then you’re to be summoned back to Hell.

“Hot dawg!” Sonya exclaims.

Poof! Sonya immediately manifests her apparition in Kitty Bee’s bedroom.

“Why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t you ask me? Why did you report me to the feds?” Sonya-Daemon says to her former tenant to try and intimidate her. It’s 5:00 AM.

“Be gone in the name of the Light! With this your soul I smite!” Kitty grabs her can of D-Mon-Con and sprays beaucoup sage all over Sonya-Daemon.

“And may it be smote.”

“I’m glad I bought two of these. They were buy one, get one half-off at Wally Green’s. Now with extra sage, nice!”

“Wow, that’s a record!”

“Say what now boss?”

“You lasted two minutes and you’re back to Hell already. Now get to work! I need you to do 13 files a minute. Go now! Byyyeeeeeee.”

Satan disappears to mind another department of Hell.