Some Moran (yes that is their name) thought it might be a good idea to make it legal for bill collectors like the fictional Sybil Kibble text your phones to beg for money. Even if the debt is not really owed; since medical bills are notoriously incorrectly billed, these morons think they can spam your phone.
Oh and people have been thrown in jail over medical debt.
Nobody should do time because they have medical debt.
Here is a better idea for all you who hire those CRASS, LLC wannabes: How about asking the customer if they have additional insurance? Or and here is another no-brainer: how about billing primary and secondary insurances in the order the patient specified? Don’t know which goes first? I dunno, maybe try asking the patient. They just might tell you. Duh.
For choosing greed over empathy, I award these bill collectors and those who hire them Moron of the Week.
A few years from now, Communal narcissist and poopyburner Bern Cacca, who wanted to be everybody’s friend, but only to use them finds herself forced out of Manteno and into the pits of Hell.
“Did you do those things to help, or to make yourself look good?”
“Uhhh…”
“And how many times did you admit you did something wrong. Count them. I will wait. So will my visiting intern Gothic Diana Ross. She will take you to your cell. Do you prefer jagged rocks or bubbling excrement?”
As much as Bourbonnais communal narcissist and fedora-sporting neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt wanted to attend his big birthday bash, he could not make it because he got stuck on the toilet.
Instead, we bring you these important words from Squirrely Dan.
“Are there squirrels along the boardwalk?” JK asks her daughter, who is busy munching away at her doggy bag.
“Mmmnnnpf” a hungry, occupied Sybil replies in the negative.
“Speaking of squirrels, where are our tickets to the squirrel petting zoo?” JK inquires.
Sybil digs around her black-and-white striped purse, and pulls out the envelope Robbie gave her.
“Coupons? I thought they were comping us. These only give us a dollar off! The admission is $20 a pop! And where are our hotel keys? They said they were getting that, too!”
“Ummmm…” JK’s jaw just hangs.
“I have a plan.”
“Are we still going to the show?”
“Aw yeah, we are going early, in fact.”
6:00 PM rolls around and Sybil has already gotten to the bar with her mom, JK. The two were a bit delayed by their detour to the novelty store.
“Where is the ladies’ room?”
The bartender points in the general direction.
Sybil and JK each take a stall and begin blowing up the inflatable women. Sybil applies makeup, a blonde wig and readers to hers and JK applies a short, gray wig and round glasses to her doll. They walk out the restroom and place their dolls in two seats toward the back of the bar.
Sybil and JK leave the bar, giggling as they exit. They head to a casino where they spend the night.
The Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) Vaudeville act begins. Konrad Teirant tells his awful puns, then his wife, Madeline Topolla-Teirant, the colorful clown, juggles and attempts to balance on a large ball. Robbie Hurlbutt, mediocre Elvis impersonator, sings and dances like the fool he is.
PJ Hurlbutt cheers on her son Robbie, who she thinks is the greatest singer, meanwhile Pat Splatt sits there in his seat texting.
The show ends and Robbie takes a head count.
“We’d like to thank our fans Pat, my Mom PJ, and our buddies Sybil and JK!”
“Encore! Encore! Encore!” the lone fan, PJ, shouts.
“Did you say encore? We aim to please. Robbie is going to serenade a special fan who came all the way from Kankakee, Illinois!” Konrad announces.
Robbie comes down from the stage, toward the back of the bar and begins to sing “Burnin’ Love”.
Robbie is in shock that the “person” to whom he is singing does not react, nor move at all. “She is not a sincere fan.” Robbie says into the microphone after his number.
“Robbie, you moron. That’s a blow-up doll!” Madeline shouts.
Robbie jumps back in sheer embarassment.
“Elvis has now left the building.” Konrad announces.
The Moronic Half-Assets pack up, ready to leave. “That was a bust. I got really flustered up there.” Robbie sighs.
“We did not return much on our investment, did we?” Konrad gripes.
“Time to pack up and leave. If we drive home in our clown car, and make it home without stopping, maybe we can make up for our losses. Time to go!”
Robbie is in the Men’s washroom, wizzing away.
“Robbie, why do you leave the door open? I tell you about that time and time again!” Madeline screams.
A loud slam is heard.
“Rrrrrrrrgh!”
“Robbie, you are not Elvis, and you are not going to die in there.”
The MHA members pack up their stuff, and Robbie follows them into his clown car.
“I wonder what act is up next?” Robbie asks.
“I guess we’ll never know. Step on it Robbie!”
An announcement is barely heard from the purple clownmobile as Robbie pulls away, and rolls up his window, Kankakee-bound:
“Next up, from Manteno, Illinois: Gothic Diana and the Midnight Supremes!”
“Rrrrrrgh—I love her! My dreamy—“
“Shut up and drive, childish little boy,” Madeline commands as the rain pours down and the moon shines down on the Moronic Half Assets.
Owned and operated by Kankakee’s own good ol’ boy Brandon Dixon, Brandon’s sells used compensationmobiles, offering free roses for the ladies. Coming Soon: Crotch Rockets! BURRRRRRRRRPPPFAAAAAAARRRRRTTTTTTTPPHHHLPTTTTT!
Happy Hour is anything but happy for the date sitting with Kankakee barfly, wacky inventor and wannabe-ladies-man, Wally Green. Wally tells the pretty lady boring tall tales about his family almost getting the deed to Manhattan until pirates stole it, the time one of the Men In Black pulled up to his car at an Illinois fast-food store, and how he almost made the cut for American Inventor.
Poor Thanos. He has been waiting to use the coffeehouse washroom, growing ever angry by the minute since his latte made him have to go. Meanwhile Robbie Hurlbutt takes up space and time scrolling through Tindling looking for a date.
Manteno communal narcissist and poopy-burner Bernadette “Bern” Cacca warns motorists why she peels out of parking lots and drives like she is drag-racing by plopping this decal the rearview window of her poopmobile. No, Bern you are not Running in the 90s. You just have the runs.
MoronicArts 
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