Tag: albion

Butt, can you polish a turd?

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Psychic Vampyre Missy Rabbit is busy checking the emails sent to Scary Barry’s School of Mixed Moronic Arts in Albion, Indiana.

“Hey Barry. Elen is complaining that you’re not accommodating her in your classes. Something about a disability.”

“I. Don’t. Like. That.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Just shoot her an email.”

“I’m not good at writing.”

“Use AI then. I can’t have another liability.”

Missy looks for AI programs on the internet. As she learns more, she is interrupted by a commercial, because of course!

New at your neighborhood corner Wally’s! Attach this Turd Gauge to your Turd Machines and Turd Machine Deluxe to count your turd supply. When your machine runs low on poopies, the ghost of a Chrysler LeBaron will tell you “more turds are needed” every 30 seconds.

Buy one, get one half off (butt never free)

Try our new Artificial Idiocracy (AI) program: Cat-GPT! Just let your cat walk over the keyboard and Cat-GPT will do the rest!

Missy Rabbit calls over to Wally Green’s after seeing his commercial on the internet. Of course, nobody answers the phone and she is sent into the on-hold abyss. Deciding not to wait, she contacts Pantherware after reading some examples on the company web site:

Want to discriminate against your employees while making it look like you care? Try Pat-GPT! Here are some example messages generated for our satisfied customers!

I’d like to confirm that, after reviewing the situation, the only other store we are able to offer at the moment is similar in size to the one you have previously worked. Therefore, transferring would not result in a smaller store.

You would, however, be very welcome to have a private conversation with me before joining, so that any concerns can be discussed and expectations set clearly for everyone in advance. We are more than happy to arrange this.

However, it is important for me to be clear about one point: your previous supervisor has already made adjustments that go beyond what is considered reasonable within business needs. Unfortunately, it is not possible to offer additional adjustments without significantly impacting profit and production.

If you would like to discuss anything further or explore alternative options, please feel free to get in touch.
Regards,
Wally Green


Thank you for your messages. I appreciate your honesty and the personal context you shared. I want to confirm that we have discussed the matter with Sybil Kibble and have had a conversation about the situation you raised.

We work in line with the terms and conditions of Credit Recovery Associates, which are available on our website. These terms emphasize the need to maintain a positive and safe working environment for everyone, ensuring fairness for the whole group as well as considering individual needs.

I fully understand that the personal situation you’ve described is very difficult, and I sympathize with the stress and uncertainty you’re experiencing. However, it’s important to be clear and fair: our company cannot provide the level of individual support you outlined—such as being taken aside during a personal crisis or being allowed to use the washroom outside of planned breaks. Collectors must maintain the flow of receivables and ensure the wellbeing of the whole company, and sometimes that means taking quick action, such as muting a microphone when needed, to keep the debtor on the phone.

We do our best to offer reasonable adjustments where practical, but we naturally have our limitations. As a result, this position may not offer the personal support or the direct, immediate intervention you are looking for. This would also be the case if we were to transfer you to another department. 

I hope this explains the situation in a fair and honest way.

Regards,
Ciara Glitchmore
Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS)
Kankakee, Illinois 60901

Missy downloads Pat-GPT and prompts it to barf up this email:

Thank you for your e-mails and I’m sorry to have missed your calls yesterday. I’m more than happy to talk to you over the phone, but I’m not sure what else I can do to help at the moment as I can only assist with general questions and unable to resolve this for you.   I’m sure you can appreciate from Barry’s email, he has been apologetic and she is trying his utmost to find a positive outcome and to ensure your feelings are considered in order to move forward.
 
As previously mentioned, moving to a different course provider may prove difficult due to class numbers and availability.  Joining a new class at this late stage may also cause you additional stress which we would want to avoid.
 
Postponing your learning for the rest of this term and start afresh with a different course provider in September may be the best option forward.   If you were to do this, I do have to emphasize that the class structure would be pretty much be the same as what you experienced with Scary Barry’s School of Mixed MoronicArts – this decision will be entirely yours to consider. We be starting new classes at our Noble County dojo here in September.

Regards,
Barry Reynolds
Owner, Scary Barry’s School of Mixed MoronicArts
Albion, Indiana 46701

Needless to say, the student isn’t happy. Elen files a discrimination complaint with the Indiana Education Bureau. She then makes a video complaint on Utube which goes viral, catching media attention.

Sybil Kibble also notices, since her name is on one of the messages she had never sent. She calls Wally Green to clarify, however her calls keep going to voicemail jail. Wally Green ignores his phone because he is busy singing crappy karaoke at the Manteno Optimal Club:

You can dookie in the morning
You can dookie in the night
You can dookie in the toilet
You can dookie in the box

If you drop one in the toilet
Then you gotta wipe your butt
If you poopie in the cat box
Then ya gotta scoop it up

Dookie, baby!
Dookie, baby
(Dookie! Dookie!)

Dookie, baby!
Dookie, baby
(Dookie! Dookie!)

Drop that deuce!

In walks Sybil Kibble.

“Wally, great job singing. Now what’s the deal with your AI slop program?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No, not you? Someone has been using AI to send messages pretending to be me!”

Sybil displays the video on her phone to Wally.

“I sell Cat-GPT. That was Pat-GPT. Call Pat Splatt. Nevermind, I will call him myself since he had false personated me too!”

Wally calls Pat, who of course does not answer. He’s too busy taking a steamy bath with his pool toy friends.

A news van with Indiana tags pulls up to the Manteno Optimal Club.

“Hello, Kitty Bee news reporter here doing a story on education discrimination. May I have a word with you?”

“Hey Kitty. Why is my name on some crappy web site email thingy?”

“You tell me.”

“I didn’t write that email.”

“Neither did I!” exclaims Wally Green.

“Do you know how it got there?” Kitty asks.

“Ask Pat Splatt over at that Pantherware computer company down on Lois Street in Kankakee.”

Missy Rabbit is watching the news at her Albion, Indiana apartment.

“Hey! That’s me! I wrote that email! Then I went bowling last night and got a 69 in two games!”

Missy calls the news to tell them all about it, bowling game and all.

“Hey Mr. Jones, you have a sexy voice.”

‘Okay, Missy. Thank you for the tip.”

Missy rambles on as the newsroom staff writer hangs up the phone.

Within days, a new news story emerges at 10:00 PM:

“Local martial arts instructor sanctioned and ordered to shut down due to discrimination complaint! Once again, disgraced former educator and former State of Indiana BMV test proctor Barry Reynolds ordered to shutter his school due to misconduct.”

Missy points at the screen, yells at her TV:

“Hey! When are they going to mention my bowling game scores?”

Wally Green’s Drugstore “Improvements”

~ Jen ~ 5 Comments

Deerfield-born ladies’ man, drugstore owner and wacky inventor Wally Green wants all his customers to know he cares. After partnering with corrupted contractor Terry Reynolds of Albion, Indiana, he is doing some “CONSTRUTION” to renovate his stores.

FART CARTS

These shopping carts play the brown note when you get within 10 feet of the store’s door, making you crap your pants to punish you for not putting the cart away

404 COUPONS NOT FOUND 

These 404 page coupon booklets are designed with only some pages numbered, confusing Wally’s customers on purpose because Wally hopes they will give up and die trying before finding their coupon of choice. 

CLICKETY-CLAPPETY INTERCOM MUSIC

Do you like hearing the same 15-second piano loop every time you call Wally Green’s pharmacy? Wally partnered with the same firm who produced every single commercial that ran on television for the past three years to create 30-second loops using only finger snaps, hand-claps and “boom” sounds…the latter lifted from the Queen song “We Will Rock You.” It is the only music more repetitive than that of pop singer John Mayer. Marshall Stacks will be installed outside every store to make sure his neighbors hear it too.

TRAP DOOR CHILD SEATS

In an effort to save the almighty dollar, Wally Green’s is ceasing to repair the child-seat straps in their carts. At random, your coffee, purse or child will get trapped in the cart, or maybe even your fingers! We promise to keep delivering our buy one, get one half off (but never free) sales, and cutting expenses at all costs enables us to keep offering these sales to our beloved customers!

No dog to blame…

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Midwestern housewife Scary Terry Steinke Reynolds has made a new TokTiks account to hopefully earn extra dough while otherwise sitting at home. Meanwhile her fallen-from-grace college president and former road test proctor husband Scary Barry runs his school of Mixed Moronic Arts. Between instructing Albion, Indiana folks howon the important practices of scythe fencing and psychic self-defense, Barry keeps an eye on his wife, who just ripped a big one.

“No I didn’t!” Barry comments, letting Terry’s followers that he’s at work in the comments section. “By the way, we’re running a special on defensive pooping class. Come join me on my live demo now! It’s free!”

Toxic College-y

~ Jen ~ 12 Comments

[ Sign the petition inspired by this story and read about what inspired me to write it! ]

Scary Barry Reynolds gets fired from his job as a road-test proctor for the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles, and starts his own college called “Dr. Mathew B. Johnson School of Intrepid Arts” in Albion, Indiana, teaching martial arts and telekinesis, a school he named after his favorite academic leader and best friend. 

Gothic Diana Ross gives her TV the side-eye

“Become as powerful as the Dragonball Y characters you see on TV! Develop your real life martial-arts skills, and when you get to your senior year, you’ll become a PSI-ball master!” 

“Not this ad again…” Gothic Diana Ross says across the Indiana border in Manteno, Illinois at the slate Victorian home where she and her bandmates reside. “Who wants to go to Indiana anyway?”

“Indiana wants us, but we can’t go back there.” Gothic Flo retorts and The Midnight Supremes all giggle.

Classes begin at the School of Intrepid Arts in Albion. Students practice basic self-defense, mixed martial arts and fencing.

“A new life awaits you at the School of Intrepid Arts” a flashing, talking blimp advertises as it flies over Northern Indiana and Illinois, spending a rather long time over Chicago, until someone begins to fire at it.

“Pop! Pop!” is heard as the floating advertisement-machine is gunned down somewhere on the Southside. 

A scholar gets harassed in his dorm, racial remarks litter his marker board. One moron, Pat Splatt, writes “KKK” on an empty pizza box and drops it outside his dorm room.

Protests are held by multiple school groups which make the local news.

Barry and Terry Reynolds respond to the media from the comfort of their own home.

“I will answer that later. Come back.” President Reynolds tells the news, and does not return their calls.

The scholar tries to learn to make “PSI Balls” on the internet and learns that it is fake. Meanwhile President Reynolds uses school money to pay for pet construction projects so he can hire his wife Terry’s company to do all the work.

Barry and Terry make the classes so hard, it is impossible to pass. Barry and Terry love seeing the disappointed faces of aspiring martial-arts students receive their report cards littered with Fs. 

President Barry Reynolds sends out a memo to his wife Terry using negative humor, snarking she should bulldoze “trash and idiots who live on minimum wage.” Barry accidentally copies the entire college on the email.

Oopsie!

Students start creating memes and Fakebook groups. President Barry reports them to Fakebook owner Emperor Zucc who shuts them all down. 

Students take to the news to expose the corruption.

The scholar is interviewed, and talks about his brother — also a student — who died when trying to defend a bully using “PSI Balls.”

“If President Reynolds wants to create chaos and censor those who rise up against his regime, then maybe he should move to North Korea. I bet he would feel right at home.”

Barry and Terry visit Bern Cacca bathing in the bog near Manteno, Illinois, for public-relations advice hoping to clean up their image, since Bern is so good at maintaining her squeaky clean image while doing dirty those closest to her. Oh, and she burns poopies.

Bern Cacca bathes in the bog

“Bern Cacca? We have an important message. We need your help.”

Bog Witch Bern keeps on swimming.

“Bern? We have something to tell you.”

Bern continues to ignore the looming Terry and Barry.

“Bern? We want to know how you keep your image so clean while you do others dirty.”

“Can’t you see I am taking a bath?” an angered Bern yells back, hoping to be left alone.

“Oh you are so…RUDE!” Terry snarks at Bern. 

“I am busy. Go away.”

“God hates ugly people! I am calling the manager!” Terry says out of desperation and fear.

“I am the manager.” Bern replies as she shoos away Terry and Barry. 

“I wish my hearing aids were broken.” Peppi Cacca says to his wife Bern and the Reynolds couple leaves.

The Indiana Attorney General investigates and shuts the school down, and the story makes television headlines.

“Oh good, we no longer have to see those annoying ads.” Gothic Flo says to Gothic Diana and then turns off her TV.

Missy’s Dismal DisMissyl

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

Psychic vampyre rabbit Missy Hey works at Wally Green’s collecting blood in their lab after dark, before the sun comes up.

A customer runs up to the counter near the drawing station to complain.

“I pulled in at the stroke of midnight. It’s now 2:00 AM. Do you know where your patients are?”

“Heyyyy! Guess what? I have a bone to pick with you. There’s no way you’ve been waiting two hours, I saw you coming before you got here.”

“You may be psychic but you don‘t know everything!” the customer understandably reacts to Missy’s dismissal of his concerns.

“I’ve been working here 38 nights! I know every vampire in town. I’ve been in this job longer than any one else in Kankakee County! Don’t I know you from the refuge?”

“What refuge? Do you mean the homeless shelter? That was 8 years ago.”

“No the refuge.”

“The refugee center? I have been volunteering there but it’s been awhile since they needed me.”

Wally’s getting fed up with his lab tech. “I’m giving you a written warning, Missy, you’re not making production because you talk too much with the patients. We are losing a lot of money and that’s why I opened this business, to make as much as possible. Just get your work done or you’re fired!”

Feeling the heat from her write-up, Missy applies to work for “Scary” Barry Reynolds at his new School of Mixed Moronic Arts in a strip mall in Noble County Indiana so she can annoy people over there instead. “I love to talk” is listed in her unique set of qualifications along with a set of bowling scores on her “psychic vampyre” resume.

Feeling so impressed by her credentials, Barry unexpectedly hires her after asking only two interview questions from his office near the Northeast border of Indiana and Ohio.

Barry immediately puts Missy to work as his new secretary, working evening shifts.

”Hey! This is Missy from Barry’s School of Mixed Moronic Arts. Call me back to confirm your class or we will have to cancel.”

She makes calls to bother customers four times nightly to “confirm” their appointments, hound them about their bills and missed classes, even after they ask her to stop calling.

“Hey! I’m Missy calling to remind you that you’ve not been to Mixed Moronic Arts in 30 days. You need to keep coming in to keep your membership active. We are open from 7:30 PM till 3:00 AM every week from Monday through Friday. Thankies!”

Message deleted.


“You have a sexy voice, I bet you’re handsome!”

Click.

“Why is that same blue van here? It’s blocking my view. Its registration expired four years ago, it’s such an eyesore…” Missy bothers her boss.

“It’s from the guy that was squatting next door and hoarding. He had done got it removed two weeks ago. Don’t it smell better over yonder now?”

“I went bowling and got a 99 in two games!”

Missy hounds a new student who had just walked in the door. “Why are you wearing THAT? It looks terrible.”

“Missy, just ask them to change into their uniform and remove their shoes.” Barry commands.

She then walks over to the audio room near the dojo and attempts to mix CDs like records on a turntable.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a deejay!”

Barry — and his students — have had enough of Missy’s antics.

Barry her puts her in the dojo for others spar, accidentally forgetting on purpose to tell them that Missy has no scythe-fencing skills, nor psychic-self-defense, just plenty of offense. He watches from his washroom while eating popcorn., practicing his defensive pooping.

Free Rent For All!

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

Good news from the Moroniverse: Out of the kindness of their hearts, Midwestern slumlords Sonya Moran and Madeline Topolla-Teirant are giving away free rent for life! Read this note issued to their tenants:

“Self-reflection is scary but important. We are sorry we verbally abused you, woke you up in the middle of the night with frivolous fire-alarms, and issued false lease violations. You can stay in our mansions rent-free, because we are so sorry we lived rent-free in your heads.”

Sincerely,

APRIL FOOLS!

Dirty Deeds Done CHEEP.

~ Jen ~ 10 Comments

Albion, Indiana millionaire, narc-a-doodle and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran cannot connect the dots why her tenants at her low-income apartment complexes across Northern Illinois and Indiana are complaining about her code of misconduct and lack of empathy. She had issued hundreds of embellished and flat-out false lease violation notices, hoping to collect a crapton of funny money from the false flags.

“Why would they expect me to come out acting like a barista?” 

“Because baristas are nice to their customers and generally happy to see them,” her assistant Justin Brown “JB” Powers replies.

“Why do so many residents have cats? I don’t like cats. They should be used as test objects. How do you spell puke?”

“P-U-K-E”

“I thought that was ‘puck’.”

“How do I submit this resident complaint into the company software so HUD can’t see it?”

“Press F4.”

Sonya Presses F then 4.

“Why won’t this go through?”

JB sighs and walks into his office.

“Is this that Area 51 virus again? I just used 50 milligrams of data and already I need to clean out my cache.”

Sonya takes the day off early to go hiking; she climbs up the mountain near the country club in her nighty and poses for photos after she gets to the top of Mount Stupid. Then she heaves up the roadkill she ate for lunch, lightening the load so she can fly back home.

Indiana Fair Housing has caught wind of Sonya’s malarky and therefore sends out one of their own inspectors to do Sonya’s properties, knowing she cannot be trusted to do it right. The Lizzie Borden-like landlord thinks is is a great lessor but she is just a hack.

Sonya escorts the inspector into an apartment for the annual safety inspection. The large kitchen light fixture is out, the room is dark.

“Do you have a lightbulb?” Sonya asks the rightfully puzzled tenant.

“Lightbulb?”

“He needs to see to do his inspection.”

Burrstone flips a switch and turns on another light.

The inspections carry on and just as Indiana Fair Housing’s team suspects, there are many discrepancies. They confirm that Sonya has been issuing false lease violations to extort and harass her tenants. The lead inspector leaves his clipboard with his findings by the office door because Mrs. Moran has already flown the coop for the day.

The craptor sisters Carla and Sonya Moran stalk their prey, hoping to find out who has tipped off Indiana Fair Housing, after they stop for seafood because they are bored of eating roadkill. Then they pee all over the place.

“Cat pee? What cat pee? I don’t even have a cat?” tenant Jim reacts after reading landlord Sonya’s Fisher-Price lease violation posted to his door.

“What is her obsession with pathological lying and pee? Strong odor of cat pee when she followed in the pest control guy. Yeah…no. I am incontinent and she smelled MY pee because that cokehead woke me up and I did not have a chance to change my pull-up!”

“Lease violation because dirt on the floor. It’s winter in the Midwest. Who doesn’t have dirt on their floor?”

JB Powers, Midwestern turd burglar and assistant to Sonya Moran steals pooch poops from Manteno lawns on his break. Suddenly he strikes gold: a poop box. He feels he strikes gold when he pirates the home colonoscopy return box from the unsuspecting person’s porch.

Two blockchain blockheads – Robbie Hurlbutt and Pat Splatt – want to get on the bad money bandwidth bandwagon, so they visit Manteno communal narcissist, bog witch and self-proclaimed “port-a-potty empress” Bern Cacca at her Manteno home to get down to business.

“You’ve heard of food pics, right? Now look at this: recycled food pics!” Bernadette exclaims as she opens her turd-vault gate to the two potential prospectors, walls lined with Bristol Stool charts in different designs which her hubs Peppi had picked up from various dumpster jobs over the years.

Pat and Robbie heave before they can leave and take a powder to Kankakee.  

A wild Undead Greg Schneissder emerges from Bernadette’s basement poop coop, belly full.

“Hey, you’re eating up the profits!”

“That’s amazing, Grace!”

“My name’s Bernadette Moran Cacca, and don’t you forget it!”

A persistent knock is heard at the Cacca residence at 810 Kant Street in Manteno, Illinois.

“JB!” The two poopyheads Bernadette and JB share an embrace.

“Look what I brought ya honey puddin’.”

“Just for me, awww, you’re such a poop god!”

“How much can I get for it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can mine a lot of craptocoin from this preserved poo. No formaldehyde needed! You can save that for your turd-machines.”

“Oh no, I’m not paying for it. You should just donate it to me.”

“How’s work going?”

“Work? Good. We just opened up the Manteno Cantina. I can’t wait for those tips to just rollllllll in!”

“How about the port-a-johns. How’s business?”

“Crappy.”

“I know. How about I give you this box of poop which fell off a truck and we will go into business together mining craptocoins.”

“You got yourself a deal!”

Sonya Moran returns to her Albion, Indiana headquarters on Monday after a long weekend making donuts in the sky. The millionaire scumlord checks her texts, voicemails and emails, deleting everything. Why check your messages when you could just delete them? Ahh…the power of voicemail jail.

Sonya sits down in her loafy chair at her massive cherry desk. Two imposing women in suits show up and open her unlocked office door. 

Sonya gasps.

“Hello, we are from Housing and Urban Development (HUD) for our meeting. Are you Mrs. Moron?”

“It’s Moran. You need to make an appointment to see me.”

“Did you get our messages? We sent you five of them. We are here to investigate multiple complaints we received regarding unfair treatment of your tenants.”

Before she has a chance to fly away, the shapeshifting malignant narcissist Sonya transfigures into her vulture form, only to fly into a wall. As the bird-brain lies on her office floor stunned, the investigators look through Sonya’s resident files. 

“Just as we thought. We have all the evidence we need. Here’s our card.”

The HUD investigators drop their card on Sonya’s desk and it slips off, falling onto the floor.

“Pick that UP!” Sonya demands of the ladies dressed for business, who leave in silence.

Sonya’s phone blows up a couple minutes later. A woman sings her message on Sonya’s office voicemail which can be heard on speakerphone.

“Hi! I’m Bernadette. You might know me from my accordion covers for charity at the Manteno Optimal club and a few random walk-on roles for an app-only television series! Well I have a special offer for you! Craptocoin is the hot new thing and ours is sizzling! Call us now!”

“Wait! Wait! Don’t hang up!”

Hoping to score a deal from her favorite swamp witch — niece Bernadette – the president of Bern Cacca’s fan club The Poopy Groupies is too stunned and woozy to answer the phone. 

Meanwhile a certain tenant — television news reporter Kitty Bee — can be seen giggling and dancing, laughing at the fallen tyrant who had previously harassed her.

She had witnessed the entire incident, can you blame her?

McVultures Fight Over McFood

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

“Don’t come to see me at my grave if you don’t visit me when I’m alive!” shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Moran passive-aggressively demands of her sister Sonya Moran.

“I’m just going to McD’s.”

“Carrion is all I eat. I am so tired of eating the same dead meat. Carrion, carrion, carrion. You know what, sis? I’m gonna get me some filet mignon and you’re NOT getting any at all. I will eat it myself. You’re not welcome.”

Sonya flies away and gets herself a decent, cheap meal; but more importantly, some peace of mind. For now….

After Sonya enjoys her burgers, fries and nuggets, she leaves the fast-food-joint in Manteno hoping to avoid her idiot sister who had flown in from Albion, Indiana. Think again.

image: cartoon of humanoid vulture wearing pigtails, waving in the foreground. In the background, another humanoid vulture can be seen flying down toward the character in the foreground. Golden Arches and the McDonaldland character Grimace are also seen in the background running from it. Text: "McDonalds, I'm lovin' it."

“You forgot your shake!” Grimace exclaims as he runs to hand Sonya her dessert. Though Carla had been making air donuts the whole time Sonya was inside having her McMeal, she swoops down too late to miss Grimace handing back Sonya’s order.

Carla smacks into the ground beak-first. Sonya points, laughs, and does a little dance.

“I have a headache…”

image: photo of village of Manteno, Illinois entrance

“Good. Mine’s gone now!” Sonya says as she swoops into the air, away from her McMoron sister who really only came to stir up trouble.

Lipstick On a Moron

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“The Lifft driver you get sure makes a difference. It was like getting upgraded from Undead Greg Schneissder to Gothic Diana Ross!” Sybil Kibble tells her ma JoAnn “JK” Kibble as she sets down her phone.

“The LeBaron done broke down again? Why don’t you trade that thing in?”

“I’d probably have to pay THEM to take it off my hands.”

Sybil exits the house, waving to her mom whose bum is parked square in front of the television in her basement apartment, decorated with her school-bus parts collection. Sybil cares naught about her mother’s decor, as long as her rent check made out to Sybil does not bounce she’s cool. 

The blonde, bespectacled 60-something collections supervisor goes to rage mow, she takes pride in having the greenest lawn in Kankakee. Two angry birds circle above her, arguing as they do donuts in the sky, taking a massive dump on Sybil’s head before she has a chance to cut the grass.

“It’s stalking season!” shapeshifting humanoid vulture says to her wingding sister Sonya, and then they fly over to a certain house in Manteno.

“An absolutely epic weekend in Bradley. Had the ENORMOUS pleasure of reading a terrifically colorful role in a nearly sold-out benefit reading of dear old friend JB’s wonderful play, HOW TO STEAL TURDS, along with a stellar cast (including BRILLIANT CARLA MORAN as my mom) and many visits to the ER for my rear with friends from far and near. Wow. Here’s to—“

“Hi daring!” Carla calls out to her daughter loudly bragging about lawd-only-knows-what to her drunken, sleeping husband Peppi, empty jug marked “XXX” just beyond the reach of his flopped out arm.

“Join me at Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments TONIGHT, 5:30-10pm!  I’m donating 10 percent of what I make tonight to The Flat Earth Society.”

“No thanks, honey. Not now. Did you wax your chin yet?”

“I’ll go! I wanna ring the bell! I wanna ring the bell! Can I ring the bell?”

“Of course Aunt Sonya. Come on over to my charity auction down at Kankakee’s Best and hear me play kazoo covers of OKLAHOMA!”

“How dawg! Ooooooooooh!” Sonya sings, poorly.

“AND, I am donating an autographed picture of ME to the charity auction!”

“Ooooooooooh!”

“Does this lipstick make my beak look big?” Carla’s bird-brain wants to know. “Just be honest.”

“Maybe they will auction off something to help you with your Mamma McRageFace. Come on DOWN! We’ll have a BLASSSST,” Bernadette exclaims with her tongue hanging out her mouth wide open as if to catch a fly. Then she farts.

JB the nighborhood turd burglar and his lover Bernadette Cacca are swinging their interdigital clasp as they walk down the aisles of Big Deal electronics store. 

“I miss the days when I could just type “format see colon” to wipe out a store’s computer.”

“You can format my colon any day, Justin,”

“That’s Jay.”

“Let’s go find some crap to get into,” Bern says to JB, one of many tools she has on her side.

CRASS Chief Cooker of Books, multiplex owner and Emcee of Moronic Half Assets (MHA) Konrad Teirant begins the bidding for the charity auction. Of course, bog witch Bernadette Cacca had to show up, as she will do anything to look good and cover up her real-life lack of empathy.

“What is that, a TV?” a citizen asks Emcee Konrad.

“Noooo, that’s a signed photo of Bernadette Cacca!”

“Who?”

“I signed it myself!” Mrs. Cacca brags.

“I’m sure you did. Now don’t panic, don’t be alarmed. This here car alarm was done been donated by Mr. Brandon Dixon, owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machines! Let’s go! Get those bids in!”

“Now here’s a steaming pile of something, this mystery bag was donated by JB!”

Bernadette’s nose wiggles with interest.

“And here, how clever! A bottle of dehydrated water donated by Mr. Wally Green himself! I bet it has no calories!”

Awkward silence fills the room. Very awkward.

“What is this? I bet it’s essential, that’s right a bottle of essential snake oil donated by the Krabalsky sisters Doris and Leona!”

“And last, but not least, two tickets to see a matinee of your choice here at Teirant Cinema-13! Remember this goes to a really good cause! The big bags you help raise will help the manager of Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments get a raise!” Emcee Konrad points over to his wife and dumpster-clown, Madeline “Madwoman” Topolla-Teirant.

“I mean you got to have solid leadership, and she is really solid! Yuk Yuk Yuk.”

The seven-foot, 350 pound clown is not impressed.

Bernadette begins to sing and play accordion.

Sybil Kibble has been hanging out at a certain coffeehouse on the regular. A month or two ago she had overseen shift manager Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran verbally abusing her staff, making fun of them for spilling drinks so she decided to leave a review:

“I spoke to the staff and told them I have their back and that if she does it again, everybody should get together and ask Carla how would she feel if she spilled a drink and we all made fun of her.

A couple of weeks ago I saw Carla put her hands on a staff member while she was using negative humor making fun of them. I let the staff know that I had their back but this time this woman seem to be more aware of by standing up for them because she waited on me right afterwards. 

Well tonight it happened again. I wanted to complain about it but Carla was the only one on staff who was in charge. Oh my God all she did was argue with me.  She said she would hand my comments to Kankakee Police and I would be prosecuted for ‘defrimation of character.’ Nobody should abuse their staff like that. Don’t go there if Carla is working, she’s the shapeshifting vulture with the blonde hair.”

Konrad Teirant tries his best to hustle the donated hunks of junk.

“Last chance to bid on this lovely bottle of dehydrated water, generously donated by Mr. Wally Green himself! Did you know that he was born in Deerfield? It’s their loss because Kankakee is lucky to have him!”

More awkward silence fills the room.

“And sold, to absolutely nobody because nobody bid. Last we have this mystery bag, what is this? If I said then it would not be a secret right? Yuk yuk yuk. I’ll start the bidding at ten dollars. Just ten smackeroos will get you this brown bag of fun!” 

Bernadette raises her hand

“Ooh we’ve got ten, now who will do twenty?”

Undead Greg Schneissder awkwardly hoists his arm.

“Twenty, now who will do forty?”

“ME, PICK ME!”

Okay, 40 from the young lady in the “Peppi’s Portapotties” shirt.

The bidding goes back and forth.

“Two thousand dollars to Greg. Going once, going twice…sold!”

Bernadette raises her arm again.

“It’s too late. Sold to the zombie dude. Now get this thing outta here.”

Undead Greg takes the bag of poo and chows it down. He eats turds to stay alive instead of brains.

“Now pay the lady $2000.”

“Buurrrp.”

Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Moran is busy filling out an order form for Quack Valley Cosmetics, using her beak and blood from a recent carrion meal.

“Hey, you’re getting blood all over it. You just wasted a perfectly good order form, now you should be ashamed of yourself,” Carla’s bird of a feather and fellow shapeshifting vulture Sonya guilt-trips her sister.

“Nevermind!” Carla exclaims with the wrath of Satan. She stirs up a hornets’ nest which attracts the local murder of crows.

Sybil Kibble stops on Kant Street to text, right out front the Cacca homestead where mother Carla and aunt Sonya are bickering on the lawn like three-year-old children.

The massive flock of crows poop all over Carla and Sonya as they caw, caw, caw.

“Now look what you done!”

“Look what you done!”

“I gotta go to work tonight and now I have to shower all over again.”

Sybil Kibble laughs her bum off watching the bird-brains argue who is the biggest moron, then she drives away in her newly-repaired LeBaron giggling and feeling giddy that the nasty coffeehouse supervisor finally got some crap handed to her, errr, dumped all over her.

“You spilled poop all over your shirt! Now go clean that up!” Sybil shouts out the window and then drives away to her home in Kankakee, looking forward to that rage-mow.

Red Flags

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Albion, Indiana shapeshifting humanoid vultures Sonya and Carla Moran decide to hit a few rounds of golf down at Red’s Country Club.

As Carla uses her pointy beak to chip a sharp putt and hopefully score a birdie, her sister-in-madness Sonya tries to screw her up. “I bet you can’t hit that, na na na na booboo!” Sonya sings like a little girl as she dances and mocks her golf partner.

Carla takes her five-iron and smacks her bird-brained sister straight across the forehead, then chucks her clubs off the ledge and flies away, down to the clubhouse for some filet mignon. She’s tired of carrion.