“Dog bones, water, washrooms” – Sybil Kibble, Bill Collector, Kankakee
”Life, death and everything in-between” – Gothic Diana Ross, Singer and Vet Tech, Manteno
”Showers, fedoras and food that’s not corn…preferably cheeseburgers and fries…M’lady.“ – Damien Hurlbutt, Area 51 test subject (Formerly of Bourbonnais and Champaign
”Elvis records, blue suede shoes and fine women!” – Robbie Hurlbutt, singer and pharmacy clerk, Kankakee
“Poop, poop and more poop” – Bernadette M. Cacca, entramanure, Manteno
Crapstraps, Turd Machines and Mr. Plopsy Canes. I should know, I invented them myself!” – Wally Green, Pharmacy chain owner, Bradley (Formerly of Deerfield)
“Story time with Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes? At the Manteno Library? I would say that a trip to Manteno is not complete without spending a few hours at the Manteno Optimal Club with Bernadette Cacca! Hmmpf!”
“Why don’t you start your own book club, honey?” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Moran asks her communal narcadoodle, bog-witch niece Bernadette.
“You’re the best!”
“Butt first, a trip to Bucketheads.”
“Why are you going to a hardware store?”
“It’s my own personal prop department!”
“Hot dawg!”
Bernadette pinches a massive loaf upstairs in the washroom while tapping away at her smell phone to announce yet-another-gig her aunt Sonya got her. Ahhh, the stench of nepotism.
BOOK CLUB NIGHT, TUES with yours truly! Join me at @MantenoOptimalClub TONIGHT, AUGUST 18, 9:30pm-3am. What will I read? It’s a surprise! It’s the hottest new event in Kankakee County!
“I never drank coffee while I was in college. I drank pop,” Gothic Diana Ross complains to the Buckstars staff about her coffee again.
“What’s this crap? A port-a-potty made out of poop? Do you drop dookie in it, on it, or next to it?” Diana scrolls through her Fakebook feed as she waits for her iced caramel latte to get re-made.
“She’s no Bansky…” Gothic Flo quips.
“I know, we should crash her gig. Maybe we can heckle her or something,” Gothic Mary giggles.
“Well, there is this card game…ooops. Nope, we’re not old enough,” Diana laughs as she reads the community events.
“Oh darn.” The dark gothic beauties share a laugh and drive away from their Gothic Victorian home in their black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.
The Poopy Groupies surround Mrs. Cacca and shower her with a gush of superlatives at the Manteno Optimal Club:
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to Illinois!”
“You make me feel like a star, Bern!”
“It’s the Manteno icon herself! You should be beatified!”
Queen Bernadette rolls out her porcelain throne and makes an announcement:
“Today, I’m here on a campaign to promote regularity! I’m sure you saw my announcement on TV! I was on every channel!”
The portapotty empress sits on her toilet which she just bought from Bucketheads Hardware and begins to sing from a book:
“Being regular is important to me, and I hope it is EQUALLY important to my regulars. I love my Poopy Groupies! Nooowwww–baaaaaack–toooooo-the—booooooooooook!”
The Poopy Groupies hoot, holler and catcall. Yes the cat-calling is sexist but the queen of the porcelain throne does not care what kind of attention she gets, as long as she gets it and she is the center of attention. After all, she feels entitled to it since she does gigs like these for charity.
The cheering crowd of Bernadette bootlickers is cut like a knife from a few voices in the crowd.
“Why are you pooping in public?”
“Oh honey, I am not really pooping. See look, all golf balls!”
The crowd roars with laughter.
The Midnight Supremes join in on a tune of their own:
“You can’t hurry death You just have to wait. Charon works on his own time, No matter what prayers you say.”
Upset about getting upstaged, Bernadette throws a fit:
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, an unruly citizen who is obsessed with pooping!”
Awkward silence fills the hall of the Manteno Optimal Club. Eyes roll. People begin to chortle.
“I am reprising my role from the Human Body Odor EXCLUSIVE show, “Dropping the Deuce.”
A voice emerges from the crowd.
“Hey, I have a gift for ya Bernadette!”
Sybil Kibble hands Bernadette a box and runs. Happy for the distraction, Mrs Cacca opens her gift. “Is this for meeee? Oh you are the best.”
Sybil Kibble escapes Bern’s word-salad diatribe in her trusty Chrysler LeBaron as do the Midnight Supremes in their sleek sportscar.
Bernadette continues to sing and ramble like the moron that she is, as she watches her mug on the community FartTV, ignoring the confused crowd leaving her stupid book club: “Late last night when the moon green, around the corner came a turd machine…shots were fired, a scream was heard…Join me here next week as I livestream again…oh dear.”
Let the gleaming forces of entropy work for you…we mean us of course!
Are you disabled with an incurable brain disease and have trouble getting out to buy your your urgent lifesaving medications? Try Wally Green’s patented new Ghastlighting medication delivery alert program! This crappy idea was inspired by a certain pharmacy chain named after the Parkway in Utica. We might show up with your drugs, we might not and then say we did anyway! If you die, who cares? Call our confidently incorrect pharmacy technicians, we will just groupthink-lie and say you were not at home – like a dog licking its nads – because we can.
Wally asks, why use empathy, honestly and compassion when it’s easier to be a greedy, spineless moron instead?
By the way, ladies, he’s single! 5/3 MAGAts approve this message.
We are doing CONSTRUTION in all our stores to tighten up our aisles so we can overwhelm our shelves with even more useless crap, so we can increase your chances of winning a blow to the head, a stubbed toe or just maybe some sleevies might plop into your cart!
If you’re even (un)luckier, the plop factor could follow you home to knock over your phone, lose your keys or spill your coffee all over the floor!
Coming soon to your local Wally’s: Cat-GPT!
Let your cat walk across the keyboard, and Cat-GPT will invent all kinds of new slop you never knew you wanted! Have your cat enter our competition to invent new nonsense for all our stores to sell. Buy one, get one half off (but never free).
Not valid in Manteno, sorry.
Close your eyes…imagine our new WallyCard offer, now with a 69% UFO! Ask Wally in person for a date and he might lower your rate! Maybe…
“Security! Come quick! These bats are crapping all over my cell!” Damien exclaims to guard Becky Konkan.
“Don’t get so worked up, Damien. These are your new friends. Try and get to know them.”
“I’m gonna get rabies!”
“Nope, their testing all came back negative. They’re going to hang around us for awhile.”
“I don’t want them watching me poop…” Damien says as he waves the bats away and they retreat to the ceiling rafters above the cell block, then sits down to pinch a loaf. “Phheeeewwwwww” Damien brags. “Look at the size of that log. Peeew! Peeeew! Peeew!”
Sixty-five year old Kankakee bill collector and dog food connoisseur Sybil Kibble wants an even thinner body than she already has, so she calls to order some supposed suppositories, so she thinks.
Sybil asks the customer care rep lots of questions, happy to be on the other side of the headset for a change.
“Do I take the blue pill or the yellow pill? Can I get my package marked? Can I take them with dog bones or do I have to have an empty stomach? Do they make them in blueberry? Lemon? How do these pills work, do they go from my butt to my mouth or the other way around?”
Then she orders a skid.
“Just don’t take the red pill,” JoAnn Kibble advises her daughter Sybil after she hangs up.
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.
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.
Some 500-some-odd silly stories later, we are still pooping up these pretend stories featuring our fake bent carrots.
Unlike ElectronicArts, MoronicArts has not been sold to any private equity firm. We are still made in the USA from recycled electrons, used tissues and hydrogen sulfide.
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.
I have to pay the Moron Bill next month. Want to help? I know this is a long-shot. If you are less broke than I am, perhaps you could please contribute towards the yearly cost of hosting this silly site of mine, full of 500-some-odd stories all written by your friendly neighborhood weirdo who is really a cat. Meow.
Slumlord, malignant narcissist and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran squawks and lets loose the gasp of her ego’s death after finding out that the tenants in one of her buildings have organized and formed an association. After all, they’ve got that right, but Sonya does not want them to have it because she’s a moron.
Even though not doing the damage is, you know, cheaper and more effective than damage control, she attempts to ban her tenants’ meeting by arguing and flapping her wings out of retaliation.
Her song and dance fails to make an impression on a single, rightfully-fed up resident. The maladapted personality — whose empathy cells fell out her brain aeons ago — starts casing her tenants across Northern Illinois and Indiana looking for drugs to steal when they are not at home. After all, she has the master key, so why not (so she thinks, anyway).
Sonya gets mixed up along the way, lost in flight across the Midwest and out toward California.
Hoping to get high after watching some Breaking Bad, she makes a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Oops! Not anticipating consequences just like any other run of the mill narcadoodle, Sonya soars into the airspace at Groom Lake and gets shot down.
After captured, the Area 51 folks run experiments on the shapeshifting humanoid vulture known as Sonya Moran. They don’t know what they are dealing with, so they draw blood, run her through an MRI machine and slide a scope through her beak to identify the creepy cryptid. Then she poops.
Sonya gets arrested for FUI (flying under the influence), her blood chock full of all that Adderal she sniffed chasing the dragon up and down. Then she gets thrown into the cage of fellow test subject, neckbeard Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt. Damien gives her the bedroom eyes, a gaze she quickly returns.
“Hello, M’lady, Madame!”
“Oh no, that thing is gonna mate! Quick, yeet her!”
“No wait, this could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for!” the fellow biologist tells her superior, as the two caged crooks enjoy their conjugal visit.
Meanwhile, Area 51 researchers compare Sonya’s DNA results against the cells-interlinked forensic database. “She’s no angel.” It’s the tip of the iceberg, leading authorities to discover Sonya’s secrets and perhaps the literal skeletons in her closet.
Sonya gets put in restraints and through a series of experiments in the Pain Tolerance Department. A technician force-feeds Sonya 50 hotdogs. Then she pukes them up. Next, a team of scientists slowly play Katy Perry music louder and louder, almost to the volume of a chain-restaurant washroom. Lastly, they bring in an exorcist to pay Sonya a visit.
“Self-reflection is hard, but important Sonya. Have you ever, in one moment, considered that YOU are the problem?”
“Grfhdihfowehfwfhwufthouwofghuwgt!!!”
“I cast thee out in the name of Jesus!”
Sonya pukes up more of those darned hotdogs.
Not knowing what to do with their newly discovered cryptid, the biology team put her back in the cell with Damien.
MoronicArts 
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