Tag: amwriting

Behind the Moroniverse – Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt

~ Jen ~ 4 Comments

The main inspiration behind fictional character Damien Hurlbutt has is so self-centered, he thinks this blog is all about him.

Seriously. I hope over time more people learn about communal narcissists and how they insidiously abuse people. Overts and covert narc-a-doodles are bad enough; communals are even sneakier.  I would not wish narcissistic abuse on my worst enemy and wish no ill will. I just wish they would all form their own narc colony on a deserted island and leave the rest of us alone. 

Or better yet, drop them from planes into an erupting volcano, and vaporize them so they cannot make more narcissists (OK not really, but it would be cool).

I was married to one of these evil souls. Had I known he was the son of Satan, I would not have dated him, moved to Illinois to marry him, leaving behind a job I loved to take one that was less than pleasant. 0/10 would not recommend.

I wish I had been given the omen.

Now divorced, this real-life neckbeard and “men’s rights activist” has told his friends that I draw cartoons of him and write stories about him.

Has he heard of Squirrely Dan?

My ex works as a senior library specialist and loves to read. I would hope that someone like him, whom I would think has a good grasp on literacy would understand that Damien and all the other morons on this blog are fictional characters — as in pretend people, not real ones. DUH.

Apparently my former husband thinks he works in a movie theater, like the random stranger whom I had met in 2004. Just like the fictional Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, this real-life despot had been offering cloned movie tickets in return for a date, to us call-center coworkers taking breaks outside. I did not meet my ex until 2008.

I will never forgive my ex for trying to turn the spouse of my late friend against me in his smear-campaigning. Such a tender-heart, a self-proclaimed “old soul” writes lunacy letters like the drivel below and sends them to his estranged spouse’s medical providers.

Because, umm, a librarian knows more about psychology than an actual mental health provider? yeah…no.

My ex thinks so. Behold part of this lunacy letter he sent to my mental health team:

Projection: A narcissist’s calling card, as is pathological lying. Methinks narcissists have their own code of misconduct, maybe even a manual.

I will never forgive him for telling me he was “a nice guy for not throwing me into oncoming traffic” while we were walking into the hospital. Yeah, a really nice guy NiceGuy™ does that, right?

I will never forgive him for manipulating the divorce judge into letting him take custody of my cat Holly, whom he repeatedly hit (“it’s just a light tap” he gaslit when caught) and put into the shower to “punish.” Who does that to a cat? Has he helped move a body or something? Sadly he took the cat from me…

I will never forgive my ex for idealizing, devaluing me and then attempting to discard me, shortly before I left him. Rumor has it, he still obsesses over me, and makes feeble attempts to smear campaign me using the same DARVO tactics and made-up mental health diagnosis he had used in 2017. I imagine he pushes away what little friends narcissistic supply he has left.. Like his bootlicker friend once said to me, I wish he would “get over it, just move on.”

With narcadoodles, every projection is a confession.

I write and draw MoronicArts stories to cope with having been abused. I feel it helps and I am a lot happier back in New York State, doing my own thing, living with my sweet kitty, creating music, learning to speak other languages and making Youtube videos.

My hope is that my stories help others who have been abused by these monsters cope and process the crap they have been going through and hopefully bring a little joy to them, and myself also. Oh and it s fun to draw silly cartoons of fake events and pretend people doing moronic things to each other..

Do you think you may going through domestic violence or know someone who suffers it? Emotional abuse is still abuse and a form of domestic violence. Please click this link to learn more and to find help in your area: https://www.nomore.org/the-no-more-global-directory/

Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.

Sybil Kibble becomes a millionaire?

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Sybil Kibble is busy taking a dump after a long, hard day when her phone starts to play the “Gongs and Chimes” numbers station music.

“Oh not her again. She only calls when she wants something but never picks up when I need a friend.”

Sybil royal flushes her full house and returns LTL’s call.

“Hey my buddy Sybil Kibble! It’s been a busy-busy month with lots of running around to do, but I’m free today for just the next hour.” LTL begins to read off next month’s agenda until Sybil interrupts.

“But I’m not. I have business to take care of. Call me tomorrow.”

“Okay. But we didn’t hang out on Easter. I wanted you to come to church with me. JC’s the man!”

“I’m not free on Sundays anymore. How about I call you when I am free and we can take it from there?”

“Okay…but I only want to see you for a few minutes.”

“I will call YOU when I am free. Good night.”

The next day, LTL calls anyway — despite Sybil having expressed her wishes for her to wait, and gawd-forbid respect HER time — and she asks again if they can hang out.

“Are you mad at me? You haven’t answered my texts.”

“I’m busy. What’s up, are you OK, LTL?”

“Let’s visit.”

Worried about her friend, Sybil reluctantly gives in.

“I’m pretty tired but I can see you for a bit as long as you actually show up. When will you be down?”

“Get ready.”

“I will. How long will it be”

“Not long”

“Ball-park, one hour?”

“Oh less than that.”

The two disconnect and Sybil fixes up her face-frame, straightens out her black-and-white top and applies her makeup. The clock ticks. No sign from lazy LTL because she’s too busy farting around, so Sybil gets understandably fed up. Setting a boundary is hard but important, so Sybil makes it clear as daylight that she’s done waiting around:

“It’s been two hours and you said to get ready because you would be right down, but you never showed up. You live a half mile from me, if even that. I’m not waiting around on you anymore. I’m going to bed. Have a good weekend.”

Within ten minutes, someone relentlessly knocks on Sybil’s door while she is busy folding laundry in her bedroom, vertical blinds drawn to give her privacy from nosy neighborhood nitwits.

“Sybil!”

knock-knock-knock

“Sybil!”

knock-knock-knock

“Sybil!”

Ms. Kibble dons her headphones and cranks up the volume to the bird and squirrel videos her ma JK had sent her, literally drowning out the noise from the door-pounding and her phone being blown to bits by all the texts:

“I am here”

“I am by your door now”

“I cannot see you”

“I am already here”

“I saw you when you walked inside”

Time is money, yet LTL thinks only HERS matters. L drives home and texts Sybil “Good night.”

The following day, ennui’s calling but nobody’s home. LTL tries to call Sybil so she can make excuses, instead of apologizing because why do that? Only smart people take personal responsibility.

“I am pert near fed up with all the times L has done flaked out! You snooze, you lose.”

Sybil decides to gets inventive instead of even. She checks her itemized log to look up the number of hours LTL has wasted over the years and drafts up a bill, which she then mails to LTL’s house:

Needless to say, LTL fails to pony up, so Sybil sells LTL’s debt over to her debt collections farm Credit Recovery Associates so her team can hound her instead.

Behind the Moroniverse – Character Theme Songs

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

What kind of songs do the denizens of the Moroniverse like? Here’s a list. Have fun!

Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble misses eating King Kuts dog food.

JoAnn Kibble raps along to this safety song while rearranging her collection of school bus parts.

Robbie Hurlbutt sure thinks he’s number one.

Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt used to jam out to this tune while driving to work at the Teirant Cinema-13, before he got captured trying to storm Area 51.

Wacky inventor and drugstore owner Wally Green doesn’t accept “no” for an answer when he thinks he has found the magnet to his steel.

Konrad Teirant plays a lot of Dirty Games.


Bernadette M. Cacca had loved her Turd Machine Deluxe so much, she went out and bought 19 more of them.


Gothic Diana Ross turns the men upside down with her long, long notes.

Ant D. Yu was having fun spinning this tune at the Manteno Optimal Club until Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies had showed up and made a stink. Word has it he still plays it when she’s not there.


Pat Splatt loves spammity spam, spam spam spam, beautiful spam spam spam spam.


Brandon Dixon thinks his tractor…mmm…imbecile machine is sexy.


One half of the rap group The Chickenheads, Tyrell “Ty-Fowl” Fowler burps along to this song:


MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt’s Pool Toys

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

“Why does your brother Damien keep buying pool toys in the middle of Winter?” Wally Green asks his Illinois pharmacy-chain clerk, Kankakee Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist, Robbie Hurlbutt.

Robbie says nothing, chooses to ignore his boss and keeps on stocking shelves as he hopes to leave early so he can skip out on closing.

“Has he moved a body or something?” Wally says of Robbie’s equally creepy and narcissistic brother Damien.

Robbie ignores Wally, finishes stocking and sneaks out the door while the store owner is not looking so he can head down to the bar. First, he has to meet his speedball dealer.

Robbie, high on uppers, spends 20 minutes chatting up the bartender, while other customers grow impatient and angry as he is holding up the mixing of their cocktails and the pouring of their beers.

Robbie downs his downers and chases them with prescription painkillers he stole from his elderly mother PJ.

The inebriated Elvis impersonator texts his brother Damien, hoping he will join him and take him home, however after multiple selfies and text messages saying how much he loves his brother, Damien does not reply.

Cinema-13 clerk, bulbous neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt strokes his dayglow-orange facial coiffe, and sets out a clipboard containing a sign-up sheet requesting email addresses for a newsletter. A theater customer walks up to the movie theater counter and asks what the newsletter is about. “It’s just a newsletter,” the sneaky narcissist Damien replies in his typical smug tone.

After the picture finishes its run and the ushers escort all the guests, Damien collects the newsletter sign-up sheet and heads to his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest to sleep on the floor. Before he can retire for the night, he get annoyed over the mess of texts and photos from his brother Robbie. Damien would rather sleep in his mess of plastic tubs, and boxes of the things he loves more than people, than head back to Kankakee to pick up a drunk. Thinking he can gain something from helping his brother, he drives down to the Kankakee bar at which Robbie is performing slurred Elvis Presley Karaoke. The two bumbling idiots get into Damien’s beat-up van and head home. 

“What about my purple clown car?” Robbie asks Damien.

“Get it tomorrow.”

Damien gets a text from a coworker whose birthday is coming up soon. Knowing well it is illegal to text and drive, Damien messages his coworker, lovebombing her about the $50 gift card he is going to buy her, bragging about the surprise she clearly expressed she did not feel comfortable accepting.

After nearly crashing, Damien flips off the other driver and heads to Robbie’s Kankakee apartment, crashing on his floor instead.

Damien and Robbie wake up to snow on the ground. Damien retells the same story about his father N. Ron’s obsession with the weather channels he has already bored Robbie with at least 80 times now. Robbie leaves the room, stumbling on record albums he dumped all over the floor to get to the bathroom. Even though he is terrified of getting locked in the washroom while pooping, Robbie wants to get away from Damien.

Robbie emerges, and Damien pulls out the newsletter sign-up sheet, filled with names and email addresses. “Hey Robbie, my number-one brother? I would love to ask a favor from you. Can you contact Pat Splatt and try to sell him these email addresses? I collected them to send out messages getting out the good things us tender-hearts at the Bourbonnais Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) Club can do to help us men fight misandry. I would like to sell him a copy because I need the money to buy my coworkers gifts. I spent my paycheck already on action figures.

“What’s in it for me?” Robbie asks his equally self-centered brother Damien.

“Well, our theater has an extra Gothic Diana Ross poster from when we sponsored her show a couple years back.”

“Sold.” Robbie grins ear-to-ear and dials up Kankakee criminal and email spammer Pat Splatt.

The Hurlbutt brothers drive over to Pat Splatt’s flat, where the straggly long-haired Pat is busy harvesting emails from the Internet using his Spam-O-Matic computer program. The three group together to organize their petty crime. 

“Damien, I can pay you per email reply, that’s it.”

“Oh come now!”

“Oh go now, Damien. That is my final offer. Take it or leave it. I don’t have to offer you anything.”

“I know, I know, I know…” Damien says like a broken record, mimicking a certain furniture commercial emanating from Champaign. 

Damien reluctantly hands Pat the photocopied sign-up list containing contact information he collected from unsuspecting moviegoers.

Damien then heads to Wally Green’s to buy more pool toys and chucks them in his bathroom. After whizzing, he washes his hands with far more water than he needs and sprinkles the water all over the bathroom floor, leaving on the bathroom light and fan because he does not care.

Damien begins typing up his MRA “newsletter” in a word-processor program on his 10 year old desktop computer, resting atop a wooden folding table, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. The rotund neckbeard emails his diatribe while wearing his graphic tee displaying the text:

“I can 

EXPLAIN 

it to you

But I can’t

UNDERSTAND

it for you.”

A few days go by, however nobody takes Damien up on his offer to join the Bourbonnais MRA Club. Nobody clicks on the ads for the 21 Conference either. 

Damien realizes he needs to get ready for work now so he can make it on time after taking his two-hour shower.

Mr. Hurlbutt walks into the theater barely on-time. His boss, theater owner Konrad Teirant, calls him into his office.

Damien’s heart sinks and he utters a melodramatic “gulp” as he walks over to Konrad’s office.

“Damien, you really dropped the ball this time. I have been receiving numerous complaints from customers who have been getting emails about some misogyny club.”

“What?“

“This is unacceptable. They told me they signed up for a newsletter here? I never ordered you to or anyone else to put out a call for contact information. Do you want me to get sued?”

“Well…no” an embarrassed-because-caught Damien tells his boss.

“Damien, you have been working here a long time. You know that if we want to gather contact information so we can sell it, that would come from me. And only so I can profit, not you Damien. You’re not that important. Not at all. In fact, I can fire you at any time. I am telling you that because I am your friend. Oh by the way, why do you wear that dumb fedora? It looks stupid. And wash your beard. It smells. Don’t tell anyone we had this meeting. Go home and stay home the rest of this week. I will call you about next week’s hours.”

An excited Damien rushes home to play with his pool toys because he is happy he has the week off, not wondering at all if his boss will even call him back to work the next week.

Robbie Hurlbutt’s a hunkahunka burnin’ up!

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Kankakee pharmacy clerk, narcadoodle and Elvis impersonator Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt is surprised to see his ex-girlfriend Bernadette Moran Cacca.

“I dreamt I was living in a real-life Soylent Green. The Pope was the first one to sacrifice himself for Soylent Industries. Instead of going to the Suicide-Centre, he and others slid down a well, with a 50/50 chance of living forever or getting turned into Soylent Green.”

“Groovy! What did the cannibal do after he dumped his girlfriend?”

“I dunno babe, what?”

“He wiped his butt.”

“That’s so funny money honey.”

“I know. I hit rock bottom. You are both beautiful on the outside and the inside. Hell, maybe even your
intestines are pretty.”

“No, Robbie — YOU!:

This John is missing his Yoko. I have a feeling that something very special is about to happen, Bernadette.”

“Let’s go back to your place and we’ll make beautiful music together!”

Robbie and Bernadette hold hands, the two narcompoops go bouncing down the street together, a match made in Hades.

“Elvis!” A stranger yells from his car.

“I’m a hunka hunka burning love!”

The pair get together, have some NettFixx and chill.

The next day, Robbie wakes up to the sound of muffled shuffling. Bernadette is bent over, her poopybutt wiggling in the air as she searches through Robbie’s massive hoard of boxes.

“Found ’em!” Bernadette exclaims.

Bernie grabs a couple of record albums, three DVDs and a fedora.

“I got my things back. Gotta run.”

“What? We just got started.”

“And now I’m finishing what you started.”

Bernadette puts the fedora on her head and carries the media in a large sack toward the door.

“You stole these things from me and now I’ve got them back! Hope you find what you’re looking for!”

Bernadette exits Robbie’s Kankakee apartment and drives her poopmobile back to her Manteno home on Kant Street, hugs her half-drunken husband Peppi, then runs upstairs to take a dump.

Robbie Hurlbutt Summons a Single Woman With a Waluigi Board

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Kankakee pharmacy clerk, vulnerable narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt uses a Waluigi board to summon a single woman while hanging out at his mother PJ’s house. Minutes later, someone walks in.

“I forgot my phone, don’t know where I would be without it,” says next-door-neighbor JoAnn Kissane Kibble, mother of PJ’s best friend, 65-year-old Sybil Kibble.

Meet Priscilla “Pris” Dixon

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments
Pris Dixon

Wife of Brandon Dixon – owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machine – and mother to his kids; Pris Dixon is highly nosy, butts into strangers’ business out of pure ennui. She had been best friends with shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran, until she had flown the coop.

She needs to get better hobbies.

Pris works as a Medical Office Assistant for her father-in-law Kankakee Ears, Nose, and Throat specialist Dr. Eddie Dixon, and as a store clerk at Archangel’s Craft Stores. She has a reputation for gaslighting patients and customers just to confuse them.

Police refuse to let her victims press charges, save for once, stating Pris “is just mentally ill.” Yes, acting like a sociopath is a mental problem, which causes her victims to seek treatment.

“You’re crazy, the only one on the bus whoever starts problems!”
— Pris Dixon gaslighting her verbal and physical abuse targets

Pris proudly drives a green imbecile machine given to her by Brandon, branded with “You just got passed by a girl” decals.

Pris was raised by wealthy parents who gave her everything she wanted. Pris feels that, because she is a parent, she should cut in line at the cafes and burger joints. She dislikes the child-free by choice and gets her kicks by invalidating their feelings. Pris feels that only parents can make a valid point, and that life does not begin until you become a mother or father.

Methinks she needs a reality check.

“You don’t need to emerge from nothing.”
— Fischerspooner

What is Wally Green Inventing Now?

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Oh what, pray tell do you think he is making? Wally wants to sell these inventions in the Kankakee Wally Green’s pharmacies. Look for them on a corner near you!

GLASSHOLES:

These sunglasses slip off and plop on the floor so you have to buy more! Other features that Wally think will change your life:

These glasses get caught on all your stuff, just to annoy you. Made of the cheapest plastic in Illinois, Glassholes smear constantly despite daily cleaning. Pair them with a face mask, they will be sure to steam up without fail.

Feel the power of Glassholes when they disappear within the bowels of your bag only to reappear when not looking for them.

PLASTIC BOTTLE TABS:

Mandatory for all Wally Greens’ products, they make all products you buy twice as hard to open! Buy one, get one 50 per cent off (but never free).

AUTOINCORRECT:

Now with even more errors, Autoincorrect is now pre-installed in every phone! Embarrass your co-workers! Impress your friends with each new autoincorrection.

HALF-MOON TOILET SEAT:

The half-moon toilet seat is a real game-changer, it only fits half your moon! Wally Green’s uses less plastic and you pay more money. Sit on it incorrectly and you might pinch your thigh! This product is a win-win-win for Wally Green.

Buy this useless crap at your corner Wally Green’s! Apply now for a WallyCard. Everybody is pee-qualified! Get a free date with Mr. Green himself! Craptocoins not accepted.

Behind the Moroniverse: Namely these idiots.

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.
View all responses

Why stop at first names when we can talk about the entire moronic moniker manufacturing process?

image: color cartoon depicting cartoon poop emojis burning in the fireplace

After doing port-a-jobs, queen of the plastic throne Bernadette Moran Cacca likes to “Bern” the port-a-poopies in her fireplace after lighting her farts to kindle the BMs. Meanwhile her other half (one of them anyway), Peppi Peter Cacca rolls the port-a-pee into his skunkweed to make it smell extra skunky, much to the chagrin of next-door-neighbors Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes.

Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt‘smother PJ loves to brag about the night her Rotten little Robbie/Elvis impersonator and vulnerable narc was conceived…in Gary, Indiana.

“RRGH!”
– Robbie Hurlbutt

Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt was straight up daemonic to his ex-wife Lori. Not anticipating consequences, the communal narcadoodle tried to storm Area 51, only to get captured by the Camo Dudettes and brought into the Alternative Fuels Department for daily flatulence testing. He’s the world’s largest source of natural gas…so…DUH!

Walter Augustine Green has been looking for the magnet to his steel, hoping to impress ladies at The Gaslight Bar with his tall tales of grandeur and playing of the nose air-horn since he cannot carry a tune to save his life…though that doesn’t stop him from trying.

Krispy Münchausen tells even taller tales than Wally, punches co-workers when she doesn’t get her way, and teaches locals how to steal lawn ornaments. She had purposely homeschooled her four kids to isolate them socially and keep them from learning important subjects like science and history, replacing them with Flat Earth yarns and antivaxxer poopaganda. One time she SWATted Gothic Diana Ross along with her sisters — then had the audacity to demand an apology from THEM! She brags about her plans to fly to the Moon to “prove to the world that it’s flatter than a pancake,” those unwillingly in her orbit wish she would take a rocket there and never come back.

Wally Green’s Rejected Patents

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Kankakee County ladies’ man Wally Green has been notorious for his wacky inventions for quite some time. Some of his ideas have made it into his drug stores. Others failed to pass patent approval and almost landed him in prison.

Finger Ale

Made from real fingers, this new organic health drink was set to be the new health craze, only it failed FDA requirements, and put Wally on several law enforcement watch lists.

Toiliot

This production-oriented, automated toilet would flush well ahead of schedule and make sure to splash its user, doubling as a bedde. As an added bonus, Toiliot would entertain people by making fart noises after flushing, much like Wally would when he blew his nose.

Passhole

This computer program would require its user to type in their password correct the first time. Any error would result in electric shock and their account locking up immediately.

Do not look for these products at a Wally Green’s near you. Just don’t. We’re warning you.