Kankakee mother, squirrel-chaser and school-bus-parts-enthusiast JoAnn Kibble found this stunner of a vehicle at a Manteno dealer, a real steal with only 64K miles! All of Kankakee County will surely hear her coming down the road, and up it, too! Hurry up JoAnn, before Bern Cacca buys it for the farty-horns!
Poor Dale. They closed the men’s washrooms at Cinema-13 in Bourbonnais, and he has to go realllly badly after drinking all that overpriced pop. After 20 minutes waiting outside the only family stall, he begins to grumble: “What did they do, fall in?”
Tiny twin sister act The Favorites continue talking amongst themselves, flushing repeatedly to make it sound like they need to use the facilities for something other than wasting the time of the pained folks waiting outside in line, Dale’s pants dropping from his legs wiggling. Those little turds.
These tiny twin sisters sing about breaking crap in their new single “Broken” from their album “Broken,” coming soon from Broken Records. Not coming to a store near you. Be sure to see them open up for Vaudeville troupe Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) who bring you all the entertainment with half the budget.
Their favorite hobby is talking to each other in the washroom stalls, making sure to flush repeatedly, pretending to whizz while other ladies line up because they have to actually use the facilities. Bern Cacca would be proud.
“Where have you been?” Tara Bull barked at Linda Stay as she hovered over her desk.
“I had trouble driving in this weather and barely made it in. We got a foot of snow overnight and it took me over an hour to drive 25 miles,” Linda nervously explained as she set her purse and keys down on her cubicle desk.
“Well, I don’t have four-wheel drive and I made it just fine” Tara snipped as she berated the beleaguered Linda over her five minute tardiness. “I will mark this as a failure on your bi-weekly production report because attendance needs to be at 100%. You will not qualify for your hourly bonus this pay period. This is unacceptable.
Before Linda could react, Tara snapped “get on the phones!” and sat at her desk down to nom some breakfast burritos.
At 11:00, everyone could not wait to get off the phones. Yes, it was a dreaded production meeting which mandated the entire corporation’s presence, regardless of position, an award ceremony which invoked memories and emotions of high school assemblies. However, the collectors would do anything to get off the phones, even for an hour.
“I will get straight to the point. We need to increase production,” said Mr. Mack E. Avelli, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Chief Executive Officer. The crowd erupted in laughter when Tara Bull ripped one and crapped her pants.
“Did I do that?” asked an embarrassed Ms. Bull.
“We need to get more bullish!” said Mikey as the crowd continued to giggle.
“Silence!” Mr. Avelli shouted and the room went dead, as if you could cut the tension with a knife.
“Since nobody made production, the employee of the month award is going to go to the person who ranked highest on the quality metric. Without further ado, I present this award to Mrs. Linda Stay.”
The crowd cheered and clapped, that is everyone except for Tara. She went back to the washroom and filled the toilet, clearing everyone from the stalls and all employees within a 25-foot radius. Don’t light a match!
Bourbonnais neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt sent out rambling smear letters after he went off the deep end, years ago when his former wife Lori left him to escape his psychological abuse.
Manteno sociopath and sewer service owner Gregory Albert Schneissder likes to stir crap. Desperate for action, Mr. Schneissder drives his poopmobile down to The Gaslight Bar and hits on the ladies, only to have worse luck than regular customer Wally Green.
“I love your smile. Why don’t you use it more?”
“Yeah…no” Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble replies.
“Will you have my baby?”
“Get lost.” Kitty Bee deadpans.
“What are you doing sitting in the handicapped section? Are all you other ladies taken?”
“I AM disabled you moron!” Linda Stay replies.
Dejected, Greg heads out to the swamp to relax. “Heyyy handsome fella! You look AWESOME!” a voice calls out from seemingly nowhere.
“Huh?”
“Yeah. I would like to have you for DINNER!”
A hungry Greg walks over to Bernadette Cacca who is bathing in the bog.
“RIIIIPPPPPP”
“What the heck was that?” Greg asks as the ground begins to crumble beneath him.
“Oh I farted.” Bernadette lets another one loose. The swamp surrounding Bern Cacca takes the form of bubbles as the friction shakes the ground below Greg, who stumbles a bit.
Bernadette gives Greg the bedroom eyes. Attracted by the scent and Bernadette’s charm, Greg feels intrigued. Bernadette sings her mating call.
“Come here you handsome piece of meat!”
Hypnotized by the smelly siren, Greg cannot resist. He not felt this attracted since back in 1991, he saw someone going down the road who owned one, a 1988 Chrysler Conquest.
Bog witch Bernadette takes Greg by the leg and eats him for dinner. Then she farts a bunch of times.
Read some press regarding the main inspiration behind this story: https://www.mlive.com/news/jackson/2021/09/petition-seeks-removal-of-albion-college-president-for-alleged-bullying-racism.html
“This is Kitty Bee reporting live here in Albion, Indiana. I am here at the MASSIVE mansion of the now former college president of the Dr. Mathew B. Johnson School of Intrepid Arts, Mister Barry Reynolds. What do you have to say about the corruption at the college?” the reporter asks Barry as he eats his lunch in his massive kitchen.
“These appliances are dated…” Barry replies as he continues to eat out his designer bowl.
“Your appliances look brand new…I wish I had a kitchen this fancy. Speaking of kitchens, how many cooks are in that kitchen over at Intrepid?”
“If you buy this record, you like poopyburners” Barry replies.
“Ah. Since we’re on record, where is your wife Terry? Is she planning new construction projects for the school now that you ran it into the ground?”
“Back in 1991, Greg Snyder saw someone going down the road who owned one.”
“All hail the great Greg Snyder, that must have been some event. Now that it’s 2021, what on earth are you eating?” she asks Barry as he pours more alphabet soup atop his lettuce, tomatoes and parsnips.
“Word salad.”
To read more about the real-life word salad bowl, kindly visit this blog.
Sanctioned founder of the now defunct Mathew B. Johnson College of Intrepid Arts, Scary Barry Reynolds sees an ad for Peppi’s Portapotties on TV.
Thinking the gas stinking up his pet construction project in Albion is from a massive dump — residents pooping on the street — he calls on them for help, both practical and sinister.
“Peppi’s Portapotties, King and Queen of the Throne, the national poop treasure Bern Cacca speaking. What can we doo-doo for you today?”
“Do you know anything about gas?”
“Oh yeah! You got gas? I do. RRRRRRIPPPP. That was a good one!”
“Um yeah. I am calling you for help in the Turdology department. Can you come down to Albion, Indiana and sniff things out?
A flush is heard in the background. Barry continues his request:
“My wife his this “constrution”, I mean construction project going on in town, running until the end of the year. I was told we were blocking emergency access to the street. Why should I care if a bunch of junky locals OD on meth? Anyway, can you come down today, it’s an emergency.”
“We specialize in emergencies. Peppi and I will come right over.”
“Good, we need help clearing the air.”
Barry ends the call, excited to get the Caccas’ expertise in all things crappy.
After Bern Cacca finishes burning poopies in her Manteno, Illinois backyard, she peels out her driveway and hurries over to Albion, Indiana.
Hours pass, no sign of Peppi and Bernadette. Barry checks his phone.
“Umm, how do we get in so we can get the scoop on your poop? These roads are all blocked. Every single one of them.”
Barry texts Bern back:
“We are building 100 roads — all the more to block.”
Barry snickers.
An hour later, someone rings the doorbell outside the gate of Barry and Terry’s McMansion.
“Who’s this?”
“Hi Barry. Peppi’s Portapotties. King and Queen–“
“How do you know my name?”
“You called me and told me.”
“I. Don’t. Like. That.”
Barry buzzes the gate open and the Caccamobile burns rubber across the Reynolds’ driveway.
“Park over there,” Barry demands, pointing to a crooked spot toward the end of the driveway, behind Barry’s multiple luxury cars.
The Caccas get out. Bern runs up to Barry, as if to hug a long lost classmate.
“Git!” Barry barks.
“Ooooh, I think you’re cute.”
“Git!”
Bern goes to hug Barry.
“I SAY GIT!”
“That’s my mating call. I met her in the bog,” Peppi Cacca tells Barry.
“She’s my bog witch extraordinaire! Entremanure by day, bog witch by night.”
“We met you there, remember?. Bern was taking a bath so we left. Can you help me clean up my act, I mean reputation? It really stinks out here.”
“Your construction crew hit a gas line. We only do portapotties.” Bernadette advises Barry.
“Nature is calling, we gotta go.”
Bernadette and Peppi Cacca make their way out of Albion, and back to Manteno over in Illinois, eventually. Bern did not get to burn rubber that night, only poopies.
[ Part five of a continuing story which inspired people to rise up and start this petition: https://www.change.org/p/albion-college-remove-dr-mathew-johnson-from-albion-college ]
—-
“Why are people up here in Albion so anti-Reynolds? I have done nothing but help this community. The other day, I told an obese lady about the new gym I wanted to build. I wanted to help her. But, noooo, people are so rude and mean. They do not appreciate my help! After all, they shut down The Mathew B. Johnson School of Intrepid Arts — The Best Martial Arts School around I could have taught them kiddos how to make PSI Balls!!”
“Those are fake.”
“I know. But but makes us money, and I want to teach ’em! This whole state needs a good schoolin’! This whole world!”
“Hey Barry, why don’t you call that Bernadette moron, the bog witch who sings opera for charity?”
“Don’t you remember? She and her husband drove all the way from Manteno, Illinois and just left! I mean, how rude! Everyone hates me!”
“How about we drive down to Manteno. Maybe we can try their porto potty business since their number always goes to voicemail. I can only listen to that recording of them polka-rapping about porto potties so many times.”
“We have nothing better to do. I am bored. Let’s go!”
“Take that ugly desk with you. Maybe you can give it to her to pay for our public-relations clean-up act.”
Barry and Terry Reynolds run to Manteno.
“Turn left. Then turn left. Then turn left. Recalculating.”
“That dang GPS, why does it screw up so much? It has one job!” Terry exclaims.
Terry and Barry arrive at Peppi’s Portapotties.
“Dang! Just missed ‘em. They closed ten minutes ago. Let’s do a drive-by past their house.”
The bumbling idiots drive past the Caccas’ run-down shack. Nobody’s home. Spotting the beautiful slate, Victorian Gothic home next door, their curiosity draws them in.
The Westminster Chimes are played as they ring the doorbell. A 5’10”, slender, medium-skinned Gothic beauty answers the door, wearing an all-black dress and fishnet stockings.
“Yeah?” Gothic Diana Ross answers.
Barry’s stoic face turns a slight smile.
“Umm, hi Miss. We will not take up much of your time.”
“You’ve already taken up too much.” Diana quips.
“What’s the deal with your neighbors? The Caccas?”
‘Oh man. Just don’t.”
Diana inches away and begins to close the door.
“Wait? Miss! We have this $1000 desk we can give you, if you just talk to us!”
“I’ll tell you where to put that desk.”
Diana slams the door and goes back to singing rehearsal with the Midnight Supremes.
“Barry, I gotta whizz.”
“Yup. You’re the boss.”
“No Diana is. Let’s go.”
Barry and Terry pull into the nearest corner Wally Green’s. While Terry is emptying her bladder in the washroom, Barry finally answers the sales clerk who asked him six times if he needed help finding something.
“Yeah, do you sell those SpamMaster 2000 CD-ROMs?”
“No, sorry. Are you looking to send unsolicited emails? I got a guy.” Drugstore clerk, covert narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt slips Barry the number for Pat Splatt, petty criminal and junk emailer.
Barry and Terry meet Pat Splatt at midnight on the street, not far from the interchange bridge under which Kankakee troll Leona Krabalsky is sawing wood. The three shadowy figures shake hands and part ways. The Reynolds drive onto Interstate Route 57 North, toward Chicago-O’Hare Airport, and board a plane for their monthly vacation.
“We’re headed to Australia and we’re so stoked!” reads the craption below Terry’s Fakebook post, loaded with the hashtag #RichPeopleProblems. Terry cannot wait to take photos of her legs and feet.
Pat Splatt hopes to buy an overly lifted truck to compensate for his lousy personality with all the money he makes spamming on behalf of the dysfunctional former leaders of the Mathew B Johnson School of Intrepid Arts. Brandon Dixon’s imbecile machine lot is booming with their end of year sales and Pat hopes to wheel-and-deal himself one.
While Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds spend loads of money they got from who-knows-where, seeing the sites of Australia, email junker Pat Splatt is busy sliding unwanted emails into the inboxes of college students all over the USA. Pat spams on behalf of disbarred college president Reynolds about the wonders of PSI Balls and how Barry Reynolds can teach them to defend themselves from psychic attacks. A second wave of spam stinks up the computer mailboxes of students at UCLA, Yale, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Colgate, Boston University, Loyola, Olivet Nazarene, Baylor, Kent State, Oregon State, Nebraska and Iowa City, spewing propaganda to try and connive random students into taking Barry’s online martial arts courses “because he is a nice guy who does a lot for the community.”
A sleeping Barry is awakened by an unexpected phone call.
“This is the Albion Health Department. We have received multiple complaints about a cockroach infestation at your compound.”
“It’s 3AM. Who the heck is this?”
“Huh? I don’t know where you are or what you’re talking about. We need you to rectify the infestation or we are going to have to condemn your property.”
“I’m in Australia on vacation with my wife.”
“Must be nice. I have not had a vacation in 21 years.”
Barry hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. The Reynolds spend the day at their exclusive resort on Australia’s Gold Coast taking pictures of themselves and braggity-boasting on their Fakebook pages.
A month later, the relaxed, but tired couple heads home to their Albion McMansion. Several “Condemned” signs are seen posted all over their estate.
“What the heck now? After all we do for this county? This state? The entire Universe?”
Beep-Beep-Beep goes the Avelli Truck, lowering a shipping container on the grass outside the massive, now-condemned Reynolds residence.
“What’s this?” a stern Barry asks.
“Your new home. There’s even room for your desk.”
A truck from Peppi’s Portapotties pulls up, “King and Queen of the Throne” its lettering reads below a smiling cartoon depicting owners Bern and Peppi Cacca.
“His and Hers,” Peppi says to the Department of Health worker overseeing the Reynolds property seized by the City of Albion, Indiana as he sets up the two portable toilets.
“We are NOT going to sleep in there.” Barry says with his nose to the air, walking away from the metal shipping container.
“You can live in a dumpster. We won’t judge.”
Barry checks his bank account, hoping to stay in a swanky hotel. The robobank announces “Negative Forty-Nine Thousand, two-hundred twenty-four dollars.”
“Paaaaaaaaat!” Barry and Terry exclaim as they fall to their knees in unison, mad because their goose is cooked.
Awww, sucks to be them.
“Did your brother Damien mop these washrooms? There is a lake everywhere,” Wally Green asks his clerk Robbie Hurlbutt.
“Naw, he was last seen somewhere around Area 51.”
“Now I need you to cut off access so people don’t slip and fall! Put one of those plastic things in the way, those ‘wet floor’ signs so that people will bump into it should they try and go pee.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And when you’re done, I need you to set up our new spice-rack.”
“Oh, for our pharmacy? To hang up all our pill bottles, right?”
“You sound more like your brother every day.”
“Did you invent them?”
“No, Robert. They came in all the way from Indiana.”
Robbie begins humming “Indiana Wants Me,” tuning out his boss.
“Boucoup Bogan Spices. These babies have a magic ingredient!”
“Can they make me high?” the drugstore clerk, vulnerable narcissist and Elvis impersonator asks with anticipation, eyes wide as his sideburns long.
“No, not that kind of magic. If you make production, I will let you in on the secret. I hear they are a big hit in Evansville.”
“Why are you importing from Indiana? That’s a whole world away.”
Wally sighs, shakes his head and walks back to his office. Wally opens up his Tindling app and swipes right as much as possible. After a slew of rejections, this wacky inventor and wannabe ladies’ man deals himself a game of solitaire and falls asleep, dreaming up the next buy one, get one half off (but never free) sale.
Albion, Indiana Optimal President Club Carla Moran drools over her shipment of bogan moths from Australia. “These will make great spices for my business “Beaucoup Bogan Spices.”
“I agree. They will go great with those mealworms you have been using!” cries her niece, bog witch and communal narc-a-doodle Bernadette Cacca.
“Well, yeah!”
“I am gonna try them on the next man I devour when I return to my swamp.”
“YOUR swamp?”
“Don’t forget it!” Bernadette snarks at her favorite aunt and flying monkey.
Kankakee bill collection boiler-room Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) holds their annual Halloween potluck.
“This dish is delicious. I have never tasted bean sprouts so yummy. Usually they taste like dirt! These spices are like no other, compliments to the chef! Where did she get that recipe?” CRASS chief cheese Mack E. Avelli asks.
“They’re just regular bean sprouts. Cut them up like regular bean sprouts,” Accounts Receivables Manager Tara Bull says to her superior with a crooked grin.
”I just made these intestine desserts for Halloween. They’re really good. I made them the Dale way,” Dale Davis asks his supervisor and crush, Sybil Kibble.
“I just destroyed a whole bag of dog biscuits, I’m not hungry now. Thanks!”
Mr. Avelli is dying to know who made the bean sprouts with the funky spices. He goes from office to office asking, hoping to find a way to make money off them. Someone owns up.
“Where did you buy these?”
“Wally Green’s,” Operations Chief Mike Philips tells his boss as he continues his FreeCell game.
“How about we do a big ol’ promo?”
“Do what you want. My wife made them.”
“Mike, contact Wally Green and ask that we co-host a talent competition. The winner gets a lifetime supply of this crack and a CRASS tee-shirt. It will make us a look good, and maybe Wally will pay back some of his debt. Get us on TV!”
“Call Dorian. I am too busy.”
Mike goes back to playing his virtual card game.
Mack develops a crossover campaign with Art Director Dorian James and plans to air it live on the local news. They are given the green light to air October 31st.
“It’s Halloween Night and we have a TREAT for you!” barks CRASS Chief cook of books and 1/3 of Vaudeville troupe, Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) Konrad Teirant.
Awkward silence passes.
“Get it, treat?” Konrad says with a falsetto giggle.
The crowd rolls their eyes and boos.
“Oh look a ghost!”
Not feeling the love of the crowd, Konrad moves right along.
We are holding our talent contest, sponsored by Wally Green’s and Beaucoup Bogan Spices! The winner will get a lifetime supply for these unique, and very tasty spices imported from Albion, Indiana. Sonya, what are these made from?”
Sonya attempts to force a big, cheesy smile, juxtaposed against her psychopathic stare.
“Out first act tonight is the Manteno Wonder herself, Bernadette Cacca! Get ready for her kazoo pop covers!”
Bernadette’s biggest fans, The Poopy Groupies, cheer, hoot and holler.
“I do a lot for the community! You guys are AWESOME! Get ready KaCo! Any requests?”
“Can you hum the Menard’s jingle?”
The crowd giggles and Bern carries on with her cover songs and finishes her act rapping about her port-o-dump business along with husband Peppi.
“We are King and Queen of the Throne. Come to Manteno and get your poopy on!”
Thank you Peppi’s Portapotties. Now for our next act, you will really like her, I know I do because she’s my wife! Give it up for Madwoman! I mean Madeline!”
After a slow clap, a large dumpster clearly marked “Peppi’s Portapotties” is rolled onto stage by an unseen pair of stagehands.
The seven-foot clown juggles broken records, scratched CDs and crushed cassettes.
“Hey, those are mine! Robbie Hurlbutt lies from offstage.”
Madeline chucks the busted music collection at the little fibber.
Thank you my love. And now our final act, Mr. Wally Green himself!
“I’m single by the way. Meet me here at the Gaslight Bar during Happy Hour. I will make you happy!”
Laughter fills the room and the airwaves. The bartender smiles.
Wally Green sings “Fart Your Birds”, a parody of Prove Your Love by Fun Factory. Bird tweets, squawks and fart sounds looped into the song can be heard on the playback. Wally sings and blows his air-horn nose:
Fart your birds,
Fart your parakeets
Give me all your budgies,
Point your butt and rip.
Don’t try to hide,
Don’t run from me.
Fart your birds,
Fart your parakeeeeeets!”
The crowd bursts into laughter, and tosses beer bottles at Mr. Green.
EmCee Kon Teirant takes over. “Thank you Wally. That sure was…interesting. The crowd has voted. I think we have a wiener, I mean, winner. The CRASS Winner of the WORST Act goes to, Mr. Wally Green himself! Mack E. Avelli, throw him a CRASS tee-shirt.”
Mack fires away a CRASS shirt out his tee-shirt shooter and directly into Wally’s massive gut.
“Any single ladies wanna meet me at the bar?” Sonya Moran and her favourite niece Bern Cacca run over, arms a-flailing, to give him a hug.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
MoronicArts 
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