Beanefits of Being Morons

Doris Krabalsky is bored waiting in her bed for her meal and medication. Who knew staying in the hospital could be so boring? Doris decides to go for a walk to the nice skin cancer patient she met earlier in the day.

“I have the perfect solution for you.”

“Is it the stinky pink drink?” the lady asks?

“No, I drank that for four years.” Doris replies.

“I am not using essential snake oils because I am smell-sensitive,” the elderly lady replies.

“Nope.”

Doris’ nurse walks in. “What is going on here? Patients are not supposed to go into other patients’ rooms. You all signed and initialed an agreement when you got here.”

“She was just telling me about a new treatment for my skin cancer.”

“Oh no, selling stuff is strictly prohibited here.”

“I am not selling, I am recommending.”

“Recommending? Only licensed medical providers are allowed to do that here, per your agreement Doris. Now you broke three rules. Three strikes, you are out. I am afraid we will have to release you.”

“Waaaaah! What about my bum knee?” Doris growled.

“Oh, ma’am your pain was not that bad anyway. I will be back shortly with your discharge papers. Are you calling for a ride home or shall we have Security escort you?”

“Hrrmph.”

Five hours later, the Kankakee town troll Leona Krabalsky walks in the room after leaving her home undeneath the bridge.

“Bustin’ outta here?”

“They are sending me home too soon,” Doris sighs to Leona.

“You say? How so?”

“They told me not to suggest our fine products to other patients.” Doris says to Leona.

“Oh, you should see these magic beans!”

“I have tooted enough, Leona.”

“No Doris, magical beans, not musical.”

The two sisters head out after Doris signs her discharge sheet.

Doris walks into her home and Leona meets her in the den.

Leona opens up a small paper bag and pulls out a handful of dried beans.

“You see, Doris, these are not any beans. They are magic beans.”

“How are they magical?” Doris asks her sister.

“They can make us lettuce.”

The two sisters look each other in the eye and grin.

“By convincing our customers that these beans I bought at the grocery store they have special health benefits which they do not, and persuading them to pay more than they need, we can make a lot of green!” Leona tells an intrigued Doris.

Doris and Leona get busy setting up a Fakebook page. Since Pat Splatt has left town for South Africa and is unreachable, the Krabalsky sisters develop a marketing plan on Utube.

“Since Grammarlee did so well advertising their overpriced Autocorrect program before every video, I thought we could make an even longer commercial with even more annoying music and sound effects!” Leona tells Doris.

“Let’s do it. Add a slide whistle, boom clappity music and a vuvuzela.”

“Done,” Leona tells Doris, feeling accomplished.

Emails come in and so does money. Beans go out. As the word gets out, so do more beans.

“Soon we will have to hire a bean counter!” Doris jokes to Leona.

“Ding!”

“Ahhh, we got our first review. Hopefully it will not be our last!” Doris tells a nearby Leona.

“These beans did not work at all. I thought these were magical and I did not feel a thing. I did not see a thing! Not recommended!”

“Ding!”

“I planted these magic beans and my beanstalk did not lead me to find a giant. I want my money back!”

“Ding!”

“I ate these musical beans I did not even toot even once. What a ripoff!”

Doris and Leona log onto Welp to read their reviews and they are even worse. Every customer wants their money back and contacts the duo for a refund.

“What do we do now, Doris?”

“I guess our product is a ‘has-bean’.”

MoronicArts Classics: Nobody’s Home

After yet another long week calling up strangers at work, patients in hospitals and people just trying to cook supper for their families, Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble is feeling stressed and irritated. She works as the team leader collecting dubious debt for Kankakee’s most shady debt-collector Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), and she’s tired of people hanging up on her.

“Out of dog-food again! Dang, I just bought some at Schmucks! How did I eat all those Alpo cans so fast? They must be making them smaller now.”

Image: green-toned cartoon showing a blonde woman at a computer. Text on monitor reads "Collect-o-matic."

Needing someone with whom to vent, Miss Kibble goes over to visit her best friend and next-door neighbor, Mrs. Pearl Jo “PJ” Hulbutt who is busy meditating. Sybil barges right in and startles PJ who nearly bangs her head on the table, then tells her to “calm down!”

“Ah my boys have not come around lately. They don’t appreciate their mother and all I do for them! Have you seen that Kitty Bee lady? Her hair is pink now!”

PJ rambles on complaining about person after another. “Have you talked to your father?”

“I stopped talking to him years ago. You ask me that every time I come over. Why?”

“My father was not so nice. It says in the good book we should forgive people and pray for them to change.”

“He’s dead. His new wife was just as abusive, I hear she has an extra room. Why don’t you call her up? I am sure she would like the company. She’ll probably ask all kinds of questions about me! Go up to Chicago and spend a month or two to see what it’s like. Just call her after I leave.”

“No need to go overboard with your remarks. They are entitled to their beliefs as well. As a person with a daemon latched onto her body at the age of two that never leaves me alone, I understand fear and misunderstanding. I’ve been judged for my demeanor and nosey words my entire childhood but I still care and help others. I define me not other people.”

image: black and white cartoon of a blond woman outside a building, crows encircling her head as she screams.

Livid, Sybil Kibble stomps back to her home, and eats her last dog bone; much tastier than the word-salad her neighbor had spit out. Meanwhile, PJ hops on a bus to find more people to annoy:

“Why are all these people getting at the bus at once?” PJ Hurlbutt asks aloud to a bus full of strangers, looking around for someone that cares. An enquiring mind wants to know. PJ repeats her nosey nonsense and adds more crap to her routine. “Look at that lady with the green hair. Does she know those tattoos are permanent?”

“I’ll tell the mayor,” Dorian James deadpans, making a cheeky grin while adoring his boyfriend Ant’s half-sleeve.

Sybil calls a bunch of friends, hoping to hang out.

Pyramid-scheme-peddlers Doris and Leona Krabalsky’s phones go straight to voicemail.

Sybil drives her white Chrysler LeBaron to investigate why people are ignoring her calls and texts.

Slowing down through the I-57 underpass, she seeks the Kankakee troll Leona. Nope, she’s not home. 

Out of desperation, Ms. Kibble calls her hairdresser Lila Croule at her home-based salon, even though it’s a week too soon to get her face-frame cut, but sorry; more voicemail jail.

Sybil continues North toward Peotone to find her sharp-tongued stylist Lila Croule, hoping to trade barbs about moronic customers. After she parks her reliable box-mobile, she rings the doorbell at Lila’s front door. No answer. The RRRRRRGH of the lawn tractor stops and Sybil spots Lila trimming the edges of the grass using her $1000.00 hair shears, completely tuning out Ms. Kibble.

image: full-colour cartoon of a purple-haired woman riding a purple lawn-tractor, holding up a pair of shears. A blond woman peeks over the wooden fence.

“I hope these folks don’t visit my grave one day, since they don’t bother me while I’m alive! Hmmpf.”

As she drives back home to Kankakee, Sybil sees her subordinate Dale Davis jogging on the sidewalk, beeping his watch repeatedly. Dale waves to Sybil and beckons her to come hither so he can confess her love, and she just drives on by. Her stomach turns. She then drives to Major’s Supermarket to buy her favorite meals: buys 50 cans of Alpo, with which she drowns her worries at home, glad to be away from the rest of the Moroniverse.

image: yellow, black and white cartoon of a blonde woman wearing glasses, eating dog food.

MoronicArts Classics: Konrad Teirant Cleans House

Image: a bald, stocky male with shoulder length orange hair and an orange beard clenches his jaw and looks to the left. Text: shirt reads "World's largest source of natural gas."

Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt was last seen near Area 51.

While cleaning out his ex-employee’s desk, Teirant Cinema-13 owner Konrad Teirant found Damien’s scribbled-on evaluation forms. Behold, the work of a master-moron!

MoronicArts Classics: That’s A Weird Flex, Robbie.

Image: two panel, black-and-white cartoon. 
Panel 1: an Elvis impersonator does pull-ups on the bus as a gothic woman looks away.
Panel 2: The Elvis impersonator dances at the bus station in the background, the gothic woman seen from behind in the foreground asleep.

Kankakee drugstore clerk, covert narcadoodle and self-proclaimed Number One Elvis Impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt spies his number one crush Gothic Diana Ross riding the bus. Hoping to impress her, like a peacock shaking his tail-feathers, Robbie flexes by doing pull-ups on the railing. Diana looks away, trying to hide her laughter.

Robbie continues flexing at the bus station, dancing around like a moronic fool as the rightfully uninterested gothic beauty Diana falls asleep, waiting for the Midnight Supremes to pick her up.

(Thank you for the prompt and the tip, Jennifer!)

Bernadette’s idea gone, like a fart in the wind.

Manteno port-o-dump proprietor extraordinaire, communal narc-a-doodle and turd-machine operator Bern Cacca wanted to sell her bottled farts, butt dang it, someone beat her to it.

Sulking, she lights her gas blasts to spark the poopy-burning flames instead.

The Queen of the Plastic Throne enjoys watching the port-a-potty waste gleam in her fireplace, as she sits in her rocking chair, drinking root-beer while watching GG Allin videos.

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

Bern Cacca is #PoopingForKaitlin (and Stephanie).

Damien’s Easter Surprise!

Neckbeard, communal narcadoodle and Area 51 test subject Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt is busy dreaming up ways to escape his captors from his Dreamland cell.

“Hey Damien, we have an Easter surprise for you!” the guard says to the imprisoned moron who tried to storm the underground Nevada laboratory, thinking he could get away with it.

“Oh boy, oh boy! What is it?” the creepy fool asks, devilish grin spreading across his face and day-glow orange beard. Visions of over-the-top baskets fill his head, not unlike the ones with which he used to love-bomb his targets of potential narcissistic supply.

”If we told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise!”

Damien, filled with glee to be free from his cell and daily flatulence testing at the Alternative Fuel Source Department somewhere deep inside the dry lake-bed known as Groom, the world’s largest source of natural gas is led down the hall. He and the guards make their way past the cafeteria, alien deejays and party at the discotheque.

Hoping to hear some Starland Vocal Band over the intercom, Damien wonders what the staff will give him, to make his afternoon delicious.

Much to the delight of the staff, and the dismay of the nincompoop Damien, the orange neckheard gets hauled into a tiny room and strapped to a table for experimentation ordered by Division Chief Dr. Jen Jenner. A tattoo artist emerges, and begins to carve egg-shaped designs into the narc-a-doodle’s bum for a research project carried out by the Pain Tolerance Department.

HAPPY KIESTER! (OK, you can have that one for free).

Fakebook’s got character!

Fakebook keeps asking JoAnn Kibble to enter characters when she logs onto their crappy web site, so she does. Here are but a few of them.

No Contest.

Neighborhood turd-burglar and assistant property manager JB Powers takes over Moran Properties after Sonya disappears, hoping to take over, helping himself to the skims of the profits (and maybe some turds too). Marty the Mailer-Daemon comes into the office with mail, JB freaks out.

“You’re that scary mailman from my childhood with that daemonic voice!

“No, I’m just a daemon now. A mailer-daemon. The dead letter office transferred me here after I got my fork in the road message.

JB runs out the office screaming, computer unlocked. Marty glides on over to have a look-see.

“Shall I format, see colon? Naaah, let’s look for buried treasure. Ahh! Oooh, there are some skeletons in these here file closets. Tenant files, ashes of former co-workers, dead bodies? These remains to be seen!” Marty thinks out loud as he sighs and takes a moment to process the newly uncovered data in his inter-dimensional mind.

Satan wants to have a word with his intake clerk, Lucy Furr. He takes the elevator up from his basement C-Suite to pay her a visit at the desk, where she reads the rules and regulations to the long line of newly damned souls, after they have signed their lives away.

“Why did you assign a Sonya Marie Smith Moran to the pale yellow isolation lair? It says right here that she’s to go directly into the jagged rock and bubbling excrement pits!” Hell’s CEO and owner demands of his underling, who had bullied a young autistic lady on a school trip to Italy, before working as a receptionist at many a doctor’s office on Earth.

“I’ve been doing this job for more than ten years–“

“Lucy, I don’t need a resume. I already know your entire life’s history, you’re not going anywhere.”

Business is slow on a typical Sunday at the Manteno Optimal Club.

“Aunt Sonya’s been gone a long time. Who’s gonna run the show around here, and promote my wonderful gas…I mean this fantabulous venue?” Craptoqueen Bernadette belts.

Manteno Optimal Club barista-bartender Ant D. Yu just shrugs.

“I know honey, let’s have a contest,” bartender Dorian James suggests.

“You’re the GOAT!”

“No, YOU!”

Later that evening, the show goes on.

“It’s Sunday and YOU KNOW what THAT means!” orates emcee Konrad Teirant, 1/3 of traveling Vaudeville troupe Moronic Half-Assets.

“Drinks on the hoousssse!!!!” a patron heckles.

“No, silly goose. Do you want to do this job for me?”

“Of course!”

“Not if my wife has her way!” Konrad giggles, gives a snarky grin.

Eight-foot dumpster clown Madeline “Madwoman” Topolla-Teirant emerges and drags the former member by his…er…um…hair.

“It’s talent show time! The winner of this battle of the bands will take over as the brand spankin’ new president of the Poopy Groupies! Let’s have a hand for our first contestant, Wally Green!”

A slow clap echoes throughout the hall of the most Optimal Club in the Northern Illinois town known as Manteno.

“I invented my own version of this here 90s R&B song by Jade, I call it, ‘Don’t Walk Away From This Offer.’

I’ve got craptocoins
Waiting just for you
Made one hundred percent
of some Port-a-poo

Come on, get some new
From the doo-doo-doo
Get them from her dookie vault
Before she Bern’s them all!

I really like your art
This is coming from my heart
It smells just like my farts
From the cheeks that I did part

How will I get in touch
Do you use Whasapp much?
You will make ten grand
From this craptocoin plan!

NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way

NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way

Disarm the turd-machines
Guarding Bern’s turd vault
If you feel kinda funny,
It’s not your fault

They smell really bad
But they’re really cool
Sliding from her bum
Into your inbox!

I really like your art
This is coming from my heart
It smells just like my farts
From the cheeks that I did part

How will I get in touch
Do you use Whasapp much?
You will make ten grand
From this craptocoin plan!

NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way

NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way

Stop all this confusion
Pardon the intrusion

I really like your art
This is coming from my heart

It smells just like my farts
From my cheeks that I did part

How will I get in touch
Do you use Whasapp much?

You will make ten grand
From this craptocoin plan!

(Wally beat-boxes out his butt)

This is all for you, no money down!

NFTs for sale
NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you

NFTs For Sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way

NFTs for sale!”

The bulbous 60-something takes off his fishing cap, bows, then tucks his gut back into his trousers.

“That…was…interesting! Wally Green you guys!” MC Konrad announces.

“Who’s our next contestant, competing to win the heart of the farty princess herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca?”

Crickets chirp.

“No-one? Now certainly we have some competition? After all, he does own Wally Green’s Drugstores! ALL OF THEM!”

Konrad’s growing frustration begins to show across his wrinkled face, eyes on him, all six of them.

“Going once…going twice…gone! We have a new president!”

The portapotty empress, queen of the throne Bernadette Moran Cacca, reluctantly crowns her new fan-club president, Mr. Wally Green. A few people clap, the rest, “Craaap!”

“Now you’re gonna work for ME!”

“You mean, I can’t just stare at your beautiful face? You should smile more often, honey!”

Lil Ms. Craptocoin Bernadette Cacca drags Wally by the ear, into the back room, to talk about her backside table of contents.

Robbie Makes Billboard

Kankakee Elvis impersonator and vulnerable narcadoodle Robbie Hurlbutt thinks he is Elvis. He posted this billboard to hopefully bring in some birthday cheer from the single ladies. Do you think it will work? Don’t lock him in the bathroom!

MoronicArts Classics: Silly Billy Sybil

Kankakee debt collector and big moron Sybil Kibble went up to Chicago this past Monday. She visited the LaSalle Street Buckstars where Damien Hurlbutt got kicked out a few months ago for going batty on the staff when they politely asked him to wear a mask.

Thankfully, Damien was not inside. However, the barista making Sybil’s drink misspelled her name.