Tag: art

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt’s Pool Toys

~ Jen ~ 3 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.

Where’s the Beef?

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Kankakee bill collector Sybil Katrina Kibble sighs. No matter how many times she turns the key in her car’s ignition, its engine would rather fart and shart than start.

“Stupid freaking LeBaron!”

Much to her chagrin, Sybil’s Chrysler Boxmobile doesn’t talk back to her this time.

“Oh man, I’d much rather talk to my car than to those stupid morons on the bus…I wish they would get better hobbies instead of bothering people. Read a book or something…”

A very tired Sybil waits at the nearest stop, pays her fare and sits down in a seat toward the middle of the city bus. She avoids looking at the other riders, and instead gawks at the bus’ console instead.

“I wonder if Ma has seen that new parking brake design. I haven’t seen it in her bus-parts collection yet,” Sybil thinks to herself, bobbing her head to the mumble-country music playing through her headphones.

Sybil’s already tense heart races as she witnesses the unthinkable:

Pris Dixon, wife of Brandon Dixon who owns the local imbecile machine lot, uses her young daughter as a punching bag. “How dare you disrespect me!” Pris yells at the innocent child.

“What are you doing? What the heck are you doing?” Sybil yells to Pris as she intervenes to stop the violence. As grumpy as Sybil can get, she has enough of a conscience to at least help an innocent child who cannot defend herself, because duh!

“Mind ya own business!”

Pris calls Sybil every name in the book.


“It’s everybody’s business! It’s illegal to hit an adult, it’s illegal to hit a child!”

“Wanna go? I’mma gon’ kick yo’ butt!”


“Oh, grow up now.” Sybil shakes her head and waves away Pris.

“Stop it ladies!” the bus driver yells out, and Sybil flashes a thumbs-up. Sybil saves the video she had secretly recorded on her phone, pushes up her glasses and breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls the cord to get off the bus just in time for work.

Miss Kibble logs onto the Collect-o-Matic 2000 and makes her first phone call. Sybil can’t wait for the weekend after yet another long, stressful week during these strange times.

It’s now Sunday, April 31st at the Manteno Cantina and Optimal Club. This week’s live entertainment is ready to start.

“Hi! I’m Mr. JB, but you can call me Mister Beef! I’m your host today here at the Manteno Optimal Club! Get ready contestants, cuz we’re gonna play…What’s Your Beef? Now our fine contestants are going to all meet in the ring and answer one simple question. Whoever is still standing will win our grand prize of One Million Craptocoins, generously donated by the queen of the porcelain throne herself, Mrs Bernadette Cacca!”

A slow clap emanates from the audience.

“Now, contestants, hear me loud and clear. I will only ask you all this question once: Does whipped cream go on cake?”

“Ding ding ding!” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran rings the bell with her beak, then returns to her regularly scheduled preening.

“Now I’m getting hungry for some burritos, I’m gonna go in the back and find the beef!”

JB walks into the kitchen storage room and starts berating the staff. Loud arguing can be heard. Meanwhile, the contestants just stand there and look at each other.

“Whipped cream is not frosting, it’s whipped cream.”

“Yeah, why do people put that crap on cake? So boring.”

“Yeah…no, I would never put whipped cream on a cake. I want my cake and I’m gonna eat it too!”

The contestants share a laugh. Bog witch, communal narcadoodle and entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca yawns and rubs her eyes. Meanwhile, the cantina patrons watch the local news on the venue televisions. A reporter comes on the screen detailing a story why the Kankakee police looking for Pris Dixon, airing the evidence Sybil Kibble had secretly recorded and sent along with her report.

“Why does this JB, JBeef whateverhisface moron have such a big following on teh interwebs anyway?”

“Beats me.”

“Brainrot.”

“Yeah, anything for skibidi clicks I suppose…”

The contestants collectively shrug and look out at the bored audience, however this does not last long. Their boredom suddenly got jump-scared by a typical denizen of the Moroniverse: A loud thump shakes the cantina wall as a rather rotund, middle-aged woman comes busting through the door.

“Hey, I heard there’s some kind of Beefeater game?”

“Child abuser!” the crowd points at Pris, whom they recognize immediately after having seen her ugly mug on the TV news.

“Adult abuser!” the cooks point at Mr. Beef as he emerges from the kitchen after having chewed them out as if he were Gordon Ramsay or something.

“You want a piece of me?” Pris eggs on the crowd.

“Meet me in the ring, baby! JB smirks at the crowd with his giant set o’ choppers, his cold, soulless eyes stare into the abyss before the rage consumes him as he enters the ring. Both bumbling nitwits cannot wait for the attention and of course – social media cred.

Pris climbs up onto the stage and drops her ghetto blaster.

“Ow, ow, ow, my foot!”

She had wanted to crank up some tunes by the copyright-simps Metallica, but oh well — too bad, so sad.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” Carla rings the bell with her steel talons.

JB blasts some butt-trumpet tunes in his opponent’s general direction.

Pris chucks a beer can at JB and of course misses, spilling that poor lager everywhere. Awww those poor hops, sacrificed for nothing..

JB dances around the ring, puts his hands to his ugly head and flips the bird with not only one but both hands! Wow — what a move! So creative.

Pris charges at JB like the raging beast she is, slips on the beer she had spilled, and hits her head on the concrete floor of the ring.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Pris calls out to the crowd for help, but nobody cares.

Gothic Diana Ross, The Midnight Supremes and their boyfriends point and laugh at the mess.

“Ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead!” they gleefully sing as they head out the door to drive home in the black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.

The patrons and staff all begin to walk out, they’ve had enough.

JB and Bernadette round up all the craptocoins, close up the joint and drive to Manteno. Bernadette loads them back into her basement Turd Vault, arms the two Turd Machine Deluxes guarding it and runs up the washroom. Then she poops.

Five days later, Pris’ dead body is found by a restaurateur after some customers at a nearby joint complain about “that nasty barbecue sauce smell next door,” demanding a refund.

Fertilized Minds

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.
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“This skunkweed ain’t skunky enough. Gotta add more port-a-pee.”
– Peppi Cacca, Fartner, Peppi’s Portapotties


“Not more flatulence testing! Stop feeding me corn and send me home!”
– Damien Hurlbutt, world’s largest source of natural gas, test subject at Area 51’s Alternative Fuels Division

“I keep circling and circling…I’m getting hangry…gotta be some fresh carrion around here somewhere.”
– Carla Moran, Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, Sterile supply technician


“These dog bones are making me constipated! I want a refund!”
– Sybil Kibble, bill collector, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS)


“What are they burning now?”
– Gothic Diana Ross, Singer and Vet Tech

“Poop!”
– Bernadette Cacca, Entramanure

Fan Art – Carla Moran by LAERAfoolish

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

Big up to LAERAfoolish for drawing the first fan-art ever of the changeling humanoid vulture Carla Moran shapeshifting before our eyes! You rock!

MoronicFanArts

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Big up to LAERAfoolish for drawing the first fan-art ever of the changeling humanoid vulture Carla Moran shapeshifting before our eyes! You rock!

More fan art:

Thank you to the bot known as Alfred on my favorite social media, Counter.Social for drawing Kankakee’s biggest dog food connoisseur, debt collector Sybil Kibble!

If you are tired of Elon Musk Bones thrown out by the X-Parrot, then you might like Counter.Social. It’s completely free of crap like algorithms, spambots and trolls. It’s run by this cool hacktivist codenamed “The Jester.”

Drawing by Alea Ner

“Wash that Bernadette right out of my hair!”

— Sybil

“Brandon Dixon is Half-Asleep” drawn by Zotco.

“Sybil Kibble” by GlowButter

A bonus Damien Hurlbutt drawn in the background of this “Ghoul” painting by an artist who prefers to remain anonymous:

Robbie Hurlbutt’s a hunkahunka burnin’ up!

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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.

A cure for willful ignorance

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What’s something you’d love to see in the future, but know you probably won’t live to witness?
View all responses

As my Aunty Sochelle has put it, this planet needs a cure for this disease called “Stupid by Choice.”

Common names for this affliction are “willful ignorance” and “narcadoodle.”

For now, I just choose to write about that crap and hopefully bring non-ignoramuses some laughs.

Cast of Characters

The road to Hell is paved with morons.

~ Jen ~ 3 Comments

“You love to have a conniption right before going on family trips! Sometimes you even sabotage them! Sonya is gone now, having never understood what we all went thru. I will never forgive you for what you did to us!” bog witch Bernadette Moran Cacca yells at her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, self-righteous narcadoodle and sterile supply clerk Carla Moran who puts the rage into rage-cleaning.

“You know that guy Greg Schneissder you used to romance on the side?”

“Don’t bother telling Peppi, he ain’t gonna care!”

“Well, I also fooled around with Undead Greg.”

It’s the early 80s. faux wood paneling painted black, dark green shag carpeting and brown floral sofa with matching loveseat.

Carla and Greg are watching “The Aaant! & Ding! Show.” Greg hands Carla his empty cup, his entitled mindset expects Carla to not only read his mind — but also do whatever the feck he wants with that stupid cup that he could have done himself.

Carla gets the clicker — a literal clicking remote control with 14 loud plastic buttons, attached to the television set with a curly telephone cord — and tries to change the channel. The two lovebirds get into a pecking match over the TV show and then Greg complains about Carla having spent 19 cents on a can of beans. Roll that beautiful bean footage!

Carla storms outside to smoke a cigarette.

Greg whistles at Carla like he’s calling a dog in an attempt to get her back inside, however she flies the coop, never to return.

Greg’s flashbacks continue to haunt him all the way through the smokey black tunnels until his descent terminates, wrinkly butthole to the cold rocky floor. He is greeted by a 69 foot creature with glowing red eyes, surrounded by flames.

“I see you made it back. GET IN LINE!”

Undead Greg arrives at the back of the 666 mile long of other newly damned. “Hey, you look familiar,” Greg calls out through the echoey halls to intake clerk Lucy Furr.

“Since I’ve been here before, can’t I jump the line?”

“No. There are millions of other people ahead of you. Your visit is important to us. Please continue to hold.”

“I want the manager then.”

“Satan’s busy now.”

Undead Greg stirs up the other condemned souls, egging them on, trying to take over Hell like countless evil souls before him.”

“You rang?” Hell Incorporated Chief Executive Officer Satan says over the intercom from his basement C-Suite.

“Just let me jump ahead. You know me.” the dead-again zombie and once-corporal narcopath demands.

“Nooooooooooooooooooo!”

Satan’s voice echoes throughout Hell’s entrance chamber, his corporal-stench-morning-breath mixes with the rotten-egg aroma blasting from his massive bum, instantly blowing Greg to the back of the line.

Satan makes some of his employees — usually megalomaniac world leaders and billionaire CEOs with a history of subjugating human beings — work every day without a break in the boiler-room call center, kind of like the one at CRASS but worse.. Sometimes he just throws in regular morons like Undead Greg, Demanda Broccoli and Smokey Ashe to work along side the snooty rich suckers like slumlord Sonya Marie Smith Moran. The call center is always open because the gates never close; neither does the country club.

Half the floor makes calls interrupting people’s suppers asking dumb survey questions and selling them crap they don’t want; the other half makes calls to medical patients hounding them in a recursive loop about the same appointment at least six days in a row, even if the people expressly ask them to stop calling because they don’t consent.

A lot of people block the 666 area code to stop the incessant calls. The autodialer uses Artificial Idiocracy (AI) to spoof the number on the caller ID so the damned bother as many people as possible. Every day those souls are randomly assigned to one call center branch or the other, so they never know which one they’re going to get.

The recent arrival, Divided Healthcare CEO snobbily complains to Satan: “I don’t like this job. Put me somewhere else. Don’t you know who I am?”

“No. Does your daddy?” Satan replies.

“Get me out of this job. I’m too good for this work. I’m in charge of a trillion dollar corporation you know!”

“No, I’m in charge of you now, ya doofus!”

“I quit!”

“I don’t want any freeloaders around here! You should be thankful you’re not out on the street starving in the cold! There are so many people worse off than you!” Satan gaslights, behaving like a typical toddler-minded narcissist.

Hell Incorporated call center staff continue to complain to the CEO.

“Well I tell ya what. We have positions open in the jagged rocks and boiling excrement pits…

The former health insurance CEO sighs…”I’ll take the bubbling poopoo pits.”

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.