Why Does Your Love Hurt So Much, Sonya?

A voice sweet as honey, her striking personality leaves you with that bitter aftertaste and you don’t quite know why.

“I’m Bernadette Cacca! It’s my pleasure to play for your The Manteno Optimal Club musical theater sing-along! I will livestream here on my personal page every Tuesday from 7:30-10 and Saturday from 5-7:30 during the 3 week The Manteno Optimal Club hiatus! The Manteno Optimal Club will be back for Season 2 on Oct 12! Follow me for details! And always on Instaspam @BernCacca (except tonight – TOILET ISSUES) Comment with requests!”

Bernadette Moran Cacca wants to open up an arcade in Manteno. No, not a slot-machine room like “Winnie’s;” rather, a video-game arcade. Hoping to sell more Craptocoin, she will only accept her funny money from the gamers. 

“Just think, my WONDERFUL customers will HAVE to pay in Craptocoin, mined the old-fashioned way by ME!”

“Git-git-git”

“Oh not now, honey. I have business plans to make.”

Butthurt by his wife’s disinterest in his mating call, Peppi Cacca claps back:

“You know, hon, if we can convince the developers at your favorite strip mall to put in that much-needed crossing signal, we can profit by providing the port-o-johns for the job. Let’s say we write a proposal and submit a bid if they accept.”

“My aunt Sonya will tell YOU about all the things I do for this community! I volunteer my time playing multiple accordion covers of popular show tunes for the Manteno Optimal Club!”

“She is also Optimus Prime.”

“Yeah, and Sonya is running for mayor. She knows the owner of that consumer shopping center. Back in 1991, he saw someone going down the road who owned one.”

“What about that Poopy’s you always wanted to open?”

“Stop causing so much drama, Peppi,” Bernadette gaslights her husband.

Bern goes down and applies for credit at the local loan-shark office and gets approved. According to her ex-lover Damien Hurlbutt, sharks eat poop, so Bernadette is not surprised they approve her credit.

“Scary” Barry Reynolds’ former “President of the Office of Belonging” at the Mathew B Johnson School of Intrepid Arts, Sonya Marie Smith Moran, is running for mayor to complete his failed agenda for the college takeover of Albion, Indiana.  

Some of the things Sonya is wanting to do are abolish cats and pitbulls from being allowed in the town limits, open a charter school to be run by the college with city funding and close the nature trails and centers to anyone without a “membership” paid in full with Craptocoin. Bog Witch Bernadette Cacca will collect tolls and eat anyone who refuses to comply. Yum, cannibalism.

She’s planning to do drug raids on houses she’s thinks are drug houses, just for fun. What better to do when you’re bored?

Sonya also wants to abolish the local low income clinic because she’s pro-life. However, she’s running as a Democrat. Since when did common sense matter to a narc-a-doodle, anyway?

Sonya Moran knocks on the doors of all the Albion residents, including the people she’s ticked off most every Saturday at between 1 and 2PM hoping to harass them, since they have blocked her on all social medias and don’t return her letters. She even sends them birthday gifts hoping to con them via guilt into sending her a thank-you card. She really wants hard to win over people who want zero contact. 

“You’re prejudiced against the poor, humans, flora and fauna. You don’t even like cats. Who hates cats?” Kitty Bee says as they laugh at the silly moron running for office.

“I have black friends. I’m not racist.” 

Kitty rolls her ebony eyes and lets the door hit the wannabe politician on the way out.

“Narcs be startin’ somethin’…and it ain’t no picnic,” the broadcast journalist says to their girlfriend.

“I’m walking away from you now!” Sonya snarks as she walks away from another uninterested voter. “Oh hello. Get out there and vote!” Sonya tells another stranger on the street with her usual forced-smile.

“I was sitting there when the log emerged” Bernadette Cacca details her newly-formed-turds (NFTs) on the phone to her lover JB, the neighborhood turd-burglar, then she hears a knock at the door.

“Hi Manager. My daughter wants to play Running in Manteno, where do we put the quarters?”

“You can get some Craptocurrency from me.”

“What?”

“Our games only take Craptocoin. I will gladly exchange! I just mined some now!” Bern says as she wipes her buttocks.

The father waves his hand in disgust as his daughter giggles, the family walking out the joint.

Kankakee junk-emailer, sociopath and petty criminal Pat Splatt will do anything to make a buck. He is hoping to get rich enough to someday implant a diamond in his forehead. 

While leaning against the wall in his chair, scraping the internet for contacts to spam about his payola scheme for content creators, Pat gets a call.

“Hell, Satan speaking.”

“Is this Patrick Oswald Splatt?’

“You’ve got the POS.”

“This is Sonya Moran. I got your email today and want some bots.”

“Hey babe, I can hear the smile in your voice today. I am your moneymaker!”

“Yeah. I want to become the biggest PooTuber on Earth. My name is Sonya Moran. You have heard of my niece Bernadette Cacca right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“She was on the front of the Kankakee Sentinel. You DO live in Kankakee County, right?”

“What can I do ya fer?”

“I am running for office here in Indiana. I want to make a channel where I make videos where I pay my BIGGEST fans just for subscribing and watching. But I don’t people to think I am bribing them. Just like my EXTRAORDINARY niece Bernadette, I want people to SEE the acts of charity I am spending my busy day doing. Why be nice to people if nobody can see it? I do a LOT for this community.”

Pat begins to nod off.

“With your assistance, we can build a botnet to pad my followers, and argue with ANYBODY who disagrees. Hello?”

Snoring is heard.

“Hey babe, I think you’re hot.”

“Oh hey babe. What’s that about getting together?”

“Just seeing if you’re paying attention. I want to hire you to make a network of pretend followers so that real people will also look at me give all that money away, and do good deeds for the community. I am running for mayor here in Albion, Indiana and I intend to win!”

“You sounds like my kind of person!”

Sonya Moran is really on a mission to bully her residents out of her complex at Prairieland Country Club Apartments For the Disabled down by the Albion mills into leaving, because she is a complete and utter troll who has zero empathy. Compassion, what’s that? 

Complaints have been pouring into the Department of Housing and Urban Development that she has been issuing lunacy letters falsely accusing her low-income, disabled tenants of violating their leases. How would she feel if she were in their place? I feel confident some of the people would gladly trade their chronic pain and bladder problems with her so they can have better lives. Oh, and she hates cats.

Sonya knocks on her residents’ doors at 9:30 AM to remind them that she is running for office, saying it would be unacceptable to vote for someone else, because she plans to own the housing committee. Must be a thing to live in fear. After all, she is a wussy little narcissist. 

Jade Utica is not having any of Sonya’s crap. After getting unwanted knocks on her door, waking her up after a rough night battling her brain disease, she is not about to sit down let the so-called “Do-gooder” bully her into homelessness. After chatting with her neighbors about the junk her landlord left on her door, she finds out she is not alone.

Meanwhile, Sonya’s PooTube channel has been getting thousands of followers and commenters every day, thanks to Pat Splatt. 

“I just know I am going to win this election,” Sonya says to her campaign donors at her rally. “If they don’t cry for me, I will give them something to cry about!”

Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies cheer in conformance.

Front: Bern M Cacca, Back: JB the Turd Burglar, Sonya Moran, “Undead” Greg Schneissder, Peppi Cacca

Undead Greg Schneissder gives a speech:

“This is the best thing. I have constantly and continuously been moved and inspired by the inventive, communal ways citizens found during the darkest days of the lockdown to seek out the light, keep connecting. 

The thought of two people, across time and place, creating one thing: so beautiful to me, on its own. But to see it come together, in one room, the beautiful moment, both optimistic overture and grand, grand finale. What a lovely symbol of perseverance, of hope fulfilled. What a metaphor. What a tonic. What a reminder. I was unprepared for how moved I would be by this story.

The only thing *not* at all surprising about it? That Sonya Moran was involved. So let me also love on her for a second: in that weird way that all of Albion is all just a small town after all, I walked into a bar this past Friday, where Bern was celebrating a friend’s birthday, surrounded by the beautiful, lovely, joyous people that she seems to attract (birds of a feather and all that), and she gave me THE. BEST. HUG. And a greeting that made me feel like the only person in the world. 

A friend of hers asked if I were an actor or singer, and I think I mumbled something like “I wish.” What I should have said, “No, but when I am in the company of Sonya, I am a STAR.”

As people watch Greg’s gushing, comments pour into Sonya’s PooTube channel:

“You need to remove your twitter post about my friend. Especially when you were selfish enough to do what you did and then block her. Because she is the only person who matters! Look at me, I’m a troll who crawled out from under my bridge because I need to get a hobby and I hate myself.. I don’t appreciate the way you treated her.”

The cheers of support from Sonya’s bootlickers are interrupted by some breaking news:

“Kitty Bee reporting live from Albion breaking news. Indiana officials and a spokesperson from the US Department of Housing and Urban Development have accused Albion landlord Sonya Moran of discrimination and harassment. Residents have complained that Mrs. Moran has been accusing them falsely of violating their leases, failing to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act, and even threatening to evict them. We will bring you more news as it develops. Back to you.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Drama Llama, Causin’ Trauma.

“Is it stalking season yet? Where’s Sonya?”

“She hasn’t flown in yet,” Manteno, Illinois very own narcadoodle extraordinaire and port-a-dump proprietor Bernadette Moran Cacca informs her mom Carla, in from Manteno, Illinois to visit.

A thump is heard, likely from the bird deflecting against Mrs. Cacca’s Albion, Indiana home. The buzzard has landed.

“Are we going out stalking?” shapeshifting humanoid buzzard Sonya asks her family as she transfigures from vulture into subhuman.

“I need to cut down on my stalking bill,” Carla tells her sister-in-law and bird-of-a-feather, Sonya.

“I’m walking away from you now. This is unacceptable and won’t be tolerated,” Sonya berates Carla and flies off, doing donuts in the sky over a body of water and its surrounding structures.

Sonya eggs a guy on to throw a cat in the river, literally. She had been laying eggs by the water because she was bored and began chucking them, demanding the male stranger go murder the poor animal. Poor kitty was living at the bar on the river, surviving on the food in the trash there and the odd chicken tender or bit of burger the customers were giving him. Seriously, who the heck hates cats, let alone wants them dead?

Sonya’s distinct poopy smell, it lingers, wafting through air after she drops off some more friends at the pool.

A medium-skinned trio stroll along, new to Albion. “It smells like warm milk and trauma.” Gothic Flo deadpans. 

Gothic Diana Ross scoops up the fluffy munchkin after having witnessed Mrs. Moran’s histrionic menacing. 

“Sonya, the Indiana Attorney General is prosecuting animal abuse cases to the fullest extent of the law so I will be turning you in.”

 “It’s just a rotten cat, ya stupid nincompoop!” Sonya screeches, mad because caught. Then she poops.

“Fee Fi Fo Fum. I smell the turds of a big moron!” Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes chant, enjoying their mockery of the apathetic fool who tried connive a kid to murder that adorable little fluffball. Gothic Diana Ross takes the kitten to the vet clinic where she had just interviewed to get him some help. She names him Kevin.

Shapeshiftin’ Sonya flaps her wings in frustration and anger, squawking like a parakeet. Then she flies away.

“Another one of these? What is Sonya on, anyway? There is no cat pee smell outside my door!” the young lady thinks aloud as she grabs the lunacy letter her landlord left on her door. “Why always Friday? I had a long day at work and am too tired for this codswallop. She needs to get a hobby!”

Gothic Diana Ross sees a familiar face. 

“It’s Kitty Bee from Kankakee!” Diana cracks a smile and the two exchange some dap. 

“Whatcha doin’ in town?”

“We came in because I had an interview.”

“Ah nice. On TV?”

“No. A job interview.”

“Nice. Where?”

“Over at that vet clinic by the college. That…um…self-defense school? What’s a PSI Ball anyway? Those ads blew up our TV!”

“It closed.”

“Oh, nice! Those ads were driving us batty.”

“Yeah, did you hear what happened? College President Barry Reynolds got in trouble and they shut it down.”

“Nice. One less moron. Speaking of nitwits, you should see this lady down by the river. She tried to kill a cat!”

“What?”

“Yeah, she was like, laying eggs and pooping everywhere.”

“I need to get the scoop on that poop.”

“Umm. Yeah.”

“What did she look like?”

“Tall, lanky, goofy eyes.”

Kitty gets out her phone and shows her a photo of her landlord, who has been running for Albion mayor.

“Yup, that’s her.”

“I knew it! Hey I am going to do a story on her. Our city is done taking her crap.”

“Us too. That smell…”

“RRRRGGGGH! Thanks! Bye!”

“See ya.” The dark gothic beauties wave in unison.

TO BE CONTINUED

Sonya Runs For Albion Mayor, Fails to Understand the Assignment

“Hey Sonya, do you have a minute? We would like to interview you.”

“Not now, I am busy working this charity event. I do a lot for the community.”

Sonya hoists a big bag of money, brandishing it, crooked grin from ear-to-ear; she flails her arms in the air like she is dancing.

“We would like to talk to you about the upcoming election,” Kitty Bee informs the histrionic Mrs. Moran.

Seizing the time to brag about her run for Albion, Indiana mayor, Sonya speaks.

“Yeah, I am here raising money for the Albion Optimal Club. My niece Bernadette Cacca came in ALL THE WAY from Illinois!”

“Tell me more about your bid for mayor.”

“If you choose me, I will represent you. Facts over feelings. I own a large apartment complex and make a lot of money. I can make even more for Albion.”

“What are your feelings about cats?”

Stunned into fright, Sonya pauses, frozen into place.

“Can you repeat the question?” 

Sonya did not understand the assignment.

“A visitor reported having seen you down by the river trying to convince a man to throw a cat in the river.”

“And defamation of character is a crime.”

“Do you have anything else to say to our viewers?”

“Facts over feelings. I, Sonya Moran, will ensure the people of Albion are put first.”

“This is Kitty Bee reporting live from the Albion Optimal Club. Back to you.”

Sonya walks into the washroom while Kitty communicates over her radio with her producer and director.

“I hate cats. I wish they would all die! And this election thing is so corny. I should just win and get it over.”

“Copy.” the producer says on his radio to reporter Kitty and the rest of the newsroom. Break when you can and pass it over to Kitty.”

“Breaking now, our news team has just heard something that may affect your vote in the upcoming mayoral election here in Albion.”

Sonya’s clip stating her disdain for cats is replayed over the airwaves, broadcasting to the viewers across the Albion, Indiana region and beyond.

Viewer mail pours in immediately, most of it from the Internet.

“Who will you vote for this November in Albion’s mayoral race? Back to you.”

Sonya storms out of the restroom stall, foaming at the mouth with rage, eyebrows afurrow. 

“Was that mic live? You are NOT going to damage MY reputation.”

“Facts over feelings.”

Toxic College-y

[ Sign the petition inspired by this story and read about what inspired me to write it! ]

Scary Barry Reynolds gets fired from his job as a road-test proctor for the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles, and starts his own college called “Dr. Mathew B. Johnson School of Intrepid Arts” in Albion, Indiana, teaching martial arts and telekinesis, a school he named after his favorite academic leader and best friend. 

Gothic Diana Ross gives her TV the side-eye

“Become as powerful as the Dragonball Y characters you see on TV! Develop your real life martial-arts skills, and when you get to your senior year, you’ll become a PSI-ball master!” 

“Not this ad again…” Gothic Diana Ross says across the Indiana border in Manteno, Illinois at the slate Victorian home where she and her bandmates reside. “Who wants to go to Indiana anyway?”

“Indiana wants us, but we can’t go back there.” Gothic Flo retorts and The Midnight Supremes all giggle.

Classes begin at the School of Intrepid Arts in Albion. Students practice basic self-defense, mixed martial arts and fencing.

“A new life awaits you at the School of Intrepid Arts” a flashing, talking blimp advertises as it flies over Northern Indiana and Illinois, spending a rather long time over Chicago, until someone begins to fire at it.

“Pop! Pop!” is heard as the floating advertisement-machine is gunned down somewhere on the Southside. 

A scholar gets harassed in his dorm, racial remarks litter his marker board. One moron, Pat Splatt, writes “KKK” on an empty pizza box and drops it outside his dorm room.

Protests are held by multiple school groups which make the local news.

Barry and Terry Reynolds respond to the media from the comfort of their own home.

“I will answer that later. Come back.” President Reynolds tells the news, and does not return their calls.

The scholar tries to learn to make “PSI Balls” on the internet and learns that it is fake. Meanwhile President Reynolds uses school money to pay for pet construction projects so he can hire his wife Terry’s company to do all the work.

Barry and Terry make the classes so hard, it is impossible to pass. Barry and Terry love seeing the disappointed faces of aspiring martial-arts students receive their report cards littered with Fs. 

President Barry Reynolds sends out a memo to his wife Terry using negative humor, snarking she should bulldoze “trash and idiots who live on minimum wage.” Barry accidentally copies the entire college on the email.

Oopsie!

Students start creating memes and Fakebook groups. President Barry reports them to Fakebook owner Emperor Zucc who shuts them all down. 

Students take to the news to expose the corruption.

The scholar is interviewed, and talks about his brother — also a student — who died when trying to defend a bully using “PSI Balls.”

“If President Reynolds wants to create chaos and censor those who rise up against his regime, then maybe he should move to North Korea. I bet he would feel right at home.”

Barry and Terry visit Bern Cacca bathing in the bog near Manteno, Illinois, for public-relations advice hoping to clean up their image, since Bern is so good at maintaining her squeaky clean image while doing dirty those closest to her. Oh, and she burns poopies.

Bern Cacca bathes in the bog

“Bern Cacca? We have an important message. We need your help.”

Bog Witch Bern keeps on swimming.

“Bern? We have something to tell you.”

Bern continues to ignore the looming Terry and Barry.

“Bern? We want to know how you keep your image so clean while you do others dirty.”

“Can’t you see I am taking a bath?” an angered Bern yells back, hoping to be left alone.

“Oh you are so…RUDE!” Terry snarks at Bern. 

“I am busy. Go away.”

“God hates ugly people! I am calling the manager!” Terry says out of desperation and fear.

“I am the manager.” Bern replies as she shoos away Terry and Barry. 

“I wish my hearing aids were broken.” Peppi Cacca says to his wife Bern and the Reynolds couple leaves.

The Indiana Attorney General investigates and shuts the school down, and the story makes television headlines.

“Oh good, we no longer have to see those annoying ads.” Gothic Flo says to Gothic Diana and then turns off her TV.

Scary Barry Eats His Words

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.

Getting Fired Sucks, Barry.

Mosquitoes suck.

After the Dr. Mathew B. Johnson School of Intrepid Arts in Albion, Indiana got shut down by the Attorney General’s office for fraud and corruption, Scary Barry Reynolds lost his health insurance, since the United States requires a job in order to get such basic needs met.

Barry’s doctor ordered labs so he went to the local Wally Green’s to get it done at 1AM in their Vampyre Department.

“What if I don’t have insurance?” Barry asked the vampyre working the blood lab.

“We will mail you a bill, and make sure to screw it up as always. However, we only allow self-payers to get blood drawn by our team of mosquitoes since a venipuncture requires insurance.”

“CONSTRUTION”

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.

Behind the Moroniverse – Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds

Oh man. the main inspirations for Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds are people I hope you never encounter.

One hundred per cent miserable, and equally evil as her counterpart Barry, there is no pleasing Ms. Terry. She gets joy out of seeing others suffer. She’ll bite the hand that feeds her and once you’re sore from the fresh wound, she’ll bite it again to make it hurt that much more…

Imagine going on a trip overseas to study, experience different perspectives and have fun. That was my hope in the summer of 1999. when I took classes through my university for a study-abroad program in Italy.

What comes to your mind when you think about traveling?

Being forced to share a room with strangers who hated me was the last thing I expected.

Scary Terry was one of the haters. Much older than me, Terry made it a point to harass and belittle me. One time she woke me up and called me “whiny” because I was, you know, groggy like most people who just got up?

And then there was the time Terry told me to cover my legs. I have an autoimmune condition which affects my skin. get over it. Terry, if you don’t like it, then don’t look at it. Find something else to do in Italy than harass a fellow student.

I did smile when Terry had the audacity to talk trash about me at dinner, in front of all the other students from the United States. They told her to shut up and said they did not want to hear it. Neither did I.

Sadly, this Terry person (yes, the real name is Terry, different surname of course) majored in education. I feel bad for any student of Terry’s. No wonder we have some awful teachers in the school system.

When I got home from Italy, I told my family about the abuse I endured from her and her cousin, with whom I was forced to room. Since I did not grow up in a supportive family, they invalidated me by acting like it was no big deal. My feelings are valid.

To help process the trauma from repeated verbal abuse by Terry and the cousin, and the gaslighting I faed when i went home, I created my character Terry Reynolds. I will discuss the cousin in a separate entry.

Taking your road test is nerve-wracking enough. Imagine living in a small city where the sole proctor is a malignant narcissist, taking joy in seeing people fail. Meet the inspiration for Scary Barry Reynolds.

Barry (again, real first name) loved telling students “YOU FAILED” in a stoic tone, with a hint of an evil grin.

Imagine greeting your proctor as you enter the car “Hi Barry” only to be screamed at, likely out of fear “How do you know my name?” And then told “I. Don’t. Like. That.”

Barry may look like Leon Kowalski from Blade Runner, and act like him. It goes without saying he would fail any empathy test. Maybe I should run the V-K Test on him and watch him fail. I just won’t ask him about his mother.

After failing my road test five times with Barry, I passed my test when I took it in another city and of course a different proctor. I had called his supervisor, per advice of my driving instructor, who failed to address the problem, saying “he makes his quota.” Yes, some doctors graduate at the bottom of their class. What do you call them? Yeah, a doctor. .

And now we get to learn about the psychic attack crap. Back in 2001 (No not 1991, sorry Greg Snyder), I received this junk mail:

When I first got the spam, I thought it was for EarthBound cheat codes. Think again.

These morons tried to sell a psychic attack self-defense e-book. The spammer only accepted a check mailed to them, and then they promised to email you the electronic book after they got your check. Yeah, sounds legit.

The email was so funny, I had to save it, and use it for something.

Around the time I got the Defense Against Psychic Attack spamvertisement, I spent a lot of time on message boards chatting about metaphysics. Fans of Dragonball Z asked how to make “PSI Balls” and some even made videos pretending to “psychic attack” people using them. I thought the whole darned thing was so funny, it needed to prompt a story idea. Most of my ideas sat dormant in a different series, which I merged into MoronicArts.

What Are Barry and Terry Conjuring Up?

The ever-miserable “Scary” Barry Reynolds and his equally grumpy wife “Terrible” Terry Reynolds will do just about anything for money here in Kankakee. Just what are they doing with that Weggy…umm…Ouija Board anyway? Are they necromancing Luigi after he fell into the garbage too many times?

Find out how these two partners in crime try to one-up the denizens of the Moroniverse upcoming novel “This Tale Stinks!”

Behind the Moroniverse – Early concept art plus new characters!

Damien Hurlbutt’s birthday is coming up on August 10th. To celebrate his birthday, I would like to share some early concept drawings of him and other morons.

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Below is an early character design for an unnamed Dale Davis.

The next few drawings I created early on for a previous series which I merged into MoronicArts. Look for them in my forthcoming novel.