Entramanure and communal narcadoodle Bernadette Cacca loves doing charity gigs just to look good on the outside. Gothic Diana Ross & the Midnight Supremes can not wait to try out their new trebuchet to avenge their Manteno neighbor Bernadette for relentlessly nagging them and stinking up the block burning port-a-poopies.
Yeet-o-Matic!
In this corner: The Manteno Wonder, Communal Narcadoodle and Portapotty Entamanure Bernadette Cacca! In the other corner: a useless real-estate scammer! It’s a battle of nitwits to try and waste each others’ time!
Backside: When communal #narc and #Manteno Optimal Club president #Bernadette Moran Cacca graduated high school she wanted to be a wrestler. When her wrestling career as the Manteno Wonder failed, she joined the army. She kept getting put on poop burning duty and got a dishonorable discharge…from her butt.
Bernadette was in such a hurry to become a regular that she tried to run over one of the regulars at the coffeehouse. She wanted to get the runs. Gotta mine that #craptocoin and N.F.T.s: newly-formed turds for her charity singing and kazoo playing which she does only for the photo opportunity. Looks are deceiving because she makes a good dog-and-pony poop show pretending she cares. She only loves poop.
#PoopingForBernadette
[ 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.
“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.
“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? 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.
“Would you like to hear the good news about our religion?” asks the elderly gentleman, sporting a “JC is the Man” tee shirt.
“No, would you like to hear the good news about the Flying Spaghetti Monster?” quips Diana.
“If you don’t join our religion, you will not go to paradise when you die.”
“I’ve died and come back three times and I am in the Rush University Journal of Medicine. When people talk about tunnels and light, I know they’re lying.”
Diana slams the door and gets ready to rehearse with Gothic Mary and Gothic Flo.
A knock is heard at the door.
“Go jump into Manteno Lake” yells Diana.
The knocking persists until the person holds down the doorbell.
Furious, Miss Ross heads out to chase her unwanted visitor.
Miss Ross opens the door.
“Oh hi Deeanna.”
“Di.”
“Is that a threat? Because I can call police–“
“No, you dimwit, that’s my name. Bernadette, you have been calling me by the wrong name since we were in third grade together.” Diana tells her next-door neighbor, communal narcissist and portapotty proprietor Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“Oh. I just wanted to tell you I have been doing these gigs to support the Manteno Optimal Club. I sing showtunes and play accordion. I am collecting donations if you want to chip in, since I know you love music, and it’s going to great cause because I love the community so much…” Bernadette rambles, not realizing Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes are slow clapping to insult Bernadette’s lame attempt at asking for money.
“Oh I am so glad you want to help! How much are you going to give?”
“A blow to the head if you don’t exit.”
Diana closes the door.
Bernadette Cacca walks home and tests the crank on her window-mounted Turd Machine. “Pep, did you forget to oil the turd machine hanging in the living-room window?”
“No, Bern, it’s out of turds.”
“Oh. Where did they go?”
“Little lady, you burned them last night in the fireplace. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I had too much moonshine.”
Gothic Diana Ross looks out the arched windows of her home to see if the coast is clear, hoping to dodge any Caccas, and heads outside to board the bus.
Since her turd machine collections are out of turds, Bern devises another way to annoy Diana.
As Diana is just standing there waiting for a bus, Bern starts spamming her with unsolicited, incorrect information.
“Deeanna. This bus is not coming for an hour.”
Diana ignores Bern, enjoying her New Beat mix through her headset.
“Deeanna, it’s raining out. Where’s your umbrella?”
“Do you need to borrow one?” Diana sarcastically replies.
“See, Dee — I can drive you to where you’re going. I love to drive because I am a good person who helps the community.”
Diana continues to enjoy her music.
As Diana sees the bus approach, she takes off her headset so she can communicate with the driver, waving so they can see her.
“You know, Diana, you don’t have to flag the bus down. It will show up anyway,” Bern advertises her unsolicited advice.
Diana boards the bus, pays the fare and sits down in the back. Bern sits a few seats away, since the one next to Diana is already occupied by another passenger.
Diana exits the bus in front of a building near the garage where she dropped off her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest to get repaired, stopping to pause and gather her thoughts.
“That business is closed. Can’t you read the sign?” Bern nags Diana.
“Don’t you have a pool to crap in?” the 5’11” Diana says, turns away and makes big strides using her long, slender legs toward the repair shop.
The rotund, 5’4″ Bern gives up as she has run out of ideas, for now.
“What can I do ya fer?” asks the mechanic behind the counter.
“I am her to pick up my ’88 Chrysler Conquest.”
“She’s not done yet. Give ‘er a couple more hours.”
Diana falls asleep in the chair while listening to music on her phone, the playlist changed to heavy metal and experimental noise.
She restfully dreams, drifting off to outer space, not a soul around to ask nosey questions. The beautiful goth queen and the boss of herself snores every so slightly, lightly. As Gothic Diana enjoys her peaceful rest away from her batty neighbors, she is starkly awakened.
“Diana? Diana?”
“Yeah…” a sleepy Miss Ross replies.
“Your car is good as new. She’s all fixed up. You owe us $1991.”
Diana reluctantly swipes her card, and drives onto the highway. It is getting dark on this cold Illinois night.
“Glad to have her back,” Gothic Diana thinks out loud.
Bernadette Cacca pulls up beside Diana in the lane to the left.
“But not her…” Diana also thinks out loud.
“Come on Diana, I’ll race you.”
“Get lost!” Diana exclaims, wishing the pest that is Bernadette Cacca would leave her be.
“Chicken! Bok-bok-bok-bok” the narcissistic Bern eggs on the unwavering Diana.
“Beep! Beep!”
The angered motorist behind Diana driving the white 1980s Toyota is in a hurry. Diana moves ahead.
“Yeahhhh!” an excited Bernadette exclaims as she burns rubber.
Diana and Bern race up and down the highway. Diana drifts as she tries to make her way very far from the trailing Bernadette. All she wants to do is go home.
The two arrive at their Manteno block, Diana first, Bern second.
Parked in Bern Cacca’s driveway is the white 1980s Toyota AE86.
A young man exits the Toyota and asks the approaching drivers.
“Did someone order tofu?”
Bernadette grabs her food and runs upstairs to eat because she cannot wait to poop again. She loves to poop.
An exhausted Diana enters her Gothic Victorian home and hits the silky black pillow atop her wrought-iron bed, falling asleep as soon as she lays down.
Business is crappy at Peppi’s Portapotties and there has been a brownout at the spectacle known as the Manteno Optimal Club. Despite offering “free tickets” to Robbie Hurlbutt, Madeline Topolla-Teirant, Konrad Teriant, Judi Avelli, her mother Carla and the Cheshire Cat, nobody’s falling for the “two drink minimum” scam anymore.
Needing take make extra dough, bog witch, communal narcadoodle and entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca applies for a job at Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), the company at which nearly all of Kankakee County has worked at one time. She is so good at annoying people that Clio Bersola hires her right on the spot.
“Would you like take a survey?” Bernadette asks her first caller. “You have been specially selected because your opinion matters!”
“Would you like take a survey?”
“Would you like take a survey?”
“You have been specially selected.”
“Your opinion matters!”
Instead of hounding people for money or craptocoin tips, the wrestler once known as The Manteno Wonder haunts CRASS debtors and creditors with survey spam.
The calls go on and on.
“Is she that weird lady who works down at that Manteno port-o-dump facility?” Dale asks Polly.
“Oh yeah, I see her on TV all the time. Those ads drive me crazy!”
“Just another day in Kank!”
The collectors share a chuckle.
“Good job, keep it up. You’re the only person who applied for this job, so we hired you. What’s your name again?” Sybil says.
“Don’t you know who I am?” the show-tune cover queen and portapotty empress Bernie asks her boss.
“Um…no. That’s why I asked you.”
“I do the charity gigs at the Manteno Optimal Club! I sing showtunes, play piano and blow vuvuzela horn.”
“Well don’t blow this job.”
Sybil goes to Schmucks a few days later to stock up on her Alpo meals. Not finding good deals on her favorite food, she walks across the street to the Wally Green’s and gets one can at regular price and another for half-off (but never free). While browsing the Sleevies, StrangleTangles and Turd Machine Deluxes, her new employee runs up to her as if to hug her, unfortunately.
“Hi there, my fabulous boss!”
“I’m busy.”
“Let me drive you home.”
“No thanks, my car is a block away from here.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have to drive in the rain.”
Not wanting to isolate her new hire, Sybil reluctantly wheels her doggie bags to the trunk of Bernie’s poopmobile and gets in front. Before she has a chance to close the car door, let alone don her seat belt, Bernadette peels out of the Wally Green’s parking lot.
“Slow down there…Nelly.”
“My name’s not Nelly.”
“OK, just drop me off at Schmucks. I took the preggers parking spot. Nobody’s gonna look inside my womb to verify.”
Bernadette loads the heavy cans into Sybil’s car.
“Call me if you need anything, pal!”
“Yeah sure, thanks!”
Sybil drives her white Chrysler LeBaron home, makes sure the oil is not low, and carries her suppers inside. While munching on some milk bones, Sybil checks her voicemail.
“This is a reminder call for: Sybil Kibble. You have a colonoscopy scheduled in three weeks. Please call us back to confirm your appointment. Be sure to have a driver because you cannot legally drive the day of your procedure.”
“Oh crap. I forgot about that.”
Trying to find someone to bring you to a procedure is as bad as finding people to help you move.
Sybil calls down to her mother and asks if she can bring her.
“No, I’m playing Bingo with the girls that day,” JK yells up to her daughter from her basement apartment’s air vent.
She reluctantly calls Dale Davis, even though she’s the object of his unwanted affection.
“No boss, I have to work that day. You scheduled me, remember?”
Out of options, The Kibbler texts The Manteno Wonder.
“Oh yeah, I will take the day off just for you.” Bernadette replies, then she poops.
Bernadette repeatedly texts Sybil daily to ask if she needs any supplies, toilet paper or liquids. However, Sybil says no thanks to the offers, except for the dog food one.
“My two favorite words, free food!” Sybil tells Mrs. Cacca.
“You’re the best!”
Something does not feel right about her newly found friend (not to be confused with Newly Formed Turds). “How can someone be so fond of me, so quickly?” Sybil writes in her diary. “I walk away from her with a funny taste in my mouth but I cannot quite put my finger on it.”
The weather has cooled off a bit in the two-and-a-half weeks which have passed. It’s Friday night after a long, stressful week at work, and Sybil is happy to be back at her Kankakee home.
“Can you come over and check to see if I locked my door?” Bernadette texts, asking about her shack up in Manteno.
Sybil plays The Crushing Candy Game for an hour and then texts Bernie back, “yeah, it’s locked” before going back to her phone, then watches some Unsolved Mysteries.
Sybil texts Bernie to ask for some toilet paper, however she gets no reply.
She shoots another text: “I’ll give you a ten.”
Another hour passes, so she sends out her ma to get the TP instead.
It’s the Sunday before her procedure. Between potty runs, Sybil texts Bernadette to confirm the time tomorrow. An hour passes, no answer. She calls Bernie, who answers after the third try.
“What do you want?” Bernadette snarks.
“I’m just calling to confirm the time you’re come getting me.”
“Just have them call me when you’re ready. I’m not going in.”
“You ARE bringing me TO and FROM my procedure right?”
“I have to meet someone by 9:30 for a portapotty job.
“OK, just pick me up at 8:45.”
“That’s fine. But I’m not signing any paperwork.”
After a very long, sore night, it’s now the bottom of the hour on colonoscopy day.
Bernadette peels onto Sybil Lane and into Ms. Kibble’s driveway.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah, I’ve been going all night!”
Awkward silence passes.
Bern Cacca — the proud G.G. Allin fan and craptocoin miner — does not even flinch at Sybil’s poop joke.
“Just give me directions.”
Despite looking so good on the outside by giving her a lift, the charity-side-show-queen Bernadette does not even bother to ask Sybil how she’s feeling.
“Just have them call me. But, I’m not signing any papers.”
“What do you mean by not signing papers, if you don’t mind I ask?”
“I don’t want to sign anything I don’t know what I’m signing up for.”
“They might need you to sign a discharge paper, to say you are picking me up, that’s it.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll have them call you.”
Bernadette still does not even ask Sybil how she’s feeling, and instead pulls away. Sybil enters the outpatient facility to bravely face the her anal probe alone.
The procedure goes well. Sybil enjoys the best 10 minutes of sleep ever, and then awakens in the recovery room full of people fart-fart-farting away.
“Good news, Ms. Kibble. I circled Uranus and found no Klingons.”
“Great news doc. Have you got ahold of my ride?”
“We’ll have the nurse keep trying.”
Eventually Bernadette pulls into the outpatient facility.
“Slow down!” the guard warns her.
Sybil Kibble gets wheeled to Bernie’s car and she gets in. “How’d it go?” Bernie asks Sybil.
“It went well. No abnormalities.”
“Did they use real anesthesia?”
“No…just the Fisher Price kind.” Sybil deadpans.
“Great, let’s get you home.”
Bernadette spends the whole ride home complaining about “the sky poop” and her online battles with people who “don’t get her revolutionary ideas,” because “it must be that Manteno water,” while explaining in detail every little chore she has done for CRASS, The Poopy Groupies and The Manteno Optimal Club.
What doesn’t Bernadette do? Ask Sybil how she’s feeling, of course. Instead she peels into the Kibble homestead’s driveway, dumps Sybil on her doorstep like a turd, peels out and waves, evil grin showing off the barely good deed she did for a fellow citizen. She cannot wait to brag about this all over Fakebook and Instaspam!
Mrs. Cacca shows up for work at CRASS the next day, walks in the door bright and cheery, mouth wide open as if to catch a fly, eyes as cold as always to hide her daily fear and self-loathing. She struts right by Sybil’s cubicle, and toward Marketing until Sybil calls her name at the top of her lungs:
“B. M. Cacca, come to my cubicle now!” The call center floor giggles.
Bernadette sits down at her desk in Marketing, defying her boss’ orders.
“Bern Cacca, please see Sybil Kibble immediately,” Accounts Receivable Chief Tara Bull calls over the intercom.
Bernadette chooses to ignore the page, so Sybil walks over to her instead, stack of papers in hand.
Sybil faces Bernadette.
“Your position has been eliminated due to lack of business needs. Resign immediately or be terminated.”
“I told you, I’m not signing anything!”
“OK. You’re fired. You have a 30 minute window to clean out your desk before Security escorts you out the door.”
“I WANT to SPEAK to the MANAGER!”
“I AM the manager.”
“No, YOUR MANAGER!” Karen — err — Bernadette, cries, throwing a toddler-tantrum.
“I’m giving you five minutes to leave,” a tall, fit, medium skinned woman wearing box braids demands.
“Do you know who I am?” Bernadette asks.
“No, do you know who I am?”
“I need the manager STAT!”
“I AM the manager. Leave now before we prepare the trebuchet.”
“Can I go to the washroom first?
“That’s it!”
A tiny violin is heard over the intercom, then Sybil’s voice commands: “YEET!”
The entire company cheers as Bernadette gets flung to lawd-only-knows-where.
“I wonder how she is feeling now?” Ms. Kibble giggles to herself before taking another supervisor call.
“Anything that gives me good poops so I can burn them later”
– Bern M. Cacca, Bog witch and port-a-potty empress
“Carrion usually, but I will fly great distances to get the best filet mignon.”
– Carla Moran, Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and sterile supply technician
I wanna suck your blood…I mean eat some rabbit pellets. They come out the same way they go in. Whatever you do, keep the garlic away. If you lie and tell me there’s no garlic in your blood I’ll know cuz I have ESP and PMS. I’m a witch who knows it ALL. You can have that one for free. Next customer!
– Missy Rabbit, Psychic Vampyre
“Dog food, any kind, but I prefer Alpo.. Never Brand X though, I can’t stand Elon Musk.”
– Sybil Kibble, Debt collector
“Anything but corn”
– Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, Area 51 test subject
“We’re all carnivores”
– Tomato Karen & The Haggs
“Brains, brains, branes, braiiiiinnnnz…or poopies.”
– Undead Greg Schneissder
Owner of Schneissder’s Sewer Service, Manteno moron, sociopath and zombie Gregory Albert Schneissder thinks his crap does not stink.
This 62 year old fartknocker sports a head full of salt and pepper hair, usually covered up by a ball cap. His eyes glow red and he eats brains for dinner.
Gregory is Chronic; paranoid people will steal his stash, Greg flashes his dime-bag full of perfectly cultivated buds on the bus when he is spaced out on coke he snorted while coming down off a weed high. Yes, he is that dumb.
This Miami Dolphenergans fan gate-keeps in Fakebook groups. Greg brags about his biggest life achievement, having seen someone in 1991 going down the road who owned one. The one-and-only 1988 Chrysler Conquest – just like the one Gothic Diana Ross drives – Greg witnessed the most important event in his life and tells everybody about it.
Undead Greg stopped driving due to DUIs; he lost his license before the slow-burn-virus took over his undead corpse. Now he can only watch people going down the road who own one. He is butthurt because he no longer can legally hunt down the living driving his Ford imbecile machine, covered in obnoxious decals, bearing wheels way too large for the body.
Ableist as it gets, Greg audibly harasses disabled folks on the bus, stalking them in cafés. He thinks they should work and accuses every disabled young person of “faking it” and tag teams with his BFF Pris Dixon to bully strangers since he is a scared wuss with no life.
Bern Cacca’s biggest fan, Greg made a BernCacca Fans facebook account.
He desperately needs a hobby (besides devouring the living). Manteno residents hope he gets one soon.
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.
Bern Cacca is #PoopingForKaitlin (and Stephanie).
“Hey you forgot your smokes!”
Still not aware of the kind stranger returning his ciggybutt cartons, a second person calls out:
“Hey Greg, you forgot your cigarettes.”
Greg grabs the two red packs on which he had been sitting. No longer able to drive, the newly undead Greg had taken the bus to meet up with his lover, Bernadette Cacca at the Manteno Optimal Club where she is performing charity pop covers just for the photo opportunity.
Bern drives Greg home after the gig. Both get lost, not just because someone told them to scram. Fighting over directions, Bern wags her finger and tells her Poopy Groupie “I told you so.”
“What am I going to do with all these NFTs?” asks a puzzled Bernadette.
“What’s an NFT?” the newly undead Greg asks his partner-in-stench.
“Newly formed turds, my turd vault is full! I want to burn them, however they will go bad by the time I burn them all! The craptcoin market is in the toilet!”
Greg gives Bern his trademark devilish grin.
“What about formaldehyde? Don’t you load that into your turd machines?”
Bern folds her arms, turns away from her lover Greg, and walks upstairs to crap.
“You sing like a dying cow!” Bern Cacca yells out her washroom door at her next-door-neighbours The Midnight Supremes, as she pinches a loaf and then burns it in her fireplace. She has unleashed The Kraken.
Enraged, Gothic Diana Ross directs her bandmates so crank their amps up and engage the Marshall Stacks.
Bern peels out her driveway.
Patrick Oswald Splatt is busy in his Kankakee basement, developing his newest useless invention, when a certain Manteno entramanure rings his bell.
“It’s my new killer-app. Siri-al-Killer.”
“Yeah, what can it do for me?”
“It is a virus, designed to mimic Siri. Only it is seriously plotting to kill you.”
“You’re awesome!”
“Thanks. I know.”
“Yeah. So am I, that’s why I want to hire YOU!”
“Young lady, what can I do ya fer?”
“I need to unload my Turd Vault.”
Awkward silence fills the room.
“Your…what?”
“My inventory’s getting stale. I use newly-formed-turds (NFTs) to create Craptcoin. The market really stinks right now and I need to clean out my product.
Pat giggles. It has been a long time and he feels good to laugh at someone else’s expense again.
Pat and Bernadette make a food baby together:
Pat’s junk email go into circular files across the globe. Meanwhile, the craptocoin market falls further into the bowels of the abyss.
Desperate, Bernadette sends out this flyer. She made it herself:
Bernadette slides into her shack, waves to her husband Peppi high off stinky skunkweed, and runs down her basement stairs, nearly falling down and smacking her big mouth on the concrete. She disarms the gate and the two Turd Machines guarding her massive Turd Vault, only to find her precious turd-collection missing.
“Oh no, where did they all go! I bet it was JB the Turd-Burglar, he stole my crap, I just know it.”
Bern’s smell-phone rings, playing her favorite GG Allin song.
Before she has a chance to answer, she spies Undead Greg sitting in a corner of her basement.
“Hey. My turds are gone, Greg!”
“That’s greeaaat.”
“How is that great?“
“They were delicious,” the undead Greg tells his fartner Bernadette. “These things keep me going. Unlike other zombies, I don’t neeeeed to eat rotting flesh. Recycled food is goooood-forrrr-yooooou and tastes better tooooo!”
MoronicArts 
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