What kind of songs do the denizens of the Moroniverse like? Here’s a list. Have fun!
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble misses eating King Kuts dog food.
JoAnn Kibble raps along to this safety song while rearranging her collection of school bus parts.
Robbie Hurlbutt sure thinks he’s number one.
Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt used to jam out to this tune while driving to work at the Teirant Cinema-13, before he got captured trying to storm Area 51.
Wacky inventor and drugstore owner Wally Green doesn’t accept “no” for an answer when he thinks he has found the magnet to his steel.
Konrad Teirant plays a lot of Dirty Games.
Bernadette M. Cacca had loved her Turd Machine Deluxe so much, she went out and bought 19 more of them.
Gothic Diana Ross turns the men upside down with her long, long notes.
Ant D. Yu was having fun spinning this tune at the Manteno Optimal Club until Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies had showed up and made a stink. Word has it he still plays it when she’s not there.
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:
“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?”
“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.
“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
Hell, Inc. CEO Satan temporarily banishes the daemon — once known as Midwestern slumlord Sonya Mare Smith Moran — to the land of the living, because she refused to stop stalking him in his basement C-Suite. He’s tired of hearing the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture squawking and pecking at his door.
The former president of The Poopy Groupies pays her favorite singer a visit hoping to sing a stinky doo-doo-et, however Bernadette Cacca has once again fallen asleep on the toilet while pooping. Despite her best efforts to make a direct-to-dream connection, Sonya fails to reach her subject because she is too busy farting in her sleep.
Ms. Moran then curses her former tenants who had reported her for false lease violations (cha-cha-cha), using every word in the book, however they all tune her out because the community room television is volume has been turned up to accommodate the hard-of-hearing. Duh.
Making one last ditch to stir up trouble, Sonya-Daemon appears at Sybil Kibble’s house, however she is not home, so Sonya instead cuts off her mother’s internet connection, tapping her toes anticipating a reaction.
“The web has tossed its darned cookies again,” JoAnn Kissane Kibble thinks aloud. “CeeCee, did you throw some nuts into the router again?” JoAnn asks her squirrel-buddy.
After clearing the router of chocolate chips and nuts, she switches her phone from a wi-fi connection to a cellular one, and types on Fakebook: “I can’t get online because the internet is down.” Then she starts crushing candy with her phone.
After Sonya-Daemon has used up her most recent free hall pass to planet Earth, she gets sucked back into the underworld.
“Hey Boss, can you make me 10 feet tall? I wanna be 10 feet tall! I wanna be 10 feet tall, just like I was when I sold you my soul!” the nitwit screams as she repeatedly jumps up and down, like a toddler who lost a kickball.
“I’ve tried startling people, I’ve tried inhabiting their dreams, stealing their cookies, nothing. Nobody even notices me!”
“Have you tried just shutting up?” Satan replies…“Now back to the call center. We need 1000 surveys completed every hour…”
“Woo-hoo!” Sonya un-ironically shrieks as she runs to her new cubicle in Hell, Inc.
“Hey Diana! Check out this big, beautiful picture my Peppi smoked up for me!” Manteno entramanure, bog witch and communal narcadoodle Bernadette Cacca brags about the huge printout containing her likeness surrounded her bootlickers, to her neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes.
“You’re holding it upside down.”
“What?”
“I saw Smokey Ashe, Undead Greg waiting in Hell’s in-processing line during my last internship. Lucy Furr was checking them in.”
“You’re not God, you know honey…” Gothic Mary smirks. The Midnight Supremes collectively snap their fingers, break into song and dance their way back to their Gothic Victorian home next door to the Caccas on Kant Street.
Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran drops by for a visit. She flies into a tree again, then plops to the grass.
“Oh hi Mom! Look what Peppi made for my birthday month!”
“Oh-kay. Why are you pretending to be Jesus?”
“I know. I know. It’s really me using a Vulcan mind meld on aunt Sonya. I have not gotten a gig since she had flown the coop. I’m trying to revive my career!”
“You don’t even like Star Trek.”
“Yeah I do. I really love that Dr. Spock guy and his Jedi mind tricks,” a very confidently incorrect Bernadette plainly spits her alternative facts.
The Midnight Supremes share a giggle at Bernadette’s newest gaffe, Bernadette’s loud mouth wide open to catch a fly shrinks down to a shriveled grimace.
To celebrate her birthday month, bog witch, communal narcadoodle and portapotty empress Bernadette M Cacca plans to fly down to DC so she can drop a deuce in the only toilet large enough to fit all her turds!
“Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to crap but only farted,” a forlorn Bernadette “Bern” Cacca sings on her porcelain throne, practicing kazoo and accordion. She lights a fart, burns her doodoo in the fireplace, then makes a call to a Northwestern Illinois bar on her smell phone.
“Poopy’s.”
“Hi, my name is Bernadette Cacca. I’m a famous singer near Chicago.”
The bartender giggles.
“I have a wonderful offer to make your bar.”
“May…I take your order?”
“I would like to open a Poopy’s here in Manteno.”
“I thought you were from Chicago!”
The bartender continues to giggle as he hangs up on Bern.
To increase her bottom line of attention, money and bootlickers, communal narc-a-doodle Bernadette offers to sing and play her accordion cover songs at a charity event to raise money for the victims of the Russian war against Ukraine. She dreams about all the praise, awards and photo opportunities she can gain from making it look like she cares. She does not raise money for this or any other cause because she feels concerned about the efforts of living beings trying to stay alive, fighting or fleeing a psychopath trying to take over their beautiful country. She just loves to pretend.
Bern heads home from a long day working her and her husbands’ business Peppi’s Portapotties, excited to burn the porta-poopies in her fireplace, only to be interrupted by a phone call.
“Hi, Bernadette…ummm…Cake-Uh?”
“Cacca.”
“Yeah, I am calling about your gig at the Gaslight Bar tomorrow night.”
“Oh hiiii! I am THRILLED about playing this extraordinary gig at 7:00 tomorrow night.”
“Good. We are calling to tell you about a slight time change. Due to staffing shortages, we need to move your gig back an hour.”
“I am a pillar of the community and a national treasure! Your tone is not appropriate for someone doing business. I would get used to people like me.”
“So are you coming or not? We have other guests who want to play and help—“
“Okay, okay, see you tomorrow. Don’t forget it!”
Bern teams up with local cybercrook Pat Splatt to develop her pretend money Craptocoin. The bum-waste-bin overlord thinks it is cute to sell Craptocoin at the charity event and decides she will solicit tips using her funny money.
“Hello Manteno! Thank you all for coming! Let’s raise some money! Gimme your requests! CraptoCoin only, my handle is @BMCacca! Maybe you already doing it, and that’s awesome!
ALSO, a shout-out to my extraordinary hairdresser @lilacroule from Croule, Young and Lovely who keep me lookin’ good! AND, my makeup by fabulous @marigoldyoung! So much love to their salon. Practices are things done more than one time regularly, and I have been practicing hard for tonight’s fundraiser! That’s why I call them practices!”
“And…without further ado, give it up for the Manteno Wonder herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca!”
A slow clap is heard, mixed in with hoots and hollers from Bern’s obsessed fanboys.
After finishing her last accordion cover tune for the first half of her set, “My Fart Goes Boom”, Bern runs to the washroom, humming “Let’s all go to the restroom” as she poops and farts.
Mrs. Cacca emerges, approached by a Chicago television reporter.
“Hi Bern. I would like to interview you. We got a press release—“
“Not now, after.”
“I have other stories to cover. Let’s do this now.”
“The show must go on.”
“I am from Ukraine and have family there.”
“Fair enough, let’s do this interview up on stage. We will both look awesome up there!” Bernadette gushes.
The Chicago TV reporter enters stage right, Bernadette stage left. Reporter Elena Emm stops to remember her questions so she can begin her interview.
An impatient Bernadette sighs loudly, whistles and hums.
“Why are you staring off into space? Are you in a fantasy world?” Bern snarks, snickers, thinking only Elena can hear her.
“I am blind,” the reporter advises the oblivious Bernadette, unaware a camera operator is filming the entire interview.
“Here let me touch your face,” the ableist and ignorant Bern belittles the Chicago TV news reporter, reaching for her face.
Elena knocks Bernadette unconscious with a single blow to her piehole, then proceeds to yeet her into the crowd of bootlickers.
“This show is getting entertaining” Gothic Diana Ross says to her bandmates, The Midnight Supremes, who are waiting in the wings.
“I may be visually impaired, but I’m not stupid” Elena Emm says to the crowd who had poured in to find out where their entertainer Bernadette had gone, only to have that communal narcadoodle chucked right into a pile of them, knocking the fanboys over like a set of bowling pins. Strike!
Happy she got a scoop on the poop-mistress extraordinaire, Elena and the news team head back to Chicago to produce their segment for the next morning’s newscast.
“Next up, give a hand for these lovely ladies, Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes!” announces the emcee, who had called the Manteno girl group last minute to replace their annoying neighbor Bern Cacca on the bill.
Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran calls her equally narcissistic daughter Bernadette, reads off names of colors, asking Bern to buy her some paint.
“So not Buttercream, not eggshell, but a few cans of the one in the middle.”
“Can you get me a swatch? You know, that strip with all the squares in the different shades you want?”
“I’m not looking for Cubism.”
“You want me to paint your entire house and buy the paint, with no paint chips? Yeah…no Ma.”
“Come home. I need you to come home.”
“I am home.”
“Come home, Bernadette. Live with me for awhile to save some money.”
“I have my own home to paint.”
Bernadette hangs up her smell phone. Her favorite G.G. Allin ringtone plays 20 seconds later. Bernadette rejects the call, butt of course!
“DON’T. YOU. HANG. UP. ON. ME. AGAIN. I’m trying to help you Bernadette, but YOU’RE not letting me help you,” gaslighter extraordinaire Carla projects onto her only daughter’s voicemail, meanwhile Bernie is busy ignoring her mother, dropping a deuce in her washroom and practicing her butt-trumpet solo.
Bernadette heads down to bog she inhabits to take a dip and spend time with her creepy dolls. After freshening up, she drives to the Manteno Cantina to hang out with her fan club, The Poopy Groupies. Bernie tinkles on the pot for a bit and then the ivories for an impromptu poop-up concert, only slightly less annoying than the pop-up ads spamming all over Kankakee County about her bar…erm…THE bar.
Poopy Groupie president, KaCo resident Wally Green videotapes the entire concert from beginning to end, gives a standing ovation along one with other patron, Pat Splatt.
“Hey there hottie! Gimme a kiss!” Pat Splatt catcalls Bernadette. The married entramanure hugs Pat in a deep embrace and the two briefly make out.
“I’d like to take you for a ride.”
Pat, Bernadette and Wally drive down to Carbondale in Bernadette’s poopmobile to learn what Artificial Idiocracy (AI) can do for them at a conference.
After discovering how much money he can make by using AI instead of hiring actual people to work for his Pantherware company, Pat invents a new AI program along with Bernadette’s input dumps.
Bernadette finishes mining some fresh Newly Formed Turds (N.F.Ts) in Pat’s washroom while Pat compiles his new CrapApp.
“You’re naming the new program after me, right honey?”
“No, Bernie, I’m naming it Ozzy.”
“I want you to name it after me! I made the cover of the Manteno Sentinel more than you! I care so much about this community and my friends! Did you see all the money I helped raise for—”
“Ozzy just died. Don’t you have any respect for the dead?“
“Wow, what incredible advice. What are you not understanding about what I’m saying?”
“You sound like the type of person who, during a tornado warning would go off looking for friends and family. Instead of, you know, following directions. It baffles me that Karens like you think the whole world should cater to them.”
“Yeah, you have absolutely no clue. Good luck with that.”
Pat ends up naming the program Pat-GPT and uses it to generate a 15 minute Deepfake of Bernadette cursing out her fans and mooning them, sourcing Wally Green’s footage. The video goes viral, angering the bog witch enough to seek narcissistic supply elsewhere.
Carla is busy preening when she receives a surprise guest.
“Hey ma, I made something for you.”
“Well I can’t accept this.”
“I made it just for you because I’m your biggest fan!”
“Well now I’m your biggest fan ever since Aunt Sonya flew the coop. What is it?”
“AIR MAIL!” Bernadette exclaims with giggles as she flies the paper airplane at her mother.
MoronicArts 
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