Tag: bernadette cacca
To The Moon, Bernadette!
What better a place to yeet Manteno’s biggest communal narc-a-doodle, ex-wrestler and self-proclaimed queen of the porcelain throne herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca?
Just think, she could have that whole lonely moon, err, planet to herself. What a waste NOT to send her on a rocket there! (Or a trebuchet, her neighbors are not picky).
https://news.sky.com/story/nearby-exoplanet-stinks-of-rotten-eggs-scientists-discover-13175259
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Bernadette’s idea gone, like a fart in the wind.
Manteno port-o-dump proprietor extraordinaire, communal narc-a-doodle and turd-machine operator Bern Cacca wanted to sell her bottled farts, butt dang it, someone beat her to it.
Sulking, she lights her gas blasts to spark the poopy-burning flames instead.
The Queen of the Plastic Throne enjoys watching the port-a-potty waste gleam in her fireplace, as she sits in her rocking chair, drinking root-beer while watching GG Allin videos.
Bern Cacca is #PoopingForKaitlin (and Stephanie).
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Wally Green’s Turd Machines
“Of all the turd-machines I’ve bought, I love Wally Green’s the most! I get great deals on them, buy one/get one half off (but never free). The other brands just don’t measure up. I love my Turd Machine Deluxes because I can keep my vaults safe to mine Craptocoins the old fashioned way!”
— Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno
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Wax on, Wax off.
“You should get waxed more often! Why don’t you wax your chin!” Carla Moran, Manteno narc-a-doodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture demands and gaslights her only daughter, Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“Do you like getting hair ripped straight out its roots, ma?”
“No, but I do it anyway. Shaving makes the hair grow back thicker.”
“Mind your own business!”
Carla turns up the gas on the lighting:
“You might have got that gig you wanted if you waxed! Don’t you care about your appearance?”
“I tell you what, go start a business waxing people for cash and giggles. People will pay a lot of money for that!”
“Go get a real job, do something with yourself Bernadette!”
“No serious, mom, people will pay you even more if you go to their houses and give them a Brazillian at home. Discretion is cool! Call it, ‘Have Wax, Will Travel.’ I can see your cloaca by the way. You might wanna do something about that. I gotta make a pitstop. Smell ya later!”
Bernadette runs for the washroom in the nearby McD’s, because she has the runs, butt of course!
Then Carla poops on a passing car, because she can. Stupid bird.
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The perfect Peppi’s Portapotties song does not exi–
“Oh crap! This is better than buying a $23,000 commode!”
“Or dropping a deuce and blaming on my classmates! Aunt Sonya was so proud of me that day,” Bernadette M Cacca reminsices.
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Bernadette Cacca Tries to Unload her Craptocoins.
“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!”
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Saturday in the Park
Opposites attract, smells repel, unless you’re Bernadette and Peppi Cacca.
Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno, Illinois’ very own entramanure, communal narc-a-doodle and self-proclaimed “Queen of the Plastic Throne” comes back to the shack which she co-habitates with her drunken husband, Peppi.
Her mouth once wide open enough to catch a fly (or two), now sports a look of contempt after having headed home from the widely-attended Chicago “Hands Off” protest.
“A whole bunch of people walked by, and not one person, not even once, took a single video or picture of ME!”
“That’s that dang liberal protest, right?” Peppi asks.
“Yeah.”
“I told ya to vote for that other guy. Let’s go Brandon!” exclaims the bald, squat, beady-eyed, 70-something geezer, reeking of skunky weed made extra skunky, from rolling in the port-a-pee after he had finished a port-a-job.
“They got plenty of video of other people and their signs, some even made the Chicago news! The national news, too! Why not ME? Ever since Aunt Sonya left, people forget how talented I am, how much I do for the world, how much I poop. I have not gotten a single gig since she flew the coop!”
“She’s just busy I’m sure. Sit down with me, relax, we’ll watch The Wonderful World of Dung together.”
“The original or the remake?”
“The remake is streaming now…”
“Oh I hate the remake!”
Bernadette storms up the stairs, into the best room in the house to sit, poop and play accordion.
Her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran flies into town, rams into the Cacca home once again.
“Maaa!”
“I did a fly-by earlier and you weren’t home!”
“I was at the protest up in Chicago! Didnt you know? I can’t wait to tell you how much I did for America! It’s really good for my image–”
“Not now honey, family’s coming over.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Nobody told me about it!”
“I did, you just forgot.” Carla gaslights.
“No you didn’t.”
“Okay, okay, okay, drop it. Just get ready. Take YOUR shower!”
Bernadette continues to poop as her mother sets up the uninvited picnic tables and other crap out back. A committee of shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures fly on down to the House of Cacca to party on down, and pee on her lawn.
“My daughter has a beautiful voice!” Carla brags about her daughter to her family who had just flown in from the next town over to enjoy a feast of freshly squashed roadkill. Her cold heart shines bright in the face of company.
“Where’s Sonya?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s awful rude of her not to come down. I kept calling, she never answered. Did she get the presents I sent her?”
“Why do you even bother?”
“Shall I sing for you guys?” Bernadette interrupts. “I just tuned my accordion and vuvuzela horn! How about a tune?”
“Not now. Maybe later. I’ve got something to show you!” Carla’s evil grin begins to creep over her face.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a surprise. Come with us.”
They peck, umm, pack into the van like a band of mad clowns and drive over to the hospital in Kankakee.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“We’re going to the hospital!”
“Did somebody die?”
“No.”
“Get hurt, have a heart attack? I wanna know.”
“No, Bernadette.”
The Morans park their van and then walk down into the basement of the hospital, towards a sign marked “Central Sterile Supply.”
“I’m giving you a tour.”
“Of the hospital basement?”
“Yeah. I used to work here when you were little. Time for you to get a real job!”
Bernadette runs away as fast as she can, screaming, cursing and singing show-tunes.
“They, they—they do vivisection in here!” Bernadette exclaims madly as she busts on out the door.
A few locals shake their collective heads at the sight. Just another day in Kankakee.
The port-a-dump proprietor is eventually rounded up and taken in for an evaluation, just not the occupational kind.
After a few hours, Bernadette’s drug test comes back negative and the nurse sends her home. She calls her husband on her smell-phone and of course he does not answer, so she walks home.
A few Kankakee County residents spot Bernadette walking down the road, point and laugh.
“Don’t make fun of me or I will find you attractive!”
“Say what?”
“We saw you on TV!”
“TV? What?” asks a puzzled Mrs. Cacca.
Bernadette begins to grin a bit, visions of people praising her for holding up social justice signs fill her mind, even though she only does it just to look good on the outside.
“Yeah, you ran out of the hospital screaming like a looney bird! You’re a meme now!”
“I MEME AM WHAT?”
“OMG It’s the meme girl! I want a picture with her!”
Bernadette crawls into a nearby bog and takes a massive dump. It smells like someone died over there, or maybe it was just her ego.
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CRASS Toilet Paper Giveaway
We want to TP everyone in Kankakee County! On April 1st, come over to the headquarters of Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) and get the scoop on poop! One brand spankin’ new roll for each customer! If you use both sides, it lasts twice as long! Run on down now to CRASS before Bern Cacca steals it all!
And while we’re at it, be sure to pick up some half-ply toiler paper recipes, courtesy of Wally Green!
CRASS Chief Executive Officer
Mack E. Avelli
PS: April Fools!
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Don’t Make the Mistake of Driving People Batty
Bernadette Cacca has the voice of an angel and the soul of the devil.
Peppi Cacca has the voice of a daemonic troll.
“I got a new gig! And it’s a national one!” Manteno communal narcissist Bern Cacca exclaims to her sociopathic husband and entremanure Peppi, mouth wide open as if to catch a fly.
“Lemme guess…your aunt got you on the front page of the Kankakee Sentinel again.”
Nope.
“More charity shows to make you look good, pretending to care while you don’t? You’re a really good actress,” Peppi emphatically tells his wife.
“Yeah, I know. Not this time.”
“Another recurring walk-on role for a show you can only see on one certain app?”
“Nope. This one is bigger!”
“I don’t care but tell me anyway, I have skunk-weed to smoke after my date with the bottle. Then I have to go harass our next-door neighbors.”
“Out of Warranty Experience hired me for their robocalls! Everybody in the nation will hear wonderful ME tell them their car is out of warranty!” Bern says with glee, then rips a fart. “Mmmmmmm. I love that smell.”
The sun has just gone down. Peppi pounds on the air vent cover to remove his dope from the stash he hides in the duct, rolls up a skunky joint and crawls outside.
“Git-git-git-git-git-git” the clowny Peppiwise calls from the manhole down in front of The Midnight Supremes’ black Victorian Gothic home next door.
“No thanks, you can keep your candy” says Gothic Diana Ross toward the sound coming from the gutter as she completes her late-night stroll.
A skunky stench emerges from the drain, but not from poop. This is a water drain.
“Git-git-git-git-git-git.”
“Do you have something better to do? I’m not interested and never will be.”
Peppi’s ego deflates as Gothic Diana continues to ignore his plea for attention and goes inside and starts band practice.
Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes get ready to play, beginning with the number “Stop in the Name of Death.”
“Check-check, 1-2-1-2. Six Six. Why is this mic not working?” a frustrated Gothic Diana asks her cover band.
Diana opens up the battery cover. “Dead as a doornail.”
“Why don’t you bury them?” Gothic Flo jokes.
“We should have a funeral,” deadpans Miss Gothic Mary.
As the trio begins the dead batteries’ funeral rites, their ceremony gets interrupted by a phone call.
“Hey” answers Gothic Diana, putting her phone on speaker, hoping the band is getting called about a new gig.
“Don’t make the mistake of driving without a warranty…” the robocall commands. “This is the final call before we close the file. Press one to speak”
Click.
“I’ll press you, stupid moron!” Gothic Diana exclaims.
“She sounds familiar. Who is that?” Gothic Flo asks.
“Don’t know, don’t care.” Diana replies.
“Hey, methinks it’s that actor lady next door…the one who owns a port-a-potty business with her husband. Hey Mary, what’s her name?”
“Bern Cacca. She burns poop in their fireplace.”
“Ohhh, that’s why we smell her crap. Does she think it does not stink?” Mary jokes as the girl group erupts in laughter.
Gothic Diana walks outside her home to go for a brisk walk. She hears a sound off in the distance: “git-git-git-git-git.”
“Oh no, not Peppiwise again,” Diana says to herself as she passes by another rain gutter.
The 5’10”, slender beauty in the black dress gets another cell phone call.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make the mistake of going without a warranty…”
Click.
“I’ll get a warrant alright, for her arrest!”
Gothic Diana walks over to the house of her Manteno neighbor Bern Cacca to give her a piece of her mind. However there is a line of angry neighbors queued around the street wanting to also have a word with Mrs. Cacca. They knock, to no avail.
“Git-git-git-git-git” emerges from the sewer drain.
“I don’t want to litter, however I have no choice” Diana says as she goes to drop the leaking, dead batteries from her microphone into the nearest gutter. Before she has a chance, Bern comes a-running.
“Git-git-git!” sounds Peppi’s mating call.
“Oh I am here, honey!” an attracted Bern Cacca says as she runs to her hubby hiding out in the sewer, jumps in and continues persuit.
Plop. “Oops did I do that?” Gothic Diana thinks out loud as she drops the dead AA Imbecells into the drain.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Peppi exclaims, barely dodging the battery acid.
Needless to say, Bern and Peppi’s romantic moment was ruined.
The crestfallen Caccas retire to their shack, but don’t bother to shower of course. After all, the couple that stinks together, stays together. As the King and Queen of the plastic throne drift off to sleep, sirens grow louder, and a knock is heard at their entrance…
MoronicArts 
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