The Hurlbutts get together for their annual Christmas shenanigans. After opening $1000 worth of useless crap from Damien, Kankakee store clerk, covert narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robbie opens the sole gift from his mother. PJ could not wait to give this to Robbie.
Robbie opens his present. “Maaaa, you got this for free from Sybil.”
“It’s an autographed Elvis picture! I got it for you because I know how much you love Elvis.”
“You paid nothing for it. I spent $100 on that Blu-Ray player and the bootleg copy of Dune.”
“Money can’t buy you love, Robbie,” a disappointed PJ advises her spoiled brat son, who is throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old.
“I’ll take it. I can sell it on eBay!” the elder Hurlbutt son Damien tells his little brother Robbie.
The Hurlbutt brothers argue back and forth — after all, that is what narcissists love to do. PJ tries to break up the fight. Meanwhile, smoke is coming from the kitchen.
PJ runs into the kitchen.
“What is that?” Damien inquires.
“The Yule Log,” PJ sarcastically replies.
PJ takes the meat out of the oven just in time to stop a fire, and sends her dorky kids home so she can have a peaceful rest.
Before PJ has a chance to lie down, her best friend Sybil Kibble rings the doorbell.
The main inspiration behind fictional character Damien Hurlbutt has is so self-centered, he thinks this blog is all about him.
Seriously. I hope over time more people learn about communal narcissists and how they insidiously abuse people. Overts and covert narc-a-doodles are bad enough; communals are even sneakier. I would not wish narcissistic abuse on my worst enemy and wish no ill will. I just wish they would all form their own narc colony on a deserted island and leave the rest of us alone.
Or better yet, drop them from planes into an erupting volcano, and vaporize them so they cannot make more narcissists.
I was married to one of these evil souls. Had I known he was the son of Satan, I would not have dated him, moved to Illinois to marry him, leaving behind a job I loved to take one that was less than pleasant. 0/10 would not recommend.
I wish I had been given the omen.
Now divorced, this real-life neckbeard and “men’s rights activist” has told his friends that I draw cartoons of him and write stories about him.
Has he heard of Squirrely Dan?
Allegedly not.
My ex works as a senior library specialist and loves to read. I would hope that someone like him, whom I would think has a good grasp on literacy would understand that Damien and all the other morons on this blog are fictional characters — as in pretend people, not real ones. DUH.
Apparently my former husband thinks he works in a movie theater, like the random stranger whom I had met in 2004. Just like the fictional Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, this real-life despot had been offering cloned movie tickets in return for a date, to us call-center coworkers taking breaks outside. I did not meet my ex until 2008.
I will never forgive my ex for trying to turn the spouse of my late friend against me in his smear-campaigning. Such a tender-heart, a self-proclaimed “old soul” writes lunacy letters like the drivel below and sends them to his estranged spouse’s medical providers.
Because, umm, a librarian knows more about psychology than an actual mental health provider? yeah…no.
My ex thinks so. Behold part of this lunacy letter he sent to my mental health team:
Projection: A narcissist’s calling card, as is pathological lying. Methinks narcissists have their own code of misconduct, maybe even a manual.
I will never forgive him for telling me he was “a nice guy for not throwing me into oncoming traffic” while we were walking into the hospital. Yeah, a really nice guyNiceGuy™ does that, right?
I will never forgive him for manipulating the divorce judge into letting him take custody of my cat Holly, whom he repeatedly hit (“it’s just a light tap” he gaslit when caught) and put into the shower to “punish.” Who does that to a cat? Has he helped move a body or something?
He had been seeing the same therapist as a convicted murderer who made international headlines, the killer had been living in the same apartment complex as my ex the night of the murder. I left him at 8:30 AM the day after the poor lady was abducted.
I write and draw MoronicArts stories to cope with having been abused. I feel it helps and I am a lot happier back in New York State, doing my own thing, living with my sweet kitty.
My hope is that my stories help others who have been abused by these monsters cope and process the crap they have been going through and hopefully bring a little joy to them, and myself also. Oh and it s fun to draw silly cartoons of fake events and pretend people doing moronic things to each other..
Moronic Martial Arts
Do you think you may going through domestic violence or know someone who suffers it? Emotional abuse is still abuse and a form of domestic violence. Please click this link to learn more and to find help in your area: https://www.un.org/en/coronavirus/what-is-domestic-abuse
Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.
Bourbonnais communal narc-a-doodle Damien Hurlbutt ignores the letter carrier. “Must be my Weekly Weewee Wonders; the mailman can tuck those away in the box,” Damien tells himself, as he trims his glowing orange neckbeard.
Damien dons his newest fedora, carefully selected from his newest box of identical hats ordered from an online retailer.
Damien logs onto M’Ladies by Mail Online one last time to check for replies to his daily messages to Ha, his long lost mail-order bride from Vietnam. He sings the empty-inbox blues.
Damien looks for his flip phone and cannot locate it. “Check your pocket, Farley!” Damien says out loud, Lord only knows why.
“Who the heck is Farley?” his downstairs neighbor asks as Damien locks up, jiggling the doorknob for a full five minutes.
“Nothing!” Damien exclaims to his neighbor, as if she cared.
“Elvis, I mean Robbie has left the building. Leave a message. BOOORT!”
“Heyy, man. This is your brother. I am leaving to go try and patch things up with Grimace, I mean Lori. Wish me luck, okay!” Damien flips his phone closed.
Damien hops onto 57 North to Chicago, where Lori lives. He had got her address by abusing his employer’s NexusLexus database program. He has an idea she will be home tonight, because he has been tracking her plans through a sock puppet account on Fakebook.
Damien parks in a nearby garage and walks up to Lori’s apartment, roses and balloons in hand. He knocks on her door.
Lori answers, as she has been expecting a pizza delivery. It is 5:30 PM.
“I want to start things all over with you from the beginning.” Damien tells a shocked, angry Lori.
“Damien? Get the freak outta here now, or I will call the police!” Lori screams sternly.
“I could doink you every day if you would let me!” Damien says with an evil grin and his usual blank eyes.
“Eeeew, you moron! Get out of here!”
Damien spots his mail-order bride Ha in Lori’s apartment. Ha introduces herself, “Damien is that you?” “Why you love her not me?”
“Come now?” Damien says, startled.
Damien collapses emotionally. He is found out. Damien leaves hoping to dodge the police, failing to accept responsibility since he thinks he can do no wrong..
Life is too short for morons, and Gothic Diana Ross knows it. All she wants to do is ride the bus to go shopping, and leave the driving someone else. Barely catching the bus — and her breath — in this 90-degree Fakeout Summer day in October, the last thing Di needs is a lecture.
“You need to be at the stop when I pull up. I am behind schedule…” the Kankakee bus driver rambles on, blaming his tardiness on his customer again. The bald driver motions toward the slender black beauty, leader of The Midnight Supremes to sit down. She takes off her headphones briefly, asks the driver, “Do I have to pay?”
“You can pay me later.” Diana dons her headset and blasts herself some more Cold Cave.
“You were ten feet from the bus stop sign. You should really listen to my instructions when you board the bus…” the driver continues his tantrum, hoping to blame his customer yet again, or pick a fight, who knows.
“They’re coming to get you…Diana,” Undead Greg Schneissder mockingly says to the unfettered Diana who has heard none of the malarky, rightfully ignoring the nitwit just like she does the moron in the driver’s seat who is supposed to be helping people get from Point A to Point B.
Life is too short to argue with fools who complain to their customers, failing to realize all that wasted time wind-bagging could have been better spent, you know, driving the freaking bus.
Manteno’s own Peppi and Bernadette Cacca might seem like empty characters at first, however there is a much darker side to them. Like all my characters, the Caccas are inspired by a combination of real people.
I have known Bernadette’s main inspiration my entire life. She had lived next to my grandmother. As kids, she was the entitled brat who wanted things her way or the highway. I used to try and dodge her, running the other way because she annoyed me so much, but then she would not leave me alone.
I clearly remember her insisting on calling me my deadname, despite my pleas for her to stop. Bernadette hasn’t any concept of boundaries and neither does her main inspiration. She just pretends to care.
In high school, she had found a way to manipulate people into thinking she was a wonderful person. I had to ask her an urgent question for a design I was creating for a play in which she starred, right before I had to catch the bus to trade school to design it. Instead of turning around and answering me, the “stage manager extraordinaire” sitting atop a desk kept talking faster and louder to the other student, drowning me out.
To add insult to injury, the real-life communal narcissisttricked the teacher into making ME apologize to HER. I will never forgive her for that abuse.
The real-life communal narc had been working on an app-only HBO show of some sort and playing piano for an LGBTQIA+ charity. You read that right; the same person who deadnamed me repeatedly is raising money for an LGBTQIA+ cause. Hmmm…
Now she is gaslighting people into thinking she cares about the Russian invasion into Ukraine, singing at charity events to raise money, and course to get that almighty photo opportunity. My best friend and her husband have family in Ukraine; this is personal for me. I do not care about a moronic photo op when my friends and their family are fighting for their lives, running from a DIC-tator who wants to bring about the Apocalypse.
I read she yelled at a late-night television host for getting too close to her piano. This behavior does not surprise me, having come from a person who has a history displaying her sense of entitlement to those closest to her.
I created my character to help cope with a lifetime of abuse from a narcissist who tricks virtually everyone into seeing her mask, which I suspect has been crumbling. I hope it falls off for good and she slithers away into a life of obscurity, working by herself, abusing nobody. Or maybe she will live out her life in the bog, devouring the living like the character whom she had inspired, Bernadette Moran Cacca.
Have you known a person like this?
Peppi Cacca’s name came from a rabid doorman in Italy who sexually assaulted me. Character Peppi Cacca’s main inspiration is a toxic, former neighbor who had stunk up my apartment with skunky weed and sadly abused his cat. I had gotten the idea from Pepe LePew and used to call him Pepe LePuke as I heard him through the ceiling vomiting every morning while he was upstairs visiting his boyfriend with whom he was having an affair. I am so glad to be out of that apartment complex, and in a much quieter, cleaner place – waking up to birds in the trees, not skunk-weed stench.
Awhile back, I had overheard him on the bus bragging to the driver about his drinking, making the excuse “can you blame me?”
Bradley barista, narcadoodle and former wrestler known as “Calm Down” Jina Hansen badly projects her own insecurities onto her coffeehouse staff to try and puff herself up.
“How many more drinks will you spill this week?”
“Come over here. Look at this and tell me it’s done right.”
“Stop treating your staff like crap!” a regular tells Jina.
“Oh they are my friends, we are only joking,” the 40-something Jina gaslights, as she tapes a customer’s receipt to the forehead of her 17-year old trainee.
Jina drives home and cries, losing sleep over the shell of herself she has become, knowing she will never get to be as good as she wants to be in life because her standards for everyone — including herself — are impossible. Then she craps her pants.
Art student, con-job and sociopath Pat Splatt is proud of his entourage of fake identities, many starting with “Al” for Alias. His pretend friends go online to bother marginalized groups, pretending he is one of them so he can try and make them feel excluded via cultural gatekeeping. Too bad Pat has so much time on his hands.
“He can come and do my laundry, fold it and put it away if he’s that bored!”
Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narc-a-doodle Damien Hurlbutt does the fart dance when he goes to rip one. The only thing he loves more than his hoard is the smell of his own gas blasts.
MoronicArts 
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