Toxic College-y

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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.

Wally Green, Give us Some Credit

“Why don’t you have enough staff in here? I come to your pharmacy here in Kankakee, they say ‘20 minutes.’ Two hours later, my meds are not ready?” the tall, curvy, light-skinned lady with the blue curls asks.

“It has only been 2 minutes” drugstore chain owner and wacky inventor Wally Green gaslights Kitty Bortolotti, one of many ladies who rejected his advances at the local bars and cafés.

“Three people on the sales floor asked me if I needed anything. Yeah, you need more pharmacy staff and fewer sales clerks!” a rightfully upset Kitty tells Wally.

“I’m not about to debate capitalism with you,“ Wally dismisses Kitty’s concerns, logs onto his dating app and begins to think up more useless inventions. Multi-tasking is one of Wally Green’s core values and part of the chain’s Mission Statement, whatever the heck that means.

Kitty goes home and writes up a review on Welp to warn other customers about her bad experience, and tags the Federal Trade Commission, the Illinois Attorney General and the Chicago Tribune.

The Attorney General’s office contacts Kitty, very concerned about Wally’s history of mismanaging his Deerfield-based drugstore chain. They have received multiple complaints from customers, staff and providers.

“I want to have a sit-down with you” the caller from the Illinois Attorney General office says to Wally. Terrified any legal troubles — and potential bad press — might hurt his profits, Wally racks his bird-brain for new ideas to make money. Sales of Toiliots and Mr. Plopsies are down anyway.

“Hey Robbie, design me a new flyer.”

“I can draw a bit but do not know how to design. My high-school classmate and I made a cartoon once.”

“Good. We need a letter to go out yesterday offering all of Illinois our new credit card. It has a 69 per cent UFO, but who cares?”

“Umm, you mean APR, right?”

“Whatever. Just get it done.”

Robbie gets to work. A few hours later, after taking a Number One, this part-time Elvis impersonator and store clerk shows his boss Wally Green his design:

“Perfect. Now get on that mail merge.” Wally walks away from Robbie and goes into his office to check his OKStupid account. “I clink on the lick and not one lovely lady swipes right. Why do nice guys like me finish last?”

“I can hear ya, boss. What the heck is a mail merge? Hello?”

Robbie sighs, goes back to sweeping the floor and then tries to sell folks Wally’s patent-pending Half-Ply Toilet Paper.

Wally Green’s profits sink due even further since the truth came out all over the media about his crappy stores. The “Buy One, Get One Half Off (But Never Free)” sales did not help, either.

Wally goes down to his favorite bar, The Gaslight, and parks his bum at his usual spot. It’s going to be a long night for the dysfunctional Wally.

Wally tips a few at The Gaslight

I need bill money. WOULD YOU LIKE A WALLY GREEN’S SHIRT, MUG OR NOTEBOOK? Now on sale here (not a buy one/get one half off but never free sale):

Thanks!

Jen

Captured

A black-and-white drawing of a skinny blonde lady photographing a daemon at the mall.

“Ooooh, you’re cute” says 22 year young Judy Avelli, as she encounters Marty the Mailer-Daemon at a Chicagoland mall. Meanwhile, her 60-something husband, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) cheese-in-chief Mack E. Avelli is outside photographing roadkill. Judy captures Marty on film, while the mailer-daemon captures her heart.

Silly Billy Sybil

Kankakee debt collector and big moron Sybil Kibble went up to Chicago this past Monday. She visited the LaSalle Street Buckstars where Damien Hurlbutt got kicked out a few months ago for going batty on the staff when they politely asked him to wear a mask.

Thankfully, Damien was not inside. However, the barista making Sybil’s drink misspelled her name.

Meet Lori Brown

This is a black-and-white cartoon of a heavy-set blonde woman sitting in an office.

Meet Lori Brown, estranged former wife of Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt. A covert narcissist, Damien refers to Lori solely as “Grimace” while actively trying to get back with her so he can emotionally abuse her again. Lori works as a medical billing clerk in Chicago, loves root beer and burning poopies.

Read about Lori here:

https://moronicarts.com/2019/11/26/damien-exposed/

https://moronicarts.com/2020/07/24/damien-dumped/

https://moronicarts.com/2020/11/04/crass-ahoy/

Damien Has the Scoop on Poop


“Dorian, are you some kind of demon?” Sybil asks the CRASS Art Director, Mr. Dorian Daniel James.

“Um, sure,” Dorian replies out the side of his mouth, as he cares a metric tonne more about his project than the Lead Debt Collector, Sybil Kibble.

“I keep trying to email you, sweetie, about the Annual CRASS ReTreat. However this Mailer-Daemon guy replies instead.”

“Is this to be an empathy test?” a booming, dark haired Chief Executive Officer Mack E. Avelli asks the two bickering.

“I have no empathy and neither does she,” an mildly annoyed Dorian states plainly.

“Good. That is the kind of CRASS people we need. Be sure to attend that retreat in Chicago you guys. No blocking each other, per company policy. We need to increase production and team building.”

The two sigh and part ways, not looking forward to working on their day off.

Orange neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt is busy tapping away at his rattly keyboard atop a plastic box to make it extra rattly, inside his Bourbonnais nest. His lone wall decoration, a framed photograph of his brother Robbie singing “Burnin’ Love” in the shower as he washes his black mutton chops, sways on its crooked angle.

“Ding!” Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt’s computer sounds.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” an excited Damien replies as he logs off his favorite Men’s Rights Activist subreaditt, The Brown Pill, to check his email:

From: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]

To:  “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]

Friday, September 4, 2020

Subject: Re: broke up with Rachel

Hi Dam,

Yes I remember you. We were married, maybe you forgot? I am having a problem with my butt. No matter what I do to clean it, my derriere still stinks.

I live in Natick, Mass now.

-Lori

Damien immediately replies to the woman he once called “Grimace” out of pure, narcissistic rage, changing his tune:

To: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]

From: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]

To: 

Friday, September 4, 2020

Subject: Re: Re: broke up with Rachel

Hey honey puddin! I sure miss seeing your beautiful body and brown puppy-dog eyes. 

I know Chicago has the best proctologist around, Dr. Keyhoe Keyster. I used to get my high colonics there! Meet me Monday on the train in Chicago and I will drive up to Bourbonnais, with a present for you. It will be a huge surprise!

Lori agrees, to Damien’s selfish delight. He hops aboard his PeeATon bike which his mother PJ regifted him for his August 10th birthday, hoping to lose some weight in his rushed attempt to impress his former wife.

“Today is Monday, September 7th. Are you CRASS people ready to have fun?” a grinning Mack. E. Avelli asks the crowd full of relucant employees.

“I cant’t hear you!” the wannabe MC projects into the microphone atop the podium.

A slow clap emerges.

“Now, that’s the spirit. Today’s retreat is designed to help increase team-building while lowering empathy. We do not care about our debtors, right? The more money you collect, the more you make. Double down on debt for more money for you, and more money for us. Now let’s all gather into teams to form a human pyramid. Sybil, pair up with Dorian Dale with Nando, Tara with Michael…” Mr. Avelli says as he pairs up his bored subordinates.

After a long tired day, Sybil is dying for a dish of dog food and a coffee. She heads over to the Buckstars on LaSalle Street in her white Chrysler LeBaron. As she sits at a table toward the front of the cafe, in walks Damien Hurlbutt, sporting his usual goofy stride.

“Oh boy, I really have to peepee.”

Damien heads toward the all-genders washroom, but is stopped short by a barista. 

“You need to wear a mask to come in the cafe.”

“I know, I am just stopping for a minute.” Damien says as he tries to head to the washroom.

“No mask, no service.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Damien replies, refusing to wear a mask.

Three baristas haul out the petulant Damien, kicking and screaming obscenities and narcississtic nonsense:

 “9/11 was an inside job! The moon landing was a hoax!”. Sybil and Lori just stand there giggling, sipping on their iced doublehsot espressos.

Meet Priscilla “Pris” Dixon

Wife of Brandon Dixon (owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machines) and mother to his kids; Pris is highly nosey, butts into strangers’ business, but does not believe in answering to knocks on the public washroom door. Pris works as a Medical Office Assistant for a Kankakee Ears, Nose, and Throat doctor and has a reputation for purposely confusing patients just to confuse and gaslight them. Pris proudly drives a green imbecile machine she bought from Brandon, branded with “You just got passed by a girl” decals.

Pris was raised by wealthy parents who gave her everything she wanted. Pris feels that, because she is a parent, she should cut in line at the cafes and burger joints. She dislikes the childfree by choice and gets her kicks by invalidating their feelings. Pris feels that only parents can make a valid point, and that life does not begin until you become a mother or father.

Pris was arrested once in Chicago for randomly assaulting a disabled woman on a bus whom she did not know. Pris has been known to wind people up out of boredom and is not afraid of anything or anyone.

Revenge is Served

Clio Bersola, best friend of Bourbannais bachelor Damien Hurlbutt’s verbally abused ex-wife, spots his posts in the “Nice Guys Looking For The Finish Line” Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) themed group on Fakebook, under her secret account JK Corona. She messages him just to mess with him, and fake-agrees with him over IM on so many points, stringing him along. They become instant friends, in Damien’s mind only.

Damien swiftly asks Clio out on a date because he is so impressed. Wow, someone like him! They agree to meet up at Ma Barker’s restaurant in Chicago. Little does Damien know what is in store for him.

Damien complains about the entire drive up Route 57, and nearly gets rear-ended getting off 90/94. Clio parks at a friend’s house and takes the train.

The two meet up at Ma Barker’s. Damien is wearing a red feather in the brim of his brand new, black fedora as Clio had instructed.

The place is rather large, decked out in gangster memorabilia, reproduction crime scene evidence, Ma Barker photos and those of her famous outlaw sons.

Clio instantly recognizes Damien, whistling loudly to himself, orange neckbeard aglow.

“There’s my lovely Men’s Rights Activist!”

“M’lady, m’lady!” Damien says to Clio as the two embrace, Damien hugging somewhat tighter than Clio.

The two sit down and chat. Conversations flow rather quickly and Damien rambles on about how he was about to give up on love in a month or two had he not met Clio.

“I was about to tuck my heart away forever, had I not met you. So many women treated me badly, especially my ex-wife Grimace. She is so fat and ugly, eeew. She ate so much fast food and begged me for $50 a day. Fifty dollars! My life is complete now I met you!” Damien gushes to Clio.

Clio shudders a bit inside and then gets excited. “The Time is Now” by Moloko plays in her head.

“I have something I would like to ask you, Damien.”

Clio takes Damien’s hand. It is the first time he has been touched since he and his wife divorced. Damien’s grin widens.

“Why do you feel men should have more rights than women? It is us women who are being oppressed. What is it with you so-called ‘Men’s Rights Activists?’”

Damien snaps his hand away from Clio.

“I was not expecting THAT!” Damien snips.

An awkward silence passes by as Damien coldly glares into Clio’s eyes. Meanwhile, Clio is filled with anticipation.

“You women are awful. Men get kicked in the nuts on TV. You people give us a hard time for this fake thing called mansplaining. Men are always the butt of women’s jokes. We are oppressed all the time and your feminism is the cause! You women are horrible! You are a horrible person! I am going to get you for this!”

Damien gets up from his seat and goes to the couple next to him.

“See this woman next to me? She is an awful person. Stay away from her.”

Damien stomps over to a family across the room.

“See that skinny woman sitting by herself at that table? With the dark brown hair? She is a bad person. Stay away from her.”

Damien huffs, puffs, and sits down by himself with his head planted squarely on the table.

Clio heads for the kitchen, to speak with her godmother, the owner.

“I do not feel safe here. Can you please call the police?”

Damien storms toward the kitchen.

“See that woman there? She is a horrible person. Stay away from her.”

“Find your own way home, Damien.”

Minutes later, the Chicago Police Department hauls away the unwanted person, Mr. Damien Hurlbutt.

Clio meets up with her buddy, the former Mrs. Hurlbutt and they have dinner together, laughing and giggling all night long.

Revenge really is a dish best served cold.