Dearest PooTube:
We see how very hard you choo-choo-choose to railroad Sybil into giving out her personal information so you can do lawd-knows-what with them. Maybe you sell them to data brokers so that any moron stalker, ex-con or fugitive can buy them. Maybe you line the birdcage with them? Nice try, you are not getting it.
For this, we award you the Golden Moron Award.
After hearing Manteno entramanure, communal narcadoodle and bog witch Bernadette Cacca’s kazoo showtune covers on her husband Brandon’s phone, Pris Dixon tells Bernadette she is her biggest fan and wants to join her fan club, the Poopy Groupies.
After reading the fan message Mrs. Dixon had delightfully shoved into Bern’s inbox, BM Cacca reads this message posted to her Fakebook wall:
“You have been pre-approved to join the Illuminati! Have fun gaining wealth, power and glory in this secret society! Just pay a $19.99 convenience fee to start!
Text “JOIN” to 23
Or contact Emperor Norton to unsubscribe.
Fnord”
Bernadette of course falls for the scamvertisement, and brags at her next Manteno Optimal Club Charity Concert for Tips and Giggles that she had become the world’s newest Illuminatus. Then she blows some more cover tunes out her butt-trumpet.
Pris Dixon interrupts the gig to deliver a special news bulletin, special only in her mind. She complains she did not get her welcome letter, membership card and poop emoji decal. Bernadette farts in her face and keeps on playing, not missing a butt…umm…beat.
“I need to talk to the manager!”
“OK Karen!” one of Bern’s bumlickers heckles Mrs. Dixon.
Sonya Moran, President of The Poopy Groupies pulls Pris Dixon aside.
“Prius, did you pay in Craptocoin?”
“It’s Pris, short for Priscilla. No, I paid cash. Cash is king ya know?”
“We only accept Craptocoin.”
Pris storms out Manteno Optimal Club and calls her hubs, Brandon Dixon, to pick her up.
Brandon pulls his imbecile machine into the middle of the lot, and realizes his biggest crush is inside singing.
The dysfunctional Dixons have a spat and Brandon runs inside to hopefully get an autograph from his steaming hot crush, Bernadette Cacca from the car auto warranty messages. Pris sits alone inside Brandon’s overly lifted shiny white truck, decorated in sexist decals and MAGAt stickers, and rips a huge fart. Of course, she does not roll down the windows because she loves the smell of her own noxious waste.
“Is this…Bernadette…KaCo?”
“It’s Cacca.”
“Hello Mrs. Cankles. This is Mephisto Smith from the Illuminati. Your application got rejected due to insufficient funds.”
“Oh I have plenty of fun. I just met this AWESOME man here at my—“
“Funds. Your transaction failed. We cannot extend you our exclusive fame and fortune unless you pay us first.”
“Oh, let me whip up another batch of NFTs.”
“Mrs. Cocky, I said NSF. In-suff-icient FUNDS.”
“Newly formed turds! I mine my craptocoin the old fashioned way.”
“You need to wire me 19.99 plus a $23 dollar inconvenience fee, or we will reject your application.”
“What’s going on, beautiful lady, Manteno’s very own national treasure?” Brandon Dixon asks the steaming mad pile of crap Bernadette.
Bernadette storms out and slithers her way into the swamp for the night, putting the extra in bog-witch-extraordinaire.
“Honk honk! A-you-ga!” Brandon’s imbecile machine cat-calls as Pris lays on the horn. Brandon reluctantly drives his wife home and barely makes it. Pris of course was running its engine the whole time, because you know, it’s cold?
“The sillies are manufactured in my brain, roll off the conveyor belt, out my hands and onto the paper.”
PS: “Moron” is the Welsh word for carrot.
PPS: Jen makes MixedMoronicArts, too.
MoronicArts is a mashup of “Moronic” and “Martial Arts.” Sometimes creator Jen makes Mixed MoronicArts. Why are these idiots carrying a big carrot? “Moron” is the Welsh word for carrot, and these guys can really get bent.
A wild Peppi Cacca in his natural Manteno habitat utters his mating call.
“Git, git, git” he cries, hoping to mount an approaching Bernadette. Displaying the power of his fragile male ego, the Peppi channels his inner Pepe LePew and tries to kiss the bog witch Bernadette, who runs like a cheetah, hiding; plotting her revenge.
Oh Internet stranger, you slay me. The ignorance, it seeps right out your poophole and all over the internet. It’s like art, except you have ripped out a fart, and awarded yourself The Golden Moron Award!
Llongyfarchiadau mawr! (That’s Welsh for “Big congratulations!”)
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Katrina Kibble got mad at her Chrysler LeBaron because it stopped talking to her, and headed out on the bus to grab a treat. Seated ahead of her was Undead Greg Schneissder. “Do you know you’re a zombie?” Sybil asked Mr. Schneissder. Thankfully she kept her brain, because Greg eats poopies to stay alive, he likes the taste better.
Sybil’s ma JoAnn treated her to a Puppacino and she saved the bone for last.
“Bernadette, your teeth look awful. If you don’t brush them to my standards, you are going to get Pie-o-rrhea.”
“If you DON’T brush and floss 8 times a day, you could get an infection that could give you a heart attack.”
“East or North?”
“I’m only telling you this because I lost all my teeth.”
“Vultures have no teeth.”
“Don’t talk back to me!” the toothless, shapeshifting, humanoid vulture gaslights her daughter.
Bernadette rips a huge fart and lights it, aims the gas blast toward her evil mother’s face, letting her butt do the talking. She has a bad case of Pyro-hhea.
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.
No — not MoronicCarts, nor MoronicARTS. What cars do these fictional idiots drive — some better than others? Learn more in these videos.
Sybil Kibble loves her Chrysler LeBaron. It’s the only person the Kankakee bill collector and Alpo connoisseur likes talking to.
Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes love driving their 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi. Though it does not talk — unlike Sybil’s Chrysler — it’s a lot of fun to drive. And back in 1991, Greg Snyder saw someone going down the road who owned one.
Manteno entramanure, communal narcadoodle and bad driver Bernadette Cacca could be driving any of these cars. She just does not give a crap, because she thinks she’s above the law and it does not apply to her.
Brandon Allen Dixon owns an imbecile machine lot. Like the dealer says as he works the lot, “I own one of these babies myself. Let’s go!”
Kankakee Elvis impersonator, wannabe ladies’ man and vulnerable narcadoodle Robbie Hurlbutt drives one of these exact same clown cars, but in purple:
MoronicArts 
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