Hear this story here!
2. Sonya Moran flew the coop.
4. Wally’s machines go beep and boop.
5. Sybil Kibble loves to eat.
6. Damien Hurtbutt sure loves feet.
7. Shapeshifting vultures hate defeat.
8. Let’s go Brandon to the lifted truck meet.
9. Barry Reynolds plays his tricks.
10. All these nitwits make me sick.
Welcome to the Moroniverse!
Tired of eating corn for his hot and getting yanked from his cot, captured trespasser, communal narcadoodle and neckbeard nincompoop Damien Hurlbutt asks if he can write a letter.
“You can only send inter-departmental mail here.”
“I know, I know, I know, I know…”
“Stop acting like a clown and get back in your cell.”
“Hooo!”
“I don’t know who. You’re the one who asked, fool.”
The guard slams the door, then the world’s largest source of natural gas starts scrawling, before he gets hauled away for his thrice daily flatulence testing. After returning to his cell in the Alternative Fuels Division at Dreamland Resort, Damien finishes his letter to President Turnip (no relation to Jamie Turnip), then gives it to the staff to type up so he can sign it.
The letter is put into inter-office mail and sent forth to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC.
Bored with inventing new recipes for covfefe to barf up all over social media, the president reads the mail with his tiny hands and aging mental acuity. A couple hours later, Donnie reads Damien’s desperate cry for help.
After giggling, Turnip divides up the letter into strips, chucks it into the fireplace along with his other mail and proceeds to fall fast asleep in his chair, dreaming about how to bigly cheat at golf.
Then he poops.
We here at MoronicArts need to pay monthly to help feed, clothe and water the denizens of the Moroniverse. If you like these idiots well enough to wear them on your sleeve, please consider buying one of official MoronicArts.com shirts:
https://www.teepublic.com/user/moronicarts
“Great gift idea!”
— Sybil Kibble, Kankakee
Or maybe buy some mixed moronic arts? (Not the Scary Barry type) https://jenxmusic.bandcamp.com/
Only 1.50 a pop — CHEAP!
The Moroniverse thanks you!
“Anything that gives me good poops so I can burn them later”
– Bern M. Cacca, Bog witch and port-a-potty empress
“Carrion usually, but I will fly great distances to get the best filet mignon.”
– Carla Moran, Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and sterile supply technician
I wanna suck your blood…I mean eat some rabbit pellets. They come out the same way they go in. Whatever you do, keep the garlic away. If you lie and tell me there’s no garlic in your blood I’ll know cuz I have ESP and PMS. I’m a witch who knows it ALL. You can have that one for free. Next customer!
– Missy Rabbit, Psychic Vampyre
“Dog food, any kind, but I prefer Alpo.. Never Brand X though, I can’t stand Elon Musk.”
– Sybil Kibble, Debt collector
“Anything but corn”
– Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, Area 51 test subject
“We’re all carnivores”
– Tomato Karen & The Haggs
“Brains, brains, branes, braiiiiinnnnz…or poopies.”
– Undead Greg Schneissder
Kankakee’s newest Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) debt collector, member of “The Haggs” band and humanoid veggie Demanda Broccoli runs around the office asking her co-workers to sniff her feet.
“Get back to your cubicle, now!” Team Leader Sybil Kibble commands.
Demanda goes back to her cube, but not on the phones. When Sybil isn’t looking, she walks over to the supervisor cube, and scrawls on her marker-board, “I love Damien Hurlbutt!“
“No! Get back to your workstation and on the phones! Now!”
“OK-OK-OK-OK-OK” she snarks. Then she runs over to the executive suite and rips a fart that would make Bernadette Cacca envious.
“Did someone light a stinkbomb?” CRASS Controller Konrad Teirant asks.
Sybil Kibble spies her loose subordinate, grabs her by the crown and hauls her back to her seat.
“This is your final warning. Do some work. That’s why we pay you to come in. You DO want money, right?”
“Oh, that’s how it works…”
Sybil just shakes her head and walks away as Ms. Broccoli dons her headset.
“Credit Recovery Associates, Demanda.”
“Hi, this is Bernadette Cacca. Can I pay my bill in craptocoins? I just mined them myself…
“Attention. Attention. This is a drill. Shelter-in-place now. I repeat, shelter in place now. This is a drill. Shelter in place now” Area 51’s resident alien deejay announces over the intercom.
People run amok. Had they read their emails sent earlier in the week, most of them would have stayed at their workstations instead, per their inboxed instructions, news and alerts.
The chaos wakes up Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, captured test subject living in the Alternative Fuels Division, Flatulence Branch pries loose the door from his cell and wanders over to a control room. He makes a mad dash to the first unlocked computer he can find, credentials still inserted. Then he farts.
After logging onto to his uTube account, neckbeard Damien goes to the channel of his ex-wife Lori, immediately downvoting as many of her videos as he can. You can’t fix stupid. Then the bulbous, bald, bearded bum looks for videos of people sniffing m’lady madame’s feet. Yum!
One of the guards spots the communal narc-a-doodle-doo Damien, quickly dons a safety mask, then hauls him back to his cell. Padlocking his cage, Security adds a deadbolt for additional protection for the workers from the world’s biggest source of natural gas.
The Information Security Team destroys the compromised machine, to protect national security from the leakage both info-wise and anal, then maintenance gets ready to throw the chopped-and-screwed computer parts into the dumpster.
“Aren’t we having fun yet?”
“There’s no room for all this crap, what shall we do?”
“I dunno, remove some of that HAZMAT first.”
“Bingo!”
Maintenance comes back with a dumpster full of hazardous, radioactive Lawd-only-knows-what – plus a few dirty socks throw in for good fun – then chucks it all into Damien’s cage.
“Who-wha-whey-whyyy—“
“These are your new friends, Damien.”
The crew shuts the new 4000 lb gate and walks away happy, knowing they won’t hear, see, nor smell Mr. Hurlbutt anytime soon, except for the poor tech who comes in every morning at 0500 hours…
“Vitals!”
Junk email broker, failed film student and nextdoor sociopath Pat Oswald Splatt ventured over to the Kankakee County Spam convention with high hopes to rake in new customers to rip off bombarding their inboxes with unsolicited commercial crap for fun and profits.
Sadly, Pat was disappointed to instead find Damien Hurlbutt, Sybil Kibble and her mom JK along along with people actually having fun celebrating canned lunchmeat.
Maybe the self-proclaimed master-marketer should have read the event advertisement more carefully.
Kankakee pyramid schemer Doris Krabalsky and Bourbonnais communal narc-a-doodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt both arrive at Hell’s in-processing department at the same time.
“Sign the register” says Hell’s in-processing clerk and former Medical Office Assistant, Lucy Furr, who was notorious for bullying her roommate on their college trip to Italy. Meanwhile, Doris and Damien try to take over.
Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt was last seen near Area 51.
While cleaning out his ex-employee’s desk, Teirant Cinema-13 owner Konrad Teirant found Damien’s scribbled-on evaluation forms. Behold, the work of a master-moron!
Neckbeard, communal narcadoodle and Area 51 test subject Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt is busy dreaming up ways to escape his captors from his Dreamland cell.
“Hey Damien, we have an Easter surprise for you!” the guard says to the imprisoned moron who tried to storm the underground Nevada laboratory, thinking he could get away with it.
“Oh boy, oh boy! What is it?” the creepy fool asks, devilish grin spreading across his face and day-glow orange beard. Visions of over-the-top baskets fill his head, not unlike the ones with which he used to love-bomb his targets of potential narcissistic supply.
”If we told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise!”
Damien, filled with glee to be free from his cell and daily flatulence testing at the Alternative Fuel Source Department somewhere deep inside the dry lake-bed known as Groom, the world’s largest source of natural gas is led down the hall. He and the guards make their way past the cafeteria, alien deejays and party at the discotheque.
Hoping to hear some Starland Vocal Band over the intercom, Damien wonders what the staff will give him, to make his afternoon delicious.
Much to the delight of the staff, and the dismay of the nincompoop Damien, the orange neckheard gets hauled into a tiny room and strapped to a table for experimentation ordered by Division Chief Dr. Jen Jenner. A tattoo artist emerges, and begins to carve egg-shaped designs into the narc-a-doodle’s bum for a research project carried out by the Pain Tolerance Department.
HAPPY KIESTER! (OK, you can have that one for free).
MoronicArts 
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