Bird on a hot tin roof.

October 4, 2026October 2, 2026 ~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“I have hope for the first time in my life right now.” 

“Diana are you okay?” Gothic Mary puts her palm on her sister Diana’s forehead. A small wildlife rehabilitation van bearing yellow markings, a small done light and the words “Raptor Division” passes by Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes.

“And there it goes…”

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and self-righteous narcadoodle Carla Moran comes in for a landing atop next her daughter’s shack next door, her carefully coiffed blonde strands all a shaggy mess from the rain.

“I was hoping that was a hearse. The Grim Reaper is taking all the wrong people.”

Carla takes a dump atop the roof and calls out to Bernadette.

“Did you confirm those gigs at the Optimal Club yet?” Carla takes a drag off her cigarette.

“Yeah, why?”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure?”

“Your clothes are on half-past cock-eyed!” Carla growls at her daughter.

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice!” communal narcadoodle and part-time bog witch Bernadette Moran Cacca squawks back.

“No-wrong!”

“OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK!”

“Drop it! End of discussion! Don’t cry, I’ll give you something that will MAKE YOU CRY!”

Bernadette flushes her dump and hits submit on her newest Craptocoin scam dressed up in a bow as a fundraiser gig for charity.

Rap duo The Chickenheads Doug “D-Fail” Failure and his buddy Tyrell “Ty-Fowl” park their shiny imbecile machine across the street and begin to perform on The Caccas lawn while Bernadette and her mother peck at each other. Subwoofers cranked to the max rattle the rafters of every structure within a block’s radius.

“We’re poor, we’re poor and we don’t score. We’re poor, we’re poor and we don’t score. Every shot we make is a whiff, my car’s broke down and I need a spliff!”

“Now, now now, we don’t talk about those things here.” Carla wags her steel talon at the entertainment on the lawn as she clutches her pearls.

“Maaaa! They’re just practicing!”

“Practicing what?”

“They are the headliners for the Manteno Optimal Club’s charity blowout bash!”

Carla audibly drags out her signature sigh.

“Calm down. You’re too sensitive!” the avian changeling gaslights her equally skeevy daughter. Red, yellow and white lights can be in the distance, growing ominously brighter, closer. “Oh man Ma, what did you do, call the cops?”

“I would never!”

“If the Manteno Optimal Club loses this gig we they could pull our funding! After all I’ve done for them!”

The glowing lights close in on their target.

A blue beam strikes up the band, into their spaceship, flies clear outta Dodge.

Carla and Bernie just stand there, pieholes aghast.

“Just another day in Illinois,” Gothic Flo quips as the three singing sisters make their way into their Gothic Victorian home.  Gothic Diana Ross and her singing siblings drive their black 1988 Chrysler Conquest north to Chicago to plan out their next gig. Unbeknownst to them, a certain little pest is following them. Thankfully, she gets cut off while trying to merge her Crapmobile over to the next lane and misses her exit off 90/94.

“Wow, Lollapalooza, this would be our first time! Dang…” Gothic Flo politely exclaims to her siblings as they walk down the hall to hopefully shake hands with the festival’s booking manager. A lot of chatting takes place behind closed doors, then the ladies are given a tour of the building and shown the stage layout map. As they negotiate their contract, Bernadette Cacca butts right in, barging right past the gothic trio. “Oh hey, thank you for letting me park here. I would like to talk to you about portapotties, because I know all about poop!”

“Lady, how did you get in here?”

“Oh, I just told the security guard that these ladies are my friends.”

“Diana, do you know this nitwit?”

“She’s our idiot neighbor Bernadette, always interrupting our business to talk about HER business.”

“Yes, and I can save you money on portapotties! My husband and I are King and Queen of the plastic throne! I could talk dookie all day! And sing about it too! You can dookie in the morning, you can dookie in the night, you can dookie in the toilet, you can dookie on the floor”

Gothic Diana Ross rolls her eyes, cracks a Mona Lisa grin and puts her head down into her palms while her sisters shake their heads in unison.

  Down in Nevada’s High Desert in a dry lake known as Groom, a certain captured trespasser, communal narcissist and smelly neckbeard who had abused his ex-wife is sawing a forest. In walks a tall female guard, interrupting the world’s largest source of natural gas as he dreams of feet and pool toys in his cell at Area 51’s Alternative Fuels Division.

“Hey Damien! How would you like to compete in the Area 51 talent show?”

“Yeah…no.”

“There will be prizes.”

“Food? I’m tired of eating corn…”

“Nope. But we will let you wear your fedora.”

“Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy!” Damien gets up and behind to dance around.  “Come with us. It’s on now.”

“Can I pee first?”

“As long as you keep it down. You whizz rather loudly.”

Damien drains his lizard, washes his hands for about five minutes, nearly flooding the bathroom.

“Come on dude, you’re gonna be late!”

“I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! “

Damien eventually emerges from the latrine and is escorted by the guard and two others at the tightly controlled secure facility to their disco floor.

  As everyone finds their seats at the amphitheater, the lights are dimmed, the lasers begin to flash and the disco ball starts to spin.

“Welcome everyone to the annual Area 51 talent show! Out first group is from Illinois! Everybody give it up for The Chickenheads and Damien Hurlbutt!” Emcee Jörg Fenslau announces.

A frown turns Damien’s beard upside down.

Ty-Fowl elbows Damien.

“All ya gotta do is dance, brother.”

 The playback music booms from the PA system and the Chickenheads begin to rap “My Flows is Tight” by Lord Digga while Damien just stands there with his arms folded and frowns. Then he farts.

“Thank you guys that was…interesting.. Nice job on the butt-trumpet solo!”

A slow clap wafts from the audience as the rap group exits the stage.

“From our sister location in nearby Dulce, New Mexico, our next act really knows how to party! Everybody show some love for The Rep-Toids!”  

A massive swarm of reptilian space aliens join a handful of basic greys who entertain the crowd with their precisely choreographed version of “Move Your Body” by Eiffel 65. The bass is thumping, the music is pumping, everybody gets down and boogies. Euphoria fills the air and people feel a sense of togetherness they haven’t felt in the longest time at the Area 51 Discotheque.

Emcee Jörg takes the podium.

“Thank you guys, that was super. Give up a round of applause for our competitors!”

The crowd roars. 

“Judges, who did you decide?”

“Oh, the Chickenheads for sure.”

“Definitely The Chickenheafds.”

“I vote Chickenheads also.”

“Okay, it is unanimous. We have ourselves a loser! The Price is Right losing horn blasts.

Everybody wave bye bye to The Chickenheads as we crown our new security guards with a huge pay grade increase! Now get to work!”

The reptilians escort Damien with his new cellmates Doug and Tyrell to their home at Area 51, flashguns pointed at their backs the whole time, then lock them up behind bars where they belong.

“Do they serve breakfast burritos here?” Ty asks Damien who turns over in his bed and kicks his legs.

The sun is setting in Manteno.

“Hey Bernadette, would you like to go for a ride?”

“Who-wha-what-how-whatcha-where-why-wha?”

“Yeah, we’d like to talk to you about a gig.” Gothic Mary deadpans.

“A gig?”

“A really good singing gig. We know some people in Chicago.”

“Okay, let’s go!”

The Midnight Supremes drive over to the nearby riverfront and park their car. Behind them, unbeknownst to Bernadette is a rather large metal latticework structure painted orange-and-white. A basket is affixed to the top of the mast.“

“Hey, would you like to sit down and talk about the gig?”

“You’re the GOAT!”

“No, you!” The three ladies share a subtly sarcastic laugh.

“Since you’re the guest of honor, how about you climb up first?”

The 5’4” plump portapotty princess climbs up the metal ladder without hesitation and sits in the orangey lattice basket.

“Ladies, are you ready?”

“Heck yeah!”

“Okay! 1-2-3…YEET!”

Gothic Diana Ross pulls the plunger and flings Bernadette into the river, laughing her bum off along with her sisters as their annoying neighbor makes a splash for everyone at the riverfront to see and hear.  After spitting out some freshwater and dirt, the washed up Bernadette Cacca attempts to ask “so what’s this about a gig?”  “Oh, we’re excited to announce that we’re doing Lollapalooza and you’re not!”

“See ya see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!” The three singer harmonize, bow, snap their fingers unison and then drive away.

“That yeeting station worked great!” a couple of kids giggle as their father just stands there and smirks.

Behind the Moroniverse – Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt

August 19, 2026 ~ Jen ~ 4 Comments

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 (OK not really, but it would be cool).

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.

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?

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 guy~~ NiceGuy™ 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? Sadly he took the cat from me…

I will never forgive my ex for idealizing, devaluing me and then attempting to discard me, shortly before I left him. Rumor has it, he still obsesses over me, and makes feeble attempts to smear campaign me using the same DARVO tactics and made-up mental health diagnosis he had used in 2017. I imagine he pushes away what little ~~friends~~ narcissistic supply he has left.. Like his bootlicker friend once said to me, I wish he would “get over it, just move on.”

With narcadoodles, every projection is a confession.

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, creating music, learning to speak other languages and making Youtube videos.

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..

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.nomore.org/the-no-more-global-directory/

Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.

Violated.

May 20, 2026 ~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

Hear this story here:

Part 1: https://moronicarts.com/2024/11/24/get-lost-sonya/

“Hey Sonya, we’re having you for supper! Come with us!” Area 51 Prinicpal Instigator and Pain Tolerance Department Manager Dr. Jen Jenner tells the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and malignant narcadoodle Sonya Marie Smith Moran, who has been pecking back and forth with her cellmate, narc of the communal kind Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt.

“Hot Dawg!”

“No wieners or winners, just you for supper. Sonya, your hair is a rat’s nest. Violation! Clean your cage, there are bird turds everywhere, even in your water dish! Violation!”

“What? MY cage? YOU put me here!”

“Yes, this is your home now and you’re coming with us!”

“Knock it off!” Sonya says to the raptor-captors at Area 51.

“We can smell your bum-waste clear cross the High Desert. Violation! You freeloaders trash this place that your tax dollars pay for! Violation! Cha-cha-cha. Violation! Cha-cha-cha.” the guards scold the Midwestern scumlord and malignant narcissist as they read from the Code of Federal Regulations.

Sonya hisses at the guards surrounding Dr. Jenner, flaps her wings, taking a defensive stand.

“Violation! Haha. Alright, imma carve this turkey!”

The guards rush toward Ms. Moran, with chainsaw in tow, and yank the caged lady from her cell.

“Oh yum. I can’t wait for turkey dinner. I’ve had nothing but corn and corn-derivatives since I got here two years ago,” says her cellmate and fellow narcadoodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, as he rubs his hands together. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh b–“
“I’m a dang vulture, not a turkey, you stupid neckbeard!” Sonya screams as she gets hauled away to a deep, dark crevice hidden within the bowels of the dry lake known as Groom.

TO BE CONTINUED

“Get Lost, Sonya!”

June 7, 2025 ~ Jen ~ 4 Comments

Slumlord, malignant narcissist and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran squawks and lets loose the gasp of her ego’s death after finding out that the tenants in one of her buildings have organized and formed an association. After all, they’ve got that right, but Sonya does not want them to have it because she’s a moron.

Even though not doing the damage is, you know, cheaper and more effective than damage control, she attempts to ban her tenants’ meeting by arguing and flapping her wings out of retaliation.

Her song and dance fails to make an impression on a single, rightfully-fed up resident. The maladapted personality — whose empathy cells fell out her brain aeons ago — starts casing her tenants across Northern Illinois and Indiana looking for drugs to steal when they are not at home. After all, she has the master key, so why not (so she thinks, anyway).

Sonya gets mixed up along the way, lost in flight across the Midwest and out toward California.

Hoping to get high after watching some Breaking Bad, she makes a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Oops! Not anticipating consequences just like any other run of the mill narcadoodle, Sonya soars into the airspace at Groom Lake and gets shot down.

After captured, the Area 51 folks run experiments on the shapeshifting humanoid vulture known as Sonya Moran. They don’t know what they are dealing with, so they draw blood, run her through an MRI machine and slide a scope through her beak to identify the creepy cryptid. Then she poops.

Sonya gets arrested for FUI (flying under the influence), her blood chock full of all that Adderal she sniffed chasing the dragon up and down. Then she gets thrown into the cage of fellow test subject, neckbeard Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt. Damien gives her the bedroom eyes, a gaze she quickly returns.

“Hello, M’lady, Madame!”

“Oh no, that thing is gonna mate! Quick, yeet her!”

“No wait, this could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for!” the fellow biologist tells her superior, as the two caged crooks enjoy their conjugal visit.

Meanwhile, Area 51 researchers compare Sonya’s DNA results against the cells-interlinked forensic database. “She’s no angel.” It’s the tip of the iceberg, leading authorities to discover Sonya’s secrets and perhaps the literal skeletons in her closet.

Sonya gets put in restraints and through a series of experiments in the Pain Tolerance Department. A technician force-feeds Sonya 50 hotdogs. Then she pukes them up. Next, a team of scientists slowly play Katy Perry music louder and louder, almost to the volume of a chain-restaurant washroom. Lastly, they bring in an exorcist to pay Sonya a visit.

“Self-reflection is hard, but important Sonya. Have you ever, in one moment, considered that YOU are the problem?”

“Grfhdihfowehfwfhwufthouwofghuwgt!!!”

“I cast thee out in the name of Jesus!”

Sonya pukes up more of those darned hotdogs.

Not knowing what to do with their newly discovered cryptid, the biology team put her back in the cell with Damien.

TO BE CONTINUED

A Real Mailer-Daemon.

November 13, 2024November 13, 2024 ~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Do what you want, but think about The Omen, Damien!

I know who you are. Just stay away from Judi Avelli. She has a thing for evil spirits.

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt Thinks Excess Plastic is Fantastic

November 10, 2024 ~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

For Bourbonnais cinema clerk, communal narcadoodle, and neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt, invalidation of others’ feelings has always been one heck of a drug.

”Hey Damien? Why does Buckstars wrap all their plastic utensils in even more plastic?”

”Well actually, Lori…I was watching the Angery Game Nerd Show on PooTube and the host gets mad there is not enough packaging. After all, plastics makers need to make money too…“ Damien the self-proclaimed “nice guy” said to his ex wife at their former home in Champaign. Lori Brown – whom Damien calls “Grimace” – has been happily divorced from the Bourbonnais cinema clerk who sent her doctors lunacy letters, thinking he knew more about psychology than…um…an actual psychologist?

Have you known someone like Damien? I hope not. Lori would not wish his abuse on her worst enemy.

Telling Tall Tales of the Moroniverse

March 26, 2024 ~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What makes you laugh?

View all responses

Manteno pretend do-gooder, port-a-dump empress and Craptocoin hawker Bernadette Moran Cacca sure knows how to act stupid. I am so glad this moron and others like her are fake:

Slumlord scum, Ferengi lover and Poopy Groupie President Sonya Moran sure knows how to party.

Area 51 test subject, Squirrely Dan neckbeard, and world’s largest source of natural gas Damien Hurlbutt undergoes daily flatulence testing in their Alternative Fuel Sources Department.

Kankakee drugstore owner, wacky inventor and wannabe ladies’ man Wally Green sells his wares at the home of the Buy One, Get One Half Off (But Never Free) Sale.

Size matters! Over 500 short stories, some shorter than other, all free of charge to read here on MoronicArts. :D Subscribe using your WordPress or email account. It’s FREEEEEEEEEEEE!

MoronicArts Classics: Pat Splatt Poops the Question

June 16, 2023 ~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

Bourbonnais multiplex clerk, neckbeard and communal narcissist, Damien Hurlbutt, has caught word that his estranged former wife Lori is coming into Kankakee County for a doctor’s appointment. He is deathly afraid of running into her because he is scared she might confront him about his history of verbal abuse toward her, tarnishing his squeaky-clean image. He heads over to his brother Robbie’s apartment to ask him and fellow con man Pat Splatt to come up with a sneaky way into avoiding her.

“I’m back!” Damien tells his younger brother and fellow narcissist, Robbie.

“I’m front!” Robbie snickers back.

“I am leaving town for a week or longer. I am telling my boss at the cinema and then hitting the gas. My ex-wife is coming back into town and I am scared.”

“Scared?” Robbie replies in his typical faux-Elvis voice.

“Yeah. Sssh, don’t tell anyone. I really look good online after I smear campaigned her to all my friends, even to that famous couple until they had told me to stop messaging them, sending them presents and mailing them weekly postcards. I had sent them a drawing I made all by myself after our friend passed away since I had talked them into letting me send them art instead. I swear, they are really impressed! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” Damien exclaims with glee as he rubs his palms together.

“Just man up and deal with it!” Robbie Hurlbutt tells his older brother Damien.

“Come now. That is not how you talk to a fellow Men’s Rights Activist! You know that!” Damien says on the defense to Robbie.

“I hope you get the time off approved.”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay…” Damien repeats ad nauseum, not knowing his little brother Robbie is already out of earshot.

“Ding-dong.”

“You’re wrong!” Damien snickers beneath his breath to the person at Robbie’s door.

A half-grinning Pat Splatt opens the door and struts inside.

“I popped the question!”

“What question?” Damien asks.

“Heyyyy…where did you meet her?” Robbie replies and looks away.

“Hey Pat, my ex is coming into town and I am feeling lukecold about this. I was wondering if you could help come up with a scheme—“

“Damien, I just got engaged!”

“I know, I know. My ex is due in sometime this week. I would like to gingerly bow out of town but I have to work. What do you suggest I do?”

“Hey, can I sing at your wedding, Pat?” Kankakee’s number one Elvis impersonator, the one and only Robbie Hurlbutt asks.

“Do you know anything besides Elvis?”

“I can sing lots of oldies.” Robbie replies.

“Do you play any metal?”

“No, but you can book me really cheap. I will throw in my groovy dance moves for free.”

“I’ll consider it.” Pat says to Robbie.

“So where did you meet her?” Robbie asks.

“The dating app OKStupid. Hey, I’ll show you guys a picture.” Pat gets out his phone and opens up said dating app.

“Who’s Daniel Sprague?” Damien asks.

“Oh, that’s my profile,” a half-embarrassed Pat replies as his gawky, straggly self shows the Hurlbutt brothers the obviously-stolen photos of the handsome, athletic man in the photos with the gorgeous hair and eyes.

The Hurlbutts smile and ask to see his new girl.

“Her name is Alix. She’s from South Africa.”

“When did you meet her?” Damien asks.

“Oh, a month ago.”

“She came to Kankakee?” Robbie asks?

“No.”

“Hey Damien, let’s work on avoiding your ex,” Pat says to change the topic and the three work on scheming.

The next day arrives and so does Damien. Unlike Pat, Damien rings the bell and waits. While he waits, he taps his foot and jiggles the doorknob a dozen times. Make it a baker’s dozen.

“Well doesn’t that put poop in your soup?” Damien asks Robbie.

“Say what?”

“My time off did not get approved. I have to work. That means if my ex-wife comes into town, and visits the theater, she could say something bad about me if I am mean to her! What do I do?”

“Weren’t you saying you had heel spurs, just like the former president?”

“You know, the Moon landing may not be real but durn it, my bone spurs are!” Damien sternly replies.

“You deserve a long, hard week off.”

“You know, that’s right. I’ll just call in.”

“What do you do at that theater anyway?”

“Oh, make copies of tickets and give them away. And make color copies of things I print out…all on the company’s dime. Why not? They’re paying for it.”

The brothers share a giggle and Damien drives home to his neckbeard nest to sleep on the floor.

Damien dials his supervisor, Cinema-13 owner Konrad Teirant, on his ten year old flip phone to call in “sick.”

“You will need to be examined by a doctor and have a written excuse for each day you are out. Company policy.” Konrad says to Damien.

Upset and surprised by this rule, Damien makes an appointment to be seen. The office cannot tells him he cannot in until next week.

“Phew!” Damien says aloud after he hangs up his ancient flip phone and writes down his doctor appointment.

Damien drives over to Robbie’s apartment, where Robbie, his roommate Andy Skandees and Pat Splatt are all dancing and watching children’s entertainment.

A bulbous Damien sits down on the basket chair and nearly falls out, while Pat stares angrily at his phone on the couch next to Andy, who is relaxing in his white tank top and cargo pants.

“She says she wants to come meet me. In person. I keep telling her I am busy. She says she is on her way to Kankakee in a week-and-a-half for a business meeting via way of Chicago!” an unhappy Pat exclaims.

“Why don’t you want to meet your girl? Andy asks.

“Reasons,” Pat replies.

“Did I tell you my story about the poop elves?” Damien asks with a large grin on his face.

“Way too many times…” the rest of the room answers in unison.

“Oh, I forgot.” Damien lies.

The Kankakee storm rages on, and then changes to sun five minutes later.

Damien spends the next week off work, feeling glad he does not run into his former wife out and about, especially at work. It is review week coming up and he is deathly afraid of this time of year, as he is every year. Damien lives to impress, and will not even let his peers throw him a birthday party because he is not the one doing the impressing. If anyone would care enough to surprise him — not that they would — he would take over the check, (in a not-so-polite-way) and insist on paying on it himself thinking that would somehow impress them. Damien only does this for image, as he only cares about himself. He just wants to look good to cover up his lack of empathy.

Damien goes to the doctor’s office the following Monday before returning to work at the movie theater that night. After all, he had just spent a week off for his heel spurs!

While waiting for about an hour for his fifteen minute exam, in walks a familiar-looking woman, along with a much older lady. Damien looks up.

“Oh gawd.” Lori says to her friend after briefly looking over at Damien and then back at her friend.

Damien is now shaking with fear. He immediately dials up Robbie. It goes straight to voicemail. He calls Andy. Same thing. He calls Pat.

“Hey, man. It’s an emergency.”

“Be right over. I am charging you double-time.”

“Fine.”

Damien flips over his bronze-age phone and waits, tapping his fingers, whistling audibly.

Thirty minutes pass and Damien has not been called back to see the doctor, neither has Lori.

Pat Splatt walks in, cowboy boots a-clomping.

“Hi Damien. What’s going—“

“Look, Pat.”

Damien points across from him, to his former wife and her friend.

“What do you want from me?” Pat asks.

“That’s my ex wife! I thought her appointment was last week! You gave me the info.”

“So what. Things change. It happens.”

“Hey, you sound familiar!” says one of the ladies across from him.

“Hey-hhmm-hhuhhh—hmmm—what?” a melodramatic Damien replies.

“No not you, that guy next to you.” the elderly lady replies in her Cape Town accent, appearing to be about 72.

“You mean Pat?” Damien snarkily replies.

“Pat? I thought your name was Daniel!”

“Alllll-iiiiixxxx?” a stunned Pat Splatt replies.

“Yes, sonny. It’s me. I had told you I was coming into town. But you hadn’t wanted to meet me. I wonder why not? You do not look anything like your picture. The engagement is off.”

“Well neither do you!” Pat exclaims.

“Calm down everyone!” a staff member shouts from behind a window.

The group of people waiting wonder how any of them would get any calmer by a comment like that.

Damien is eventually thrown out of the office and Lori is called in next.

Needless to say, Damien does not pass his yearly review at Teirant Cinema-13. Poor Damien. If only he had just tried to be nice. But then again, he would not be Damien.

MoronicArts Classics: “We Are Number One”

June 16, 2023 ~ Jen ~ 7 Comments

Kankakee pharmacy clerk, vulnerable narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt, his equally narcissistic brother Damien and con-job roommate Andy Skandees join together for one rotten number. Robbie’s Youtube clones could not make it. Don’t close the washroom door.