Communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt harasses his ex wife Lori on the 10 year anniversary of his lame showoff proposal to her, even though she is long gone from his life. Lori left him because of his love fraud and narcissistic abuse.
He downvotes all her Utube videos even though she blocked him all social media, as a glitch still allows blocked users to downvote. Damien clearly needs a hobby.
Detroit’s Rachel Shelley gets into a huge fight with her lover and fellow narcissist Damien. She is tired of hearing him complain about his ex-wife Lori.
Rachel chucks a bunch of Damien’s hoarded crap into the dumpster while he is out at work.
She leaves him for her side piece, Kankakee heroin addict and loser Leon Peeonne. She has had enough.
Damien downvotes Rachel’s and Leon’s videos on Utube while he is sitting behind the counter at work, thinking nobody is looking. In walks his supervisor, Konrad Teirant, theater owner, who suspends Damien for a week.
Damien comes home in the middle of the night after working the late night shift at the theater to discover all the things he loved more than Rachel — toys, children’s coloring books, $35 ornaments, $75 toys, $600 figures — gone. He jiggles his apartment doorknob repeatedly to check for home invaders, nothing. He calls out for Rachel. No reply.
Damien walks past the remaining boxes in his neckbeard nest, mostly empty — save for a few towels, ratty graphic tees and unused pots and pans — and thinks that Rachel has left with all her belongings. Think again.
Damien heads out to the dumpster outside his apartment and dives in, digging for his lost treasures. He throws a few boxes overboard. Damien continues to dig. Meanwhile a sound is heard in the background:
Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt is happy to finally have a new girlfriend to impress with his lovebombing of gifts, Miss Rachel Shelley of Detroit. Too bad for him, he cannot see the thought bubble next to him, as she dreams about her other lover, Kankakee druggie Leon Peeonne.
“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! Home Shopping Channel is about to show a whole hour of carpeting! I get to watch m’ladies walk on them BAREFOOT!” Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt exclaims, drools.
Shady Bourbonnais neckbeard and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt went dumpster diving the morning after he and his part-time lover from Detroit, Rachel Shelley, got into a bitter fight and she threw some of his hoarded items into the dumpster.
“Dumpster! Dumpster! Dumpster!” Rachel cried as she chucked Damien’s hoard into the metal hopper outside his apartment.
As Damien dug for the treasures he loved more than his woman, little did he notice the danger lurking behind him.
Illinois neckbeard, communal narcissist and movie theater clerk Damien Hurlbutt went off the deep end when his then-wife, Lori, stopped tolerating his verbal abuse and rightfully left him.
He sent this letter to her psychologist and her psychiatrist after she separated from him. Apparently, this ticket clerk thought he knew more about psychology than the licensed clinicians who practice. The latter provider called it a “lunacy letter.” The former said she had never seen anything like it in all her years practicing.
“Man, I had a hard life,” Kankakee drug addict and all-around loser Leon Peeonne says to fellow junkie Rachel Shelley, as they glare aimlessly into the flatscreen television setting ahead of them.
“Where did you get that rad TV?”
“Fell off a truck,” Leon chortles as they share a laugh and two partners in crime wrap their arms around each other.
Rachel’s ringer goes off.
“It’s Damien…” Rachel sighs.
“That moron? Send him to voicemail.”
Rachel sneaks off into the washroom.
“Where are you?” a grumpy Damien asks.
“I am out.”
“I heard some noise in the background. What are you doing, M’lady, Madame?”
“Business.”
“Okay honey puddin’, just checking up on you.” Damien slyly says.
“For the last time, don’t call me that!”
“I only say it because I love you!” Damien replies.
“I am leaving for Michigan next week, and I just got here. I gotta go.”
“Okay honey pudd—“ Beep.
Damien hears a dial tone and cannot figure out why. He goes back to cloning movie tickets using the company printers.
Rachel joins her secret lover on the couch.
“MANTENO CHILD ON THE SPECTRUM GETS HER WISH”
“Oh, look how sweet!” Rachel says sarcastically.
“I bet that DIDN’T fall off a truck.” Leon snarks.
“This brave little girl has been the victim of bullies all her life. So local charities stepped in and bought her a Playtendo and 10 games to go with it.
‘I am so happy now. I can’t wait to play all these! Thank you!’ says 10 year old Anna of Manteno.”
“Awwww, sucks to be her, she was bullied. Hey, they showed her address. Maybe we can steal her crap?”
“Maybe we can. And then we can get her mom to post about it on my mental health group on Fakebook, so I can harass her there, too!” Rachel shares with Leon and they both giggle a little too much…way too much. Then they shoot up.
Rachel drives Leon in her rental car over to Manteno searching for the home of the 10 year old they just saw on TV so they can steal her Playtendo to sell for drug money.
“I think this is it.” Rachel says to Leon as she spies the house she saw on the news. She parks the car around the corner, walks up to the ranch and rings the doorbell. A gentleman answers.
“Oh hi. We are volunteers from Kankakee County and wanted to pay a mental health visit. Can we come in?” Rachel asks the gentleman.
“I will ask my wife.”
A few minutes elapse, and the two tresspassers are still standing in the doorway. An older lady can be seen walking on the sidewalk.
Some commotion is heard coming from inside the house; typical kids.
Rachel’s phone rings. She ignores it. It continues to ring.
“What do you want?” Rachel asks Damien.
“I’m home!”
“Yeah? So?”
“Aren’t you gonna come see me, Honey Puddin’? I have presents!”
“Damien, I am busy right now”. Rachel hangs up her phone.
“Okay you guys need to leave.”
“Can we come in for a minute? I promise we won’t be long.” Leon says to the mother.
“Leave now, or I am calling police.”
The older lady off in the distance, looking vaguely familar to Leon, is on her phone.
“Okay. We will leave. Here is a brochure for our great mental health group on Fakebook.”
“Take your group and shove it. We have a great neuropsychologist and are doing fine.”
Sirens are heard and flashing lights are seen.
Leon and Rachel hurl some colorful language at the family.
“Would you use those words in front of your mother?” The girl’s mom asks Leon and Rachel.
“Let me tell you about my motha!” Leon deadpans as he reaches for some object in his jean pocket known only to him. A cop on scene grabs Leon’s hands, pins them to his back and reads him his Miranda rights.
“That’s mah boy!” a nearby Leona Krabalsky snarks. “Lock him up!”
“Ma?” Leon screams as he is hauled away.
Leon is charged and later convicted of attempted burglary, heroin possession with intent to distribute, disorderly conduct and unlawful possession of a firearm.
Damien continues to call Rachel back at her home in Detroit and she continues to not give a crap.
As much as Bourbonnais communal narcissist and fedora-sporting neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt wanted to attend his big birthday bash, he could not make it because he got stuck on the toilet.
Instead, we bring you these important words from Squirrely Dan.
This sad playboy — I am putting it nicely — got all butthurt when I messaged him looking for friendship. Yes, friends, as in getting to know each other better. When he replied to my intro question showing interest in his hobbies, all he said was he liked those things. I replied asking him what he would like to know about me and what was his response? Wait for it.
He said yes, go ahead. Confused by his comment, I replied with a simple question mark.
Since he was five hours ahead of me, I did not expect a reply, or even to see him online at that point. It was 8:50 PM my time, 1:50 AM his time.
This luser got all butthurt, saying I was interested in him and got rather cross because I asked him to tell me more about himself. You know, what humans do to get acquainted. Figuring he had something to hide, I blocked him. I wanted no more contact.
Today, ennui got the best of his soul, so he sent me this message right here on MoronicArts to try and mansplain dating, music, or whatever it was he thought I was trying to achieve when I wrote him, because my blog is chock-full o’ pretend and real-life morons like him.
Hmmm. Maybe he sees a little bit of Peppi Cacca and Pat Splatt in himself. Or maybe Damien Hurlbutt since Gareth’s Twitter handle “tungstenfedora” screams neckbeard. Why not get yourself an anime waifu like the other neckbeards, Gareth? Maybe he should get a hobby, I have things to do and am very busy.
Meanwhile, Gareth, enjoy your participation trophy, I mean Moron of the Week Award. Hold onto it really tightly, because I need it for the next moron.
This post brought to you by the letters #MotW.
Watch Carly Simon poke fun at neckbeards in her updated video to “You’re So Vain.”
Ennui has taken over narcissistic abuser and sociopath Damien Hurlbutt as he sits alone in his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest. He wants to stir up trouble and call attention to himself because he is addicted to creating chaos. His last supplier of attention, Rachel Shelley, has run off with Kankakee smack addict Leon Peeonne. Sitting on his lone piece of bedroom furniture, a metal folding chair, he tries to email his former wife Lori Brown — who he calls “Grimace”:
To: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]
From: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]
Wednesday, November 4, 2020
Subject: breakfast, lunch, smunch
Hi Honey Puddin’!
This week has been a keystone for an avalanche. I have a stitch in my side. I want to see you, make me feel better, puddin’. :-)
Moments later, he gets a message from Marty the Mailer-Daemon:
To: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]
From: Mail Delivery Subsystem
Wednesday, November 4, 2020
Subject: Failure Notice
Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to the following address.
Unable to deliver message after multiple retries. Giving up, not dying trying.
Yours,
Mailer-Daemon
“Come now!” Damien exclaims out of narcissistic rage. He then re-sends the email to Marty the Mailer-Daemon, only to get get blocked by him as well.
CRASS CEO Mack. E. Avelli holds a staff meeting to gather ideas to increase their bottom line.
“Maybe we can invest in having some CRASS masks printed up, and give them away in Wally Green’s drugstores to help advertise our business?” Art Director Dorian James suggests.
“That will cost us money. We take money here at CRASS, not give it away.”
Operation Director Mikey Philips’ hand goes up.
“Let us pray to the bill collector gods to make it rain.”
The room erupts in laughter.
Sybil Kibble raises her hand and waves it in excitement.
“How about we add random people on Fakebook? We can sell our services to the suckers who accept. And we might find some of the debtors who have been hanging up!”
“It’s a game-changer Sybil. Your idea will add CRASS synergy. We are CRASS, and so are you.”
Lead Debt Collector Sybil makes herself busy adding wealthy folks all over Fakebook, hoping some people will bite. Meanwhile Damien Hurlbutt is also up to no-good.
“I am going to look for a clump of people on cBay,” Damien thinks aloud. His frown turns upside down, becoming his trademark evil grin.
“Oh kids. Ohhhh kidssss.” Damien puts in a high bid for an item listed by Lori.
An hour later, Damien logs onto cBay to check on the item.
“My little and dainty ex blocked me. I know…hee hee. I will add her under a sock account on Fakebook.”
Damien strokes his orange, straggly beard, dons his black fedora and heads over to the apartment of petty-criminal Pat Splatt.
“La di da di da. Look at all the people who accepted my friend requests!” Sybil Kibble says to herself. She begins telling them all about CRASS and how they can “help you recover Accounts Receivables.”
She calls her mother, JoAnn, and invites her for a dog-food dinner.
“Can you take a raincheck? I need to rearrange my bus-parts collection.”
Sybil downs her dog food, and logs or her remote laptop to hopefully double down on debt.
“Why is my computer asking for money?” Sybil asks out loud, eyes glazing over as she glares at the ransomware screen featuring a slender, bespectacled, long-haired guy, his face covered in black stubble.
Damien pounds on Pat Splatt’s door, jiggles the knob a bunch of times and the bulbous neckbeard gets let in.
Damien peers over to 47-year old college student and gallery janitor Pat, kicked back in his office chair, feet plopped atop his computer desk. Heavy metal can be heard blaring from his massive sound system.
“Heck, Damien. I have been busy.”
“Oh really?”
“Do you see this screen?”
Pat swivels his desktop computer monitor ever-so-slightly over toward Damien.
“Ahhhh.”
“I did the deed. I infected her machine.”
“I know, I know. Now get me her details.”
“Oh, that will cost you a convenience fee. Go home, log on to your Fakebook. I will slide the deets into your box.”
Damien rushes home, driving like a maniac, despite his car’s gas gauge reading almost empty.
Damien enters his email, password and logs on. He immediately checks his instant message from Pat. Damien’s screen locks up, displaying a drawing of Pat dressed in a pirate costume with a black skull-and-bones flag composited into the background, along with a message asking for money to unlock his computer.
“Well doesn’t that put poop in my soup?”
Damien heads back to Pat’s house, his car running on fumes.
As Damien confronts Pat, sirens are heard, growing louder as the seconds drag by. “Sit down Damien.” A loud pound is heard on Pat’s door.
Sybil and the CRASS crew now are happy their computers are working again, despite their accounts having been banned from Fakebook. They create new accounts and start over. All is well in the Moroniverse.
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