Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures like Carla and Sonya Moran spend way too much time ruffling feathers and pecking at people. They also poop wherever they want. 0/10 would not pet.
Not these shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures
Tag: dark humor
MoronicArts Classics: Greg A. Schneissder is a real GAS!
Owner of Schneissder’s Sewer Service, Manteno moron, sociopath and zombie Gregory Albert Schneissder thinks his crap does not stink.
This 62 year old fartknocker sports a head full of salt and pepper hair, usually covered up by a ball cap. His eyes glow red and he eats brains for dinner.
Gregory is Chronic; paranoid people will steal his stash, Greg flashes his dime-bag full of perfectly cultivated buds on the bus when he is spaced out on coke he snorted while coming down off a weed high. Yes, he is that dumb.
This Miami Dolphenergans fan gate-keeps in Fakebook groups. Greg brags about his biggest life achievement, having seen someone in 1991 going down the road who owned one. The one-and-only 1988 Chrysler Conquest – just like the one Gothic Diana Ross drives – Greg witnessed the most important event in his life and tells everybody about it.
Undead Greg stopped driving due to DUIs; he lost his license before the slow-burn-virus took over his undead corpse. Now he can only watch people going down the road who own one. He is butthurt because he no longer can legally hunt down the living driving his Ford imbecile machine, covered in obnoxious decals, bearing wheels way too large for the body.
Ableist as it gets, Greg audibly harasses disabled folks on the bus, stalking them in cafés. He thinks they should work and accuses every disabled young person of “faking it” and tag teams with his BFF Pris Dixon to bully strangers since he is a scared wuss with no life.
Bern Cacca’s biggest fan, Greg made a BernCacca Fans facebook account.
He desperately needs a hobby (besides devouring the living). Manteno residents hope he gets one soon.
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Gothic Diana Ross Plays Bocce to Win
Narcissists want to buy your time…so they can waste it…over and over without paying.
Gothic Diana Ross is busy minding her own business at her specialist’s waiting room up at Rush University Medical Center in Chicago. A routine follow-up appointment, Miss Ross would rather be home having fun singing with Gothic Flo and Gothic Mary, instead of waiting in a crowded room full of strangers.
An hour passes by and Di still has not been called.
“Hey, I’m Greg Schneissder. Are you from Manteno?”
”Ummm…” Diana rolls her eyes and looks away from the undead Greg,
“I saw one of your shows, you ladies are so beautiful and talented.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know Pat Splatt?”
“Yeah…no. Eew.”
“Pat is one of the coolest guys around! I hang around him and Bernadette Cacca.”
Diana freezes from panic, already nervous awaiting her lab results.
“Don’t. Mention. Bernadette.”
“Oh why? She is the the nicest person around! And so famous! I see her picture in the paper a lot. She’s a celebrity. Wasn’t she on that Human Body Odor Channel show?”
Diana rolls her eyes.
“How can you say anything bad about her?”
“Stop.”
“I am gonna complain. You are harassing me now. Nobody talks bad about Bern Cacca!”
Di looks at the lady across from her.
“I am sure he was just trying to help.”
“Really? Just…no.”
“How do you know?”
“Just leave me the feck alone.”
“I am gonna just leave. I can’t be at this office where people talk badly about other people!” Greg whinges as he storms down the stairs.
“Deeanna?”
“It’s Diana…grrr.”
Diana grabs her patent leather sack and follows the medical office assistant to be roomed.
It begins to rain, the clouds taking a massive whizz all over Northern Illinois. Thankfully Diana merges her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest onto 90/94 safely and avoids rush-hour traffic to head south on I-57 toward her home in Manteno. Mind clear from a clean bill of health, the slender gothic beauty slides into her canopy bed, the silky black sheets comforting her as she drifts off to her internship in Hell.
Two hours later, Diana wakes up in a panic, startled by a moron who thought it would be cute to crawl into her bed.
“You know Diana, your music would sound better if you articulated your words better.”
A stunned Diana looks over.
“You forgot to lock your door, hon.”
“Get the freak outta my house and my bed!” Diana screams at the top of her lungs and chases out the bored poopy-burner and communal narcadoodle, next-door neighbor Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“How dare you talk bad about my beloved Bernadette!” Gregory Albert Schneissder screams at Diana about the crowd-pleaser for whom he created the Fakebook account “BMCacca Fannn.”
Diana slams the slate door to her Victorian Gothic home.
Gregory slithers over to Bernadette and the pair head upstairs to Bern’s bedroom.
“Can you just, like, not fart in front of me?” Greg asks his date Bernadette Cacca during their date netting some flicks while hoping to chill.
“No, honey.”
”You don’t fart on stage at those charity events where you sing and play kazoo requests to raise money for the Manteno Optimal Club and for Ukraine.”
“No need to gas-sleight me!”
“You gaslit me!” Greg retorts.
“No, I mean, I need to fart. Farting is healthy. I will implode if I don’t rip ‘em when I need to.”
The swamp-witch Bernadette lifts her leg and her bum goes boom.
A wild Gothic Diana Ross appears in the foreground.
”Heave-ho! Where are your enablers now? Bwa ha ha ha ha!” The Gothic Boss Miss Ross interjects as she yeets the communal narcadoodle Bern halfway down the staircase, and the Midnight Supremes chuck her bum-licker Greg, spocking the pallino down the stairs.
“You left your front door open…” Diana addresses the undead mess spilled all over the basement floor with a smile.
”What did those stairs do to deserve that punishment?” Gothic Mary jokes as the Midnight Supremes leave in amusement.
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“Get Lost, Sonya!”
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
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MoronicArts Classics: This Is Not The Spam You Are Looking For…
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.
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MoronicArts Classics: Welcome to Hell
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.
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MoronicArts Classics: Konrad Teirant Cleans House
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!
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“You can have that one for free, Pat.”
Kankakee art student, grifter and narc-a-doodle Pat Oswald Splatt posts to Redditopixly begging for volunteers to help with his “nonprofit” app project that’s really for profit.
He interviews three people remotely – all three he rejects even though they were well-qualified – simply because he is a sadistic moron who gets a high off hurting people’s feelings. The empathy is small with this one. Size matters.
Taking a different approach, Pat posts to Fakebook and the X-Parrot begging for free art, a fancy computer and people to tell their friends about his new, non-existent gadget in the making.
After asking a bunch of people if “this is still available?” he starts to get a few replies from people who are a little too nice.
“Hi, you asked about the computer?”
“I don’t like that machine. Can you give me a bigger hard drive?”
“I’ll show you my hard-drive! Click.”
“Yes, the art is available! I’d like to help out.”
“That drawing will suit. Can you make it a little bigger?”
“If you want it, pick it up. Otherwise I will sell it.”
“Come on man, it’s for a good cause!”
“It’s already framed. I put a lot of time into that picture. Time is money and mine is valuable, yes mine. Waste my time again and I’ll send you a bill!”
A “This person is no longer available” message promptly appears at the bottom of the chat window.
Pat messages 89 more people, but his calls and texts go unanswered.
Undead Greg Schneissder walks by Pat’s house, pounds on his door, busts it down.
“Got anyyy braiiins?”
Pat gives Greg the stinkeye, waves him away with one hand.
“Poopies?”
Pat reaches for his shotgun, however the zombie walks away before the non-existent warning shot could be non-fired.
Greg wanders over to a neighbor’s apartment and stares into his window, fixated on the television game-show.
“We surveyed 100 women and asked them, what about men—“
“Farts!” the contestant answers after slamming her hand down onto the set-piece.
“What about men do women find most attractive? Let us seeee…FARTS!”
“AAAANT!”
A big-ol’ X covers the screen and Greg giggles at it, slowly pointing his left arm or finger, he doesn’t remember which.
As Mr. Splatt barricades his newly broken door to keep out zombies, a newly formed text appears on his phone (not to be confused with Newly Formed Turds).
“I thought I’d never hear from him!” Pat thinks aloud, as he makes a mad dash for the door.
After moving the heavy boxes, metal sculptures and broken computers, he opens the doorway to let in his delivery.
Too late!
“Heres your free crap!” the Fakebook freebie group member yells out to Mr. Splatt.
“What? Pat shouts as the dump-truck lowers a whole load of manure all over his front lawn – and him.
“What the truck? The landlord is going to freak out!” exclaims a neighbor.
“Yummm, turds!” Undead Greg cheers as he makes his way towards the pile o’ pig poo, sits down, takes out a fork and a spoon.
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By George! He Just Slid Into Sybil’s Inbox
Poor George, he’s just not a people person. He and Sybil have different tastes.
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MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt Thinks Excess Plastic is Fantastic
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.
MoronicArts 
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