Wife of Brandon Dixon – owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machine – and mother to his kids; Pris Dixon is highly nosy, butts into strangers’ business out of pure ennui. She had been best friends with shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran, until she had flown the coop.
She needs to get better hobbies.
Pris works as a Medical Office Assistant for her father-in-law Kankakee Ears, Nose, and Throat specialist Dr. Eddie Dixon, and as a store clerk at Archangel’s Craft Stores. She has a reputation for gaslighting patients and customers just to confuse them.
Police refuse to let her victims press charges, save for once, stating Pris “is just mentally ill.” Yes, acting like a sociopath is a mental problem, which causes her victims to seek treatment.
“You’re crazy, the only one on the bus whoever starts problems!” — Pris Dixon gaslighting her verbal and physical abuse targets
Pris proudly drives a green imbecile machine given to her by Brandon, branded with “You just got passed by a girl” decals.
Pris was raised by wealthy parents who gave her everything she wanted. Pris feels that, because she is a parent, she should cut in line at the cafes and burger joints. She dislikes the child-free by choice and gets her kicks by invalidating their feelings. Pris feels that only parents can make a valid point, and that life does not begin until you become a mother or father.
The dusk is hitting Manteno, Illinois. Before she has a chance to slither into her bog, a certain village trustee gets into it with a disabled veteran. Having no shame, she will do anything to put others down. The swamp witch emerges from seemingly nowhere.
“Why are you taking pictures?” Bernadette Moran Cacca bothers someone minding their own business, enjoying the sunset. Ennui and lack of narcissistic supply has given her the cravings for attention of any kind, good or bad.
“I live here. Nice night.. Nice to meet you. I’m Shanna.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s me, Bernadette, I went to school with you.”
“Oh hey, you’re still in Manteno?”
“Now you see the real me! I don’t like you. Now keep on walking.”
“Now if you disagree with the fascist council member that also runs the Optimal Club, you will be shut down and shut up,” Gothic Mary, member of the Midnight Supremes tells Shanna.
“Oh hey, I remember you Mary, what’s up?”
“She used to get mad at my sonic sneezes that I cannot control and then peel out her driveway yelling the N-word. I had told our classmates but nobody would believe me. She was much more prejudiced than I thought but pretended to be an ally who cared about other cultures, and people in general. She actually had said she got a better ‘gold star bisexual’ to taunt me into taking her back, thinking I’d get jealous. First she was bragging on about how perfect things were going between them, that I was ‘too sensitive’ to give her what she wanted, and how she will change and mold everyone in town into something special. This town has always been great and would be even better without her and her Craptocoins.
“Who’s that smelly dude over there in the baggy clothes? Is he a meth-head?”
“Hey Greg! I hear they sell fried brains down in Evansville, Indiana,” Shanna yells out. Gothic Diana Ross joins Mary and Flo in giggling.
“Okayyyyy…In America there are three mountains in regions where it snows on top of the river and in other regions it is 180 degrees because mountains control temperatures backward towards chemtrails. Unless we make inflatable artificial bounce mountains on the face of the Moon base to control the weather, we will always have these weather problems which can be changed in five minutes. Brains? Brains branes brainnnnnnz…”
Undead Greg Schneissder wanders down to Indiana to find himself one…if only.
Greg heads to a truck stop to make a pit stop so he can empty out his toxic waste and then immediately refuel. While browsing the store, Greg shouts over to a man microwaving a packaged sandwich, “Don’t open that microwave until after it stops beeping!” The trucker just shakes his head and begins to pry the plastic upon plastic from his late night meal. “You’ll get radiation poisoning if you open it too soon. It’s in the manual.”
Greg comes up empty and eats some poopies instead, left behind some man who didn’t flush down the brown.
Ragged and scrawny as ever, Greg continues walking down to Evansville, after hitching a ride on a manure truck and sleeping in the back.
“Closed for rest and reset? What’s that?” Greg says aloud as he pounds on the window, breaking the glass. The burglar alarm goes off immediately as Greg climbs in, loiters around the restaurant looking for a seat.
“Doooooes this TV get the Aaant & Ding Show?
Undead Greg walks toward the basement to look for the cooler full of chilled brains only to fall down the stairs, crumpling into a bag of bones, a waft of dust smelling oddly like cheese puffs fills the building. Yum.
Ennui struck this fangirl hard. After I had left a comment calling my social media acquaintance “a real ham,” this keyboard cockfighter slid this doozie into my inbox:
I copied-and-pasted the definitions for her (since the so-called journalist and radio announcer was too lazy to do it), but she kept on hunting and pecking anyway:
Is that a threat or a promise?
Instead of heading to bed – mind you it was 3:00 in the morning where she was at – she used my inbox as her toilet once again:
After blocking this bored orc, I reported her to Facebook (good luck) and to her employer. Though she claims to be a radio announcer, I did not see her listed on her alleged employer’s website aside the other presenters. Maybe she just calls them up and stalks them like that one girl who went to my high school.
I also sent copies of her obsessed fan-mail to my mutual acquaintances who work in the entertainment industry (the ones whose photos she tagged) as a heads up. Because, you know, gross.
“When I grow up I wanna be a Youtube commenter.” – Nobody
We have all seen them, the Internet trolls, the lost souls of the World Wide Web. These hobby-less wonders sit in their mother’s basements and type crap nobody cares about, hoping to upset someone or two.
Ennui clearly got to the best of this bored tool. A lone kid behind a keyboard and a monitor, with nothing better to do than leave moronic comments on independent musicians’ remixes, he probably thinks he is the only person who ever made a song before. Or maybe he just wants to bother strangers because he has no life. Maybe both?
How does he get his housework done? If he is that bored, he can come over and clean my cat’s litter-box, and then do my laundry, putting it all away after he folds it. I will not mind.
When translated, the troll’s drivel roughly says this:
The self-proclaimed musical genius could have just scrolled by and found a song he liked better, listening to that instead.
Sadly, used his idle hands to become the Moron of the Week. This is a clear example of how he wasted his time.
I make many things: drawings, stories, songs. The way to my heart is through a love of my talents. If you don’t like my stuff, cool. Move on and scroll past. I am too busy, you know, creating things.
Meet Robert Arwyn Jones, A/K/A “Jones” on Youtube. He started commenting on my music. I liked what I heard and commented back. A mutual exchange, right? No, not in his mind; he was thinking with his other head.
That moron mistook my kindness for lust when we took our conversation to email.
When I told him I bond with people who like me for my talents, the karaoke king took the low road by gaslighting.
But wait — there’s more! My lack of mutual lust had gotten this moron so butt-hurt, he made the choice to hurl insults. Ahhh, the average schoolyard bully.
What a prize! For pretending to care about me as a creator just to try and lure me into bed, I award Robert Arwyn Jones Moron of the Week. Enjoy your award Robert, you’re a real winner.
MoronicArts 
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