Behind the Moroniverse – Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt

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.

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.

I wish I had been given the omen.

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?

Ginger Squirrely Dan GIF by Crave - Find & Share on GIPHY
Allegedly not.

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?

He had been seeing the same therapist as a convicted murderer who made international headlines, the killer had been living in the same apartment complex as my ex the night of the murder. I left him at 8:30 AM the day after the poor lady was abducted.

I will never forgive my ex for idealizing, devaluing me and then attempting to discard me, shortly before I left him.

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.

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..

Moronic Martial Arts

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.un.org/en/coronavirus/what-is-domestic-abuse

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

MoronicArts Classics: Sucks to be Damien

Knock-knock.

Bourbonnais communal narc-a-doodle Damien Hurlbutt ignores the letter carrier. “Must be my Weekly Weewee Wonders; the mailman can tuck those away in the box,” Damien tells himself, as he trims his glowing orange neckbeard.

Damien dons his newest fedora, carefully selected from his newest box of identical hats ordered from an online retailer.

Damien logs onto M’Ladies by Mail Online one last time to check for replies to his daily messages to Ha, his long lost mail-order bride from Vietnam. He sings the empty-inbox blues.

Damien looks for his flip phone and cannot locate it. “Check your pocket, Farley!” Damien says out loud, Lord only knows why.

“Who the heck is Farley?” his downstairs neighbor asks as Damien locks up, jiggling the doorknob for a full five minutes.

“Nothing!” Damien exclaims to his neighbor, as if she cared.

Damien locates his phone and calls his vulnerable narcissist brother Robbie.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Robbie’s voice is heard.

“Elvis, I mean Robbie has left the building. Leave a message. BOOORT!”

“Heyy, man. This is your brother. I am leaving to go try and patch things up with Grimace, I mean Lori. Wish me luck, okay!” Damien flips his phone closed.

Damien hops onto 57 North to Chicago, where Lori lives. He had got her address by abusing his employer’s NexusLexus database program. He has an idea she will be home tonight, because he has been tracking her plans through a sock puppet account on Fakebook.

Damien parks in a nearby garage and walks up to Lori’s apartment, roses and balloons in hand. He knocks on her door.

Lori answers, as she has been expecting a pizza delivery. It is 5:30 PM.

“I want to start things all over with you from the beginning.” Damien tells a shocked, angry Lori.

“Damien? Get the freak outta here now, or I will call the police!” Lori screams sternly.

“I could doink you every day if you would let me!” Damien says with an evil grin and his usual blank eyes.

“Eeeew, you moron! Get out of here!”

Damien spots his mail-order bride Ha in Lori’s apartment. Ha introduces herself, “Damien is that you?” “Why you love her not me?”

“Come now?” Damien says, startled.

Damien collapses emotionally. He is found out. Damien leaves hoping to dodge the police, failing to accept responsibility since he thinks he can do no wrong..

“I am so glad I showed you his crazy letter,” Lori tells Ha.

“I am so glad we met in that support group online.” Ha confides in Lori.

Screaming is heard emanating from down the street. It cannot be made out. Moments later, sirens begin to wail.

“You dodged a bullet” Ha says.

“We both did.”

“What a moron” they both say, in unison.

“Jinx!”

“Oh he’s jinxed alright!” Lori says and they both giggle as they greet the pizza guy.

Satan Unveils His New Welcome Sign.

As Hell’s Chief Operating Officer Satan unveils his newly procured “Welcome to Hell” sign — shown off by visiting intern Gothic Diana Ross — in-processing clerk for the newly damned Lucy Furr looks at her boss with visible dismay.

“Isn’t our new sign just peachy?” Satan asks Lucy as Diana continues to model by it, nearly getting hit a baker’s dozen times by the devil’s not-so-careful use of the pulley system.

“Couldn’t our money be better spent on improving working conditions? Hiring more people? Fixing the toilets?” asks the bully known for her tormenting of an autistic 20-something on their college trip to Italy.

“You have your own heated place for the rest of your life. Try being more thankful for the things you have,” Satan passive-aggressively demands of his clerk while sporting a devilish grin.

Meanwhile, communal narcadoodle Bernadette Cacca is still waiting to poop. All the other washrooms in Hell are closed for maintenance.

The Midnight Supremes: Stop, In the Name of Death!

Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes sing a number during their “Stop in the Name of Death” tour. Diana tosses a feather boa into the audience. Her obsessed fan and vulnerable narcadoodle Robbie Hurlbutt knocks over a bunch of people to try and catch it, only for it to land in the hands of someone else: Robbie’s boss Wally Green.

How Jen Makes MoronicArts

“The sillies are manufactured in my brain, roll off the conveyor belt, out my hands and onto the paper.”

PS: “Moron” is the Welsh word for carrot.

PPS: Jen makes MixedMoronicArts, too.

Peppi, Bern & The Act of Mating

A wild Peppi Cacca in his natural Manteno habitat utters his mating call.

“Git, git, git” he cries, hoping to mount an approaching Bernadette. Displaying the power of his fragile male ego, the Peppi channels his inner Pepe LePew and tries to kiss the bog witch Bernadette, who runs like a cheetah, hiding; plotting her revenge.

Happy Birthday to The Kibbler!

Kankakee bill collector Sybil Katrina Kibble got mad at her Chrysler LeBaron because it stopped talking to her, and headed out on the bus to grab a treat. Seated ahead of her was Undead Greg Schneissder. “Do you know you’re a zombie?” Sybil asked Mr. Schneissder. Thankfully she kept her brain, because Greg eats poopies to stay alive, he likes the taste better.

Sybil’s ma JoAnn treated her to a Puppacino and she saved the bone for last.

Gothic Diana Ross Tunes In, Tunes Out the Dropouts on the Bus

Life is too short for morons, and Gothic Diana Ross knows it. All she wants to do is ride the bus to go shopping, and leave the driving someone else. Barely catching the bus — and her breath — in this 90-degree Fakeout Summer day in October, the last thing Di needs is a lecture.

“You need to be at the stop when I pull up. I am behind schedule…” the Kankakee bus driver rambles on, blaming his tardiness on his customer again. The bald driver motions toward the slender black beauty, leader of The Midnight Supremes to sit down. She takes off her headphones briefly, asks the driver, “Do I have to pay?”

“You can pay me later.” Diana dons her headset and blasts herself some more Cold Cave.

“You were ten feet from the bus stop sign. You should really listen to my instructions when you board the bus…” the driver continues his tantrum, hoping to blame his customer yet again, or pick a fight, who knows.

“They’re coming to get you…Diana,” Undead Greg Schneissder mockingly says to the unfettered Diana who has heard none of the malarky, rightfully ignoring the nitwit just like she does the moron in the driver’s seat who is supposed to be helping people get from Point A to Point B.

Life is too short to argue with fools who complain to their customers, failing to realize all that wasted time wind-bagging could have been better spent, you know, driving the freaking bus.

Indigestion, Upset Stomach, Pie-o-rrhea!

“Bernadette, your teeth look awful. If you don’t brush them to my standards, you are going to get Pie-o-rrhea.”

“Peoria?”

“If you DON’T brush and floss 8 times a day, you could get an infection that could give you a heart attack.”

“East or North?”

“I’m only telling you this because I lost all my teeth.” 

“Vultures have no teeth.”

“Don’t talk back to me!” the toothless, shapeshifting, humanoid vulture gaslights her daughter.

Bernadette rips a huge fart and lights it, aims the gas blast toward her evil mother’s face, letting her butt do the talking. She has a bad case of Pyro-hhea.

Six! That’s Six Moronic Years! Ah, Ah, Ah.

We made it another year around the Sun. Thank you readers for ingesting these tall tales of the Moroniverse. Yum.