Orange and green with a bent carrot on their jerseys – The Kankakee Bent Carrots would lose every game because they are too busy in-fighting to play ball.
Did you know that “moron” is the Welsh word for “carrots?”
The Hurlbutts get together for their annual Christmas shenanigans. After opening $1000 worth of useless crap from Damien, Kankakee store clerk, covert narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robbie opens the sole gift from his mother. PJ could not wait to give this to Robbie.
Robbie opens his present. “Maaaa, you got this for free from Sybil.”
“It’s an autographed Elvis picture! I got it for you because I know how much you love Elvis.”
“You paid nothing for it. I spent $100 on that Blu-Ray player and the bootleg copy of Dune.”
“Money can’t buy you love, Robbie,” a disappointed PJ advises her spoiled brat son, who is throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old.
“I’ll take it. I can sell it on eBay!” the elder Hurlbutt son Damien tells his little brother Robbie.
The Hurlbutt brothers argue back and forth — after all, that is what narcissists love to do. PJ tries to break up the fight. Meanwhile, smoke is coming from the kitchen.
PJ runs into the kitchen.
“What is that?” Damien inquires.
“The Yule Log,” PJ sarcastically replies.
PJ takes the meat out of the oven just in time to stop a fire, and sends her dorky kids home so she can have a peaceful rest.
Before PJ has a chance to lie down, her best friend Sybil Kibble rings the doorbell.
Are you on the front line battling Hamas? Do you have a neighbor who just grinds your gears? Did Bernadette Cacca stink up your store’s washroom again? Get on people’s nerves using this handy playlist!
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.
“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..
Like most narc-a-doodles, Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt does not sleep well, usually because lies awake dreaming up devious schemes. This is not one of those nights.
“Her toes, her toes, her delicious toes…let me sniff her toes…cover them in barbecue sauce, oh M’Lori, M’lady Madame….”
“Vitals!”
Damien’s audible pillow talk comes to an abrupt halt.
“You okay in there? Time to get your vitals before we install your probe,” says a worker sporting a badge reading “Alternative Fuels Department, Area 51.”
Damien gazes over at the wall-mounted digital clock, which reads 0500 Hours.
“You’re a freak. Your body contains the highest concentration of natural gas we have ever tested here in Dreamland,” the nurse says after they capture Damien’s blood pressure, temperature and pulse oximetry.
Nevermind me – let’s talk about the Manteno, Illinois’ very own Bernadette Moran Cacca – a communal narc-a-doodle.
She sings with the voice of an angel and has the soul of the Devil.
A proverbial wolf-in-sheep clothing, looks are deceiving.
Bernadette does charity work, pretending she cares, just for the photo opportunity.
A port-a-potty proprietor, she burns the port-a-poopies in the fireplace after lighting her farts to spark the fire. She excels at gaslighting in more than one way, because you know, she’s a narcissist.
She is great at pooping and does it a lot.
A master of her domain, she is a swamp witch who is great at luring in unsuspecting men so she can have a Donner dinner party for one.
She excels in annoying her next-door neighbors Gothic Diana Ross & the Midnight Supremes burning poops and practicing her kazoo cover tunes. She is secretly pathologically envious of her neighbors because they are talented and beautiful. Meanwhile she continues to pump out sludge like this:
Bernadette M Cacca YOU’RE THE BEST, Undead Greg! Great to see you!!! Undead Greg: Oh my! This is so much fun. Bernadette Cacca is a goddess. We’re taking over this joint! Thank you for all the great music Miss Bern. Bernadette M Cacca You’re the GOAT!!! Undead Greg: NO YOU!
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.
MoronicArts 
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