Kankakee bill collector and dog-food enthusiast Sybil Kibble helped her ma JoAnn create a Fakebook account. Next, she is going to help her make one of them FaceCalls so she can bug people about her school-bus parts collection and her squirrel-watching adventures.
In walks Bern Cacca holding hands with her new lover, JB The Turd Burglar. Since her hubby Peppi is living in a half-way house, Bern thinks it is okay to date other men, including fellow communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt. After all, what Peppi does not know won’t hurt him, thinks the self-proclaimed community pillar of excellence and Queen of the Porcelain Throne.
The Manteno moron spies her next-door-neighbor, Gothic Diana Ross, minding her own business drinking a caramel latte. Of course, Bern thinks it is cute to flex, as if Diana cares. “JB whispered in my ear some awesome news!” Diana rolls her eyes and looks away, keeping her mild amusement hidden beneath her stoic visage.
“Someone re-made the show ‘The Wonderful World of Dung’ and we are gonna watch it tonight!”
Diana changes her mind about eating the delicious Buckstars popcorn she had just bought.
Are you spending less time than ever posting on the antisocial media that is Facebook?
So am I. Take this group, a chronic pain “support” group. A fellow spoonie asked what we do to distract our mind from pain. I replied with an article detailing my number one coping skill you know, to help others who also are in a crapton of pain.
As someone who despises pyramid schemes, snake oils and other woo (unlike the fictional Doris Krabalsky), I felt appalled at the moron(s) removing my number coping skill.
I dunno, maybe the micromanaging admins are secretly sadists.
Needless to say, I added that group to my ever-growing chopping block, downsizing my social media presence to reduce stress.
I have stories to write, pictures to draw, songs to sing and a cat to love.
Yes, that “support group” removed my cat video, along with the article describing my process for learning a new language well enough to write a song for my beloved kitty.
That’s okay, my cat did not like those admins either.
For solely pretending to care, I award this micromanaging “support-group” admin Moron of the Week. Writing helps me cope with pain, so I thank you for the story idea. You’re welcome for the award, you earned it.
Raven reviews about the bird convention to end all bird conventions: CorvidCon! All corvids invited, all ages, all species. Coming soon to a yard near you! Please bring a friend.
Bourbonnais cinema clerk, love-fraudster and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt prints up a bunch of business cards and leaves them around Kankakee County businesses, hoping to spring a date. He is hoping to meet a new lady since his ex – whom he calls “Grimace” – had divorced him to escape his idealize, devalue and discard campaign.
DAMIEN ULYSSES HURLBUTT
SINGLE NICE GUY
SEEKS M’LADY FOR
FREE MOVIE TICKETS
815-555-FART
Scammers call. Damien answers with great expectations, thinking they are interested in this self-proclaimed “nice guy.”
“Hi M’Lady M’dame” Damien answers.
“Is this Damien….Ummm….Hurlbutt?”
“You got ‘em.”
“Hi. I am calling to report your Social Security card has been disabled.”
“Oh hi puddin’. I see you got my card. I think you are really pretty. Can I see your feet?”
“There is a warrant under your name. We are going to send the cops…”
“Nice guys like me finish last. I almost closed my heart off forever until I met you.”
“Please send me $500 on a Wally Green’s gift card or you will be arrested.”
“You know what? I can will myself out of heart attacks. You ladies are so rude!”
A click and a dial tone are heard.
Prankers call:
“Hello. Is this Damien?”
“Speaking.”
“You just won a lifetime subsciption to Feetsniffers’ Monthly!”
“I did! Oh, wow! Oh boy, oh boy, oh–”
“You moron, it’s a prank…”
The caller hangs up and a disappointed Damien’s smile turns upside down.
Pyramid scheme peddlers call.
“Hey, Babe.”
“Oh heyyyy honey puddin’” Damien replies to the lady caller.
“Umm, hi.”
“Heyyyy. What is a little and dainty lady want with an oaf like me?” Damien drools all over his flip phone.
“I have a great weight loss product that can take you from chump to champ in no time.”
“Come now!”
“Go now!” The lady hangs up on Damien.
Then Doris Krabalsky, the notorious street pyramid schemer calls. Damien hangs up. Doris calls again but Damien blocks her call because he does not want anything she might be selling.
Doris hides her number from caller ID and tries to call Mr. Hurlbutt again.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Damien?”
“Who is this?” Damien asks.
“I really think you are cute. Let’s go out sometime.”
“Wait, who is this?” a nervous Damien queries.
“Doris Krabalsky. My sister Leona called you about the weight loss pills. These babies will change your life, hun! I can meet you under the I-57 interchange at Midnight.”
“That flipping phone!” Damien screams as he slams his phone down, and flips the world the bird.
“Fifth time today. Who is this moron?” Kankakee student and barista Ant D. Yu asks his partner.
“Hang up.” Dorian James says to Ant.
“Brandon’s Imbecile Machines. That’s it – I am blocking these fools.”
A knock is heard and Ant checks the peephole. The uninvited guest pounds the doorknocker.
Ant greets the visitor: “Oh, hi Sybil.”
“Hey Ant. Do you have any dog food? I am hungry,” the Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) bill collector inquires.
“No Sybil. I told you before. We do not have a dog. But thanks for stopping by.”
“Okay. I did not know if you guys change your mind.”
“Have a good day Sybil.”
Ant closes the door, a disappointed Sybil Kibble heads back to her McMansion down the street. Her pleas for free dog food have all been met with disappointment. As she walks into one of her three garages, she checks her caller ID:
“BRANDON’S IMBECILE MACHINES
KANKAKEE, IL”
Sybil sees that this entity has called twelve times in the past three days and because of this, she blocks their number from calling again. She then heads inside and munches down on some dry doggie chow.
Manteno singer Gothic Diana Ross, leader of The Midnight Supremes, is busy pulling up her black fishnet stockings when her phone lights up.
“Who is this?” Di thinks to herself and checks her screen.
“Brandon’s Imbecile Machines? Block.”
The Midnight Supremes all cackle in unison.
Brandon Dixon, owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machines, is getting frustrated by the lack of response to the new phone campaign for his lifted truck lot.
Ant Yu gets a call from an unknown number. He is in the habit of screening his calls and lets it go to voicemail. The next day, he checks his messages. Since “Brandon” had asked him to return his call without having given him a reason, Ant deletes the crapage and blocks the time-waster’s number.
Sybil gets a voicemail from Brandon and deletes it. Gothic Diana Ross does as well.
Brandon is again frustrated by the nonexistent return on his low-budget marketing investment for his overcompensated vehicle lot.
After seeing this commercial many times on PooTube, he calls up Kankakee huckster Pat Splatt.
The two team up with Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist Robbie Hurlbutt, to try and spam people all over Kankakee.
Pat Oswald Splatt, or POS for short, develops a Fakebook virus to steal accounts for Brandon. It is disguised as a video featuring a picture of Sybil Kibble eating dog bones. Robbie Hurlbutt had covertly taken it using his mobile phone when he had briefly worked at CRASS.
“Check this out, Robbie and Brandon!”
With a cheesy grin, Pat shows off his newly minted virus, disguised as a video, which he plans on sliding into Fakebook Martplace instant message boxes all over Kankakee County.
“Kankakee bill collector eats dog food for lunch” reads the caption below the fake video that is really a virus.
“Once people click on this pretend video, the virus will send you and I the users’ login credentials. We will start by replying to Fakebook Martplace ads. That way we will find suckers really easily.”
Pat, Robbie and Brandon share evil grins.
“I based the virus off code I used to program a broken 1989 Atari emulator, accidentally broken on purpose. Those were my script kiddie days, back when I used to try and own noobs.”
“You are a noob, Pat.” Robbie snickers.
Pat launches the virus and Robbie gets ready to collect the login credentials so he can pool them into a spreadsheet.
Days go by…nothing.
Pat tests the virus and it is operational.
“Are you sending the virus out, Pat? I am paying you to do this.” Brandon asks.
“I am sending but nobody is a-clickin.”
“How about we step it up and generate a whole bunch a windows?” Brandon asks Pat.
“Good idea.”
Pat modifies the virus code to replicate multiple windows featuring Sybil Kibble enjoying her canine cookies, Sybil stretching at her desk and a close-up of Sybil from behind. The recursive windows end up crashing some computers, however most machines fail to get infected at all; the ancient technology powering the virus gets caught by even the most basic pop-up killer.
Brandon storms in on a sleeping Pat Oswald Splatt, dreaming of opening up his very own click-farm, curled up in his computer chair listening to a Robbie Hurlbutt video on a loop.
“That’s it, I want my money back! I made nothing off your crappy viral marketing campaign!”
“Who-what-um-who is this? Hello?”
“Quit the drama! I want my money back!”
“Oh, hi Brandon.”
“Don’t hi Brandon me. I need my money back and I need it right now!”
“You will get your money back alright. Your bank charge failed because you had no money. You cheap fool!” The smug Pat exclaims at Brandon, falling out his squeaky metal chair.
Brandon laughs at Pat, pointing and mocking.
“Oopsie.” Pat giggles, gets up and chases out Brandon, who is now left to his own devices.
Poor Brandon and all those unsold compensation-mobiles.
Kankakee inventor, drugstore owner and wannabe ladies’ man Wally Green is frosted because he did not think of this idea first. Survey not included.
https://odditymall.com/cvs-receipt-scarf
Kankakee art student, sociopath and junk-emailer Pat Splatt advertises on a pirate radio station his spam-for-hire schemes. He is too lazy to get a real job, so he offers a CD containing 9,000,000 “live” email addresses he freshly harvested, all illegally of course..
Kankakee covert narcissist, Elvis impersonator and wannabe ladies’ man Robbie Hurlbutt is busy staring himself in the mirror and kissing his Gothic Diana Ross posters, only to be interrupted by a call from his mother PJ Hurlbutt.
“Robbie, you need to come over.”
“I’m busy.”
“It is imperative that you come over.”
Robbie drives his clown car over to PJ’s house, and pulls into her driveway.
“Hi Mom. What’s up?”
“I need your help moving stuff in the basement up here. I need to sell some things.”
“Ask your neighbor Sybil to do it,” Robbie demands.
“Why won’t you help your mother? I am living on a fixed income, I need you to call D-Mobile about my bill. Then I need you to wash my underwear and fold it.”
“I don’t have time. Look, Mom, I gotta run.”
PJ goes into a long tangent about her love of Lawrence Welk, her medical problems, and her thoughts on Millennials.
“Alright! I will do the chores! I am in a dark mood, and you’re being cold to me!” Robbie gaslights his mother, playing the victim because he does not wish to help anyone but himself.
PJ watches Lawrence Welk, cranking up the volume to get petty revenge on her even pettier son Robbie.
MoronicArts 
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