“Of all the turd-machines I’ve bought, I love Wally Green’s the most! I get great deals on them, buy one/get one half off (but never free). The other brands just don’t measure up. I love my Turd Machine Deluxes because I can keep my vaults safe to mine Craptocoins the old fashioned way!”
— Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno
Also known as “International Thank A Debt Collector Day”, Kankakee bill-collector Sybil Kibble thinks this day is just keen. Next time she calls, throw her a dog bone or two to celebrate this uniquely moronic holiday (just not the Brand X kind).
“You should get waxed more often! Why don’t you wax your chin!” Carla Moran, Manteno narc-a-doodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture demands and gaslights her only daughter, Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“Do you like getting hair ripped straight out its roots, ma?”
“No, but I do it anyway. Shaving makes the hair grow back thicker.”
“Mind your own business!”
Carla turns up the gas on the lighting:
“You might have got that gig you wanted if you waxed! Don’t you care about your appearance?”
“I tell you what, go start a business waxing people for cash and giggles. People will pay a lot of money for that!”
“Go get a real job, do something with yourself Bernadette!”
“No serious, mom, people will pay you even more if you go to their houses and give them a Brazillian at home. Discretion is cool! Call it, ‘Have Wax, Will Travel.’ I can see your cloaca by the way. You might wanna do something about that. I gotta make a pitstop. Smell ya later!”
Bernadette runs for the washroom in the nearby McD’s, because she has the runs, butt of course!
Then Carla poops on a passing car, because she can. Stupid bird.
“Oh crap! This is better than buying a $23,000 commode!”
“Or dropping a deuce and blaming on my classmates! Aunt Sonya was so proud of me that day,” Bernadette M Cacca reminsices.
“Hey you forgot your smokes!”
Still not aware of the kind stranger returning his ciggybutt cartons, a second person calls out:
“Hey Greg, you forgot your cigarettes.”
Greg grabs the two red packs on which he had been sitting. No longer able to drive, the newly undead Greg had taken the bus to meet up with his lover, Bernadette Cacca at the Manteno Optimal Club where she is performing charity pop covers just for the photo opportunity.
Bern drives Greg home after the gig. Both get lost, not just because someone told them to scram. Fighting over directions, Bern wags her finger and tells her Poopy Groupie “I told you so.”
“What am I going to do with all these NFTs?” asks a puzzled Bernadette.
“What’s an NFT?” the newly undead Greg asks his partner-in-stench.
“Newly formed turds, my turd vault is full! I want to burn them, however they will go bad by the time I burn them all! The craptcoin market is in the toilet!”
Greg gives Bern his trademark devilish grin.
“What about formaldehyde? Don’t you load that into your turd machines?”
Bern folds her arms, turns away from her lover Greg, and walks upstairs to crap.
“You sing like a dying cow!” Bern Cacca yells out her washroom door at her next-door-neighbours The Midnight Supremes, as she pinches a loaf and then burns it in her fireplace. She has unleashed The Kraken.
Enraged, Gothic Diana Ross directs her bandmates so crank their amps up and engage the Marshall Stacks.
Bern peels out her driveway.
Patrick Oswald Splatt is busy in his Kankakee basement, developing his newest useless invention, when a certain Manteno entramanure rings his bell.
“It’s my new killer-app. Siri-al-Killer.”
“Yeah, what can it do for me?”
“It is a virus, designed to mimic Siri. Only it is seriously plotting to kill you.”
“You’re awesome!”
“Thanks. I know.”
“Yeah. So am I, that’s why I want to hire YOU!”
“Young lady, what can I do ya fer?”
“I need to unload my Turd Vault.”
Awkward silence fills the room.
“Your…what?”
“My inventory’s getting stale. I use newly-formed-turds (NFTs) to create Craptcoin. The market really stinks right now and I need to clean out my product.
Pat giggles. It has been a long time and he feels good to laugh at someone else’s expense again.
Pat and Bernadette make a food baby together:
Pat’s junk email go into circular files across the globe. Meanwhile, the craptocoin market falls further into the bowels of the abyss.
Desperate, Bernadette sends out this flyer. She made it herself:
Bernadette slides into her shack, waves to her husband Peppi high off stinky skunkweed, and runs down her basement stairs, nearly falling down and smacking her big mouth on the concrete. She disarms the gate and the two Turd Machines guarding her massive Turd Vault, only to find her precious turd-collection missing.
“Oh no, where did they all go! I bet it was JB the Turd-Burglar, he stole my crap, I just know it.”
Bern’s smell-phone rings, playing her favorite GG Allin song.
Before she has a chance to answer, she spies Undead Greg sitting in a corner of her basement.
“Hey. My turds are gone, Greg!”
“That’s greeaaat.”
“How is that great?“
“They were delicious,” the undead Greg tells his fartner Bernadette. “These things keep me going. Unlike other zombies, I don’t neeeeed to eat rotting flesh. Recycled food is goooood-forrrr-yooooou and tastes better tooooo!”
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.
Neckbeard, communal narcadoodle and Area 51 test subject Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt is busy dreaming up ways to escape his captors from his Dreamland cell.
“Hey Damien, we have an Easter surprise for you!” the guard says to the imprisoned moron who tried to storm the underground Nevada laboratory, thinking he could get away with it.
“Oh boy, oh boy! What is it?” the creepy fool asks, devilish grin spreading across his face and day-glow orange beard. Visions of over-the-top baskets fill his head, not unlike the ones with which he used to love-bomb his targets of potential narcissistic supply.
”If we told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise!”
Damien, filled with glee to be free from his cell and daily flatulence testing at the Alternative Fuel Source Department somewhere deep inside the dry lake-bed known as Groom, the world’s largest source of natural gas is led down the hall. He and the guards make their way past the cafeteria, alien deejays and party at the discotheque.
Hoping to hear some Starland Vocal Band over the intercom, Damien wonders what the staff will give him, to make his afternoon delicious.
Much to the delight of the staff, and the dismay of the nincompoop Damien, the orange neckheard gets hauled into a tiny room and strapped to a table for experimentation ordered by Division Chief Dr. Jen Jenner. A tattoo artist emerges, and begins to carve egg-shaped designs into the narc-a-doodle’s bum for a research project carried out by the Pain Tolerance Department.
HAPPY KIESTER! (OK, you can have that one for free).
Poor George, he’s just not a people person. He and Sybil have different tastes.
Opposites attract, smells repel, unless you’re Bernadette and Peppi Cacca.
Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno, Illinois’ very own entramanure, communal narc-a-doodle and self-proclaimed “Queen of the Plastic Throne” comes back to the shack which she co-habitates with her drunken husband, Peppi.
Her mouth once wide open enough to catch a fly (or two), now sports a look of contempt after having headed home from the widely-attended Chicago “Hands Off” protest.
“A whole bunch of people walked by, and not one person, not even once, took a single video or picture of ME!”
“That’s that dang liberal protest, right?” Peppi asks.
“Yeah.”
“I told ya to vote for that other guy. Let’s go Brandon!” exclaims the bald, squat, beady-eyed, 70-something geezer, reeking of skunky weed made extra skunky, from rolling in the port-a-pee after he had finished a port-a-job.
“They got plenty of video of other people and their signs, some even made the Chicago news! The national news, too! Why not ME? Ever since Aunt Sonya left, people forget how talented I am, how much I do for the world, how much I poop. I have not gotten a single gig since she flew the coop!”
“She’s just busy I’m sure. Sit down with me, relax, we’ll watch The Wonderful World of Dung together.”
“The original or the remake?”
“The remake is streaming now…”
“Oh I hate the remake!”
Bernadette storms up the stairs, into the best room in the house to sit, poop and play accordion.
Her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran flies into town, rams into the Cacca home once again.
“Maaa!”
“I did a fly-by earlier and you weren’t home!”
“I was at the protest up in Chicago! Didnt you know? I can’t wait to tell you how much I did for America! It’s really good for my image–”
“Not now honey, family’s coming over.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Nobody told me about it!”
“I did, you just forgot.” Carla gaslights.
“No you didn’t.”
“Okay, okay, okay, drop it. Just get ready. Take YOUR shower!”
Bernadette continues to poop as her mother sets up the uninvited picnic tables and other crap out back. A committee of shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures fly on down to the House of Cacca to party on down, and pee on her lawn.
“My daughter has a beautiful voice!” Carla brags about her daughter to her family who had just flown in from the next town over to enjoy a feast of freshly squashed roadkill. Her cold heart shines bright in the face of company.
“Where’s Sonya?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s awful rude of her not to come down. I kept calling, she never answered. Did she get the presents I sent her?”
“Why do you even bother?”
“Shall I sing for you guys?” Bernadette interrupts. “I just tuned my accordion and vuvuzela horn! How about a tune?”
“Not now. Maybe later. I’ve got something to show you!” Carla’s evil grin begins to creep over her face.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a surprise. Come with us.”
They peck, umm, pack into the van like a band of mad clowns and drive over to the hospital in Kankakee.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“We’re going to the hospital!”
“Did somebody die?”
“No.”
“Get hurt, have a heart attack? I wanna know.”
“No, Bernadette.”
The Morans park their van and then walk down into the basement of the hospital, towards a sign marked “Central Sterile Supply.”
“I’m giving you a tour.”
“Of the hospital basement?”
“Yeah. I used to work here when you were little. Time for you to get a real job!”
Bernadette runs away as fast as she can, screaming, cursing and singing show-tunes.
“They, they—they do vivisection in here!” Bernadette exclaims madly as she busts on out the door.
A few locals shake their collective heads at the sight. Just another day in Kankakee.
The port-a-dump proprietor is eventually rounded up and taken in for an evaluation, just not the occupational kind.
After a few hours, Bernadette’s drug test comes back negative and the nurse sends her home. She calls her husband on her smell-phone and of course he does not answer, so she walks home.
A few Kankakee County residents spot Bernadette walking down the road, point and laugh.
“Don’t make fun of me or I will find you attractive!”
“Say what?”
“We saw you on TV!”
“TV? What?” asks a puzzled Mrs. Cacca.
Bernadette begins to grin a bit, visions of people praising her for holding up social justice signs fill her mind, even though she only does it just to look good on the outside.
“Yeah, you ran out of the hospital screaming like a looney bird! You’re a meme now!”
“I MEME AM WHAT?”
“OMG It’s the meme girl! I want a picture with her!”
Bernadette crawls into a nearby bog and takes a massive dump. It smells like someone died over there, or maybe it was just her ego.
“Since that party last week in the break room set the sprinkler system off, the ventilation system is all jacked up. We need to do some work ‘round here and move some people”, CRASS Maintenance Manager Mikey Philips tells Collections Team Lead Sybil Kibble.
Head-pounding bangs and fart-like drills are heard, making it hard to get calls made. A smoke-like, horse-manure stench emerges from a cubicle near Sybil’s. Sybil gets up to investigate.
“Smokey? Why are you smoking? Go outside. I do not want to smell that.”
“Oh, they moved me due to the construction going on. I sit near you now. Nice boots, Ms. Kibble!”
“Get on the phones and put your butt out now!”
Sybil walks away and reads the posted sign: “CONSTRUTION – WATCH YOU’RE STEP”
“Yeah, they construe things around here: spelling and grammar!” Sybil wisecracks and steps back to her cube.
Sybil calls a few debtors and logs off the autodialer. The poopy stench continues to waft her way. Sybil clogs her way over to Smokey again.
“Smokey? You have not made a single call!”
“Oh, just one more puff!”
“Get to work! This is a verbal warning!” Sybil sternly tells Smokey.
Sybil grimaces at the loud pounding and drilling, as well as the tobacco clouds eminating from Smokey’s cube. She logs onto her autodialer and collects more debts from her clients’ numbers.
After a particularly stressful escalated call, Sybil logs off the phones and puts her head down. Tired and hangry, she smells the crappy smoke. “I bet she is still horsing around.”
Sybil approaches Smokey, who is slouched down in her chair, her ear in her mobile phone. She is clearly not calling her debtors!
“That’s the witch. Blonde hair, reading glasses, black and white outfit with heeled boots.”
“Come into my office, NOW!” Sybil orders Smokey.
“No! I do what I want!” Smokey shouts at Sybil and continues her mobile phone conversation.
Sybil storms over to her cube to devise a plan.
Smokey leaves for lunch, and to buy more cigarettes, of course.
Sybil goes to Smokey’s cube and takes her ashtrays, goes out back and tosses them into the dumpster. She thoroughly checks her cubicle for any other ashtrays. Sybil then takes her trashcan and moves it to her own cubicle, stopping to dump any butts onto Smokey’s desk. “Since she is not doing any work, she does not need this, hahaha.” Sybil hides the trashcan behind her desk. Sybil then takes all the cups out of the break room and hides them in her cubicle, in case Smokey wants to use them for her butts.
Smokey returns for “work” and plops her bum down in her chair. “Dang, where my ashtray go?”
Smokey begins to pace around the office. She looks up and down the office for an ashtray.
“Dale, handsome fella, got an ashtray?”
“Nope. Do some work.”
“Linda, got an ashtray, my sweet friend?”
“No!”
“Mikey! Hey my cool dude! Got an ashtray?”
“I am trying to do some work here.”
Smokey spends the entire day pacing around the office bothering people.
“Hey Smokey!”
“Mr. Avelli! Oh, Mack, you look so handsome! Hey, do you have a—“
“Yes, I have your termination papers right here. Now go clean out your desk. You’re fired. You have thirty minutes to gather your belongings. We will mail your final paycheck, minus today’s payday as you did not do any work.”
MoronicArts 
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