Tag: gothic diana ross

Bird on a hot tin roof.

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“I have hope for the first time in my life right now.”


“Diana are you okay?” Gothic Mary puts her palm on her sister Diana’s forehead. A small wildlife rehabilitation van bearing yellow markings, a small done light and the words “Raptor Division” passes by Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes.

“And there it goes…”

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and self-righteous narcadoodle Carla Moran comes in for a landing atop next her daughter’s shack next door, her carefully coiffed blonde strands all a shaggy mess from the rain.

“I was hoping that was a hearse. The Grim Reaper is taking all the wrong people.”

Carla takes a dump atop the roof and calls out to Bernadette.

“Did you confirm those gigs at the Optimal Club yet?” Carla takes a drag off her cigarette.

“Yeah, why?”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure?”

“Your clothes are on half-past cock-eyed!” Carla growls at her daughter.

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice!” communal narcadoodle and part-time bog witch Bernadette Moran Cacca squawks back.

“No-wrong!”

“OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK!”

“Drop it! End of discussion! Don’t cry, I’ll give you something that will MAKE YOU CRY!”

Bernadette flushes her dump and hits submit on her newest Craptocoin scam dressed up in a bow as a fundraiser gig for charity.

Rap duo The Chickenheads Doug “D-Fail” Failure and his buddy Tyrell “Ty-Fowl” park their shiny imbecile machine across the street and begin to perform on The Caccas lawn while Bernadette and her mother peck at each other. Subwoofers cranked to the max rattle the rafters of every structure within a block’s radius.

“We’re poor, we’re poor and we don’t score. We’re poor, we’re poor and we don’t score. Every shot we make is a whiff, my car’s broke down and I need a spliff!”

“Now, now now, we don’t talk about those things here.” Carla wags her steel talon at the entertainment on the lawn as she clutches her pearls.

“Maaaa! They’re just practicing!”

“Practicing what?”

“They are the headliners for the Manteno Optimal Club’s charity blowout bash!”

Carla audibly drags out her signature sigh.

“Calm down. You’re too sensitive!” the avian changeling gaslights her equally skeevy daughter. Red, yellow and white lights can be in the distance, growing ominously brighter, closer. “Oh man Ma, what did you do, call the cops?”

“I would never!”

“If the Manteno Optimal Club loses this gig we they could pull our funding! After all I’ve done for them!”

The glowing lights close in on their target.

A blue beam strikes up the band, into their spaceship, flies clear outta Dodge.

Carla and Bernie just stand there, pieholes aghast.

“Just another day in Illinois,” Gothic Flo quips as the three singing sisters make their way into their Gothic Victorian home.

Gothic Diana Ross and her singing siblings drive their black 1988 Chrysler Conquest north to Chicago to plan out their next gig. Unbeknownst to them, a certain little pest is following them. Thankfully, she gets cut off while trying to merge her Crapmobile over to the next lane and misses her exit off 90/94.

“Wow, Lollapalooza, this would be our first time! Dang…” Gothic Flo politely exclaims to her siblings as they walk down the hall to hopefully shake hands with the festival’s booking manager. A lot of chatting takes place behind closed doors, then the ladies are given a tour of the building and shown the stage layout map. As they negotiate their contract, Bernadette Cacca butts right in, barging right past the gothic trio. “Oh hey, thank you for letting me park here. I would like to talk to you about portapotties, because I know all about poop!”

“Lady, how did you get in here?”

“Oh, I just told the security guard that these ladies are my friends.”

“Diana, do you know this nitwit?”

“She’s our idiot neighbor Bernadette, always interrupting our business to talk about HER business.”

“Yes, and I can save you money on portapotties! My husband and I are King and Queen of the plastic throne! I could talk dookie all day! And sing about it too! You can dookie in the morning, you can dookie in the night, you can dookie in the toilet, you can dookie on the floor”

Gothic Diana Ross rolls her eyes, cracks a Mona Lisa grin and puts her head down into her palms while her sisters shake their heads in unison.



Down in Nevada’s High Desert in a dry lake known as Groom, a certain captured trespasser, communal narcissist and smelly neckbeard who had abused his ex-wife is sawing a forest. In walks a tall female guard, interrupting the world’s largest source of natural gas as he dreams of feet and pool toys in his cell at Area 51’s Alternative Fuels Division.


“Hey Damien! How would you like to compete in the Area 51 talent show?”

“Yeah…no.”

“There will be prizes.”

“Food? I’m tired of eating corn…”

“Nope. But we will let you wear your fedora.”

“Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy!” Damien gets up and behind to dance around.

“Come with us. It’s on now.”

“Can I pee first?”

“As long as you keep it down. You whizz rather loudly.”

Damien drains his lizard, washes his hands for about five minutes, nearly flooding the bathroom.

“Come on dude, you’re gonna be late!”

“I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! I know! “

Damien eventually emerges from the latrine and is escorted by the guard and two others at the tightly controlled secure facility to their disco floor.



As everyone finds their seats at the amphitheater, the lights are dimmed, the lasers begin to flash and the disco ball starts to spin.

“Welcome everyone to the annual Area 51 talent show! Out first group is from Illinois! Everybody give it up for The Chickenheads and Damien Hurlbutt!” Emcee Jörg Fenslau announces.

A frown turns Damien’s beard upside down.

Ty-Fowl elbows Damien.

“All ya gotta do is dance, brother.”


The playback music booms from the PA system and the Chickenheads begin to rap “My Flows is Tight” by Lord Digga while Damien just stands there with his arms folded and frowns. Then he farts.

“Thank you guys that was…interesting.. Nice job on the butt-trumpet solo!”

A slow clap wafts from the audience as the rap group exits the stage.

“From our sister location in nearby Dulce, New Mexico, our next act really knows how to party! Everybody show some love for The Rep-Toids!”



A massive swarm of reptilian space aliens join a handful of basic greys who entertain the crowd with their precisely choreographed version of “Move Your Body” by Eiffel 65. The bass is thumping, the music is pumping, everybody gets down and boogies. Euphoria fills the air and people feel a sense of togetherness they haven’t felt in the longest time at the Area 51 Discotheque.

Emcee Jörg takes the podium.

“Thank you guys, that was super. Give up a round of applause for our competitors!”

The crowd roars.


“Judges, who did you decide?”

“Oh, the Chickenheads for sure.”

“Definitely The Chickenheafds.”

“I vote Chickenheads also.”

“Okay, it is unanimous. We have ourselves a loser! The Price is Right losing horn blasts.

Everybody wave bye bye to The Chickenheads as we crown our new security guards with a huge pay grade increase! Now get to work!”

The reptilians escort Damien with his new cellmates Doug and Tyrell to their home at Area 51, flashguns pointed at their backs the whole time, then lock them up behind bars where they belong.

“Do they serve breakfast burritos here?” Ty asks Damien who turns over in his bed and kicks his legs.

The sun is setting in Manteno.

“Hey Bernadette, would you like to go for a ride?”

“Who-wha-what-how-whatcha-where-why-wha?”

“Yeah, we’d like to talk to you about a gig.” Gothic Mary deadpans.

“A gig?”

“A really good singing gig. We know some people in Chicago.”

“Okay, let’s go!”

The Midnight Supremes drive over to the nearby riverfront and park their car. Behind them, unbeknownst to Bernadette is a rather large metal latticework structure painted orange-and-white. A basket is affixed to the top of the mast.“

“Hey, would you like to sit down and talk about the gig?”

“You’re the GOAT!”

“No, you!” The three ladies share a subtly sarcastic laugh.

“Since you’re the guest of honor, how about you climb up first?”

The 5’4” plump portapotty princess climbs up the metal ladder without hesitation and sits in the orangey lattice basket.

“Ladies, are you ready?”

“Heck yeah!”

“Okay! 1-2-3…YEET!”

Gothic Diana Ross pulls the plunger and flings Bernadette into the river, laughing her bum off along with her sisters as their annoying neighbor makes a splash for everyone at the riverfront to see and hear.

After spitting out some freshwater and dirt, the washed up Bernadette Cacca attempts to ask “so what’s this about a gig?”

“Oh, we’re excited to announce that we’re doing Lollapalooza and you’re not!”

“See ya see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!” The three singer harmonize, bow, snap their fingers unison and then drive away.

“That yeeting station worked great!” a couple of kids giggle as their father just stands there and smirks.

Behind the Moroniverse – Character Theme Songs

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

What kind of songs do the denizens of the Moroniverse like? Here’s a list. Have fun!

Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble misses eating King Kuts dog food.

JoAnn Kibble raps along to this safety song while rearranging her collection of school bus parts.

Robbie Hurlbutt sure thinks he’s number one.

Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt used to jam out to this tune while driving to work at the Teirant Cinema-13, before he got captured trying to storm Area 51.

Wacky inventor and drugstore owner Wally Green doesn’t accept “no” for an answer when he thinks he has found the magnet to his steel.

Konrad Teirant plays a lot of Dirty Games.


Bernadette M. Cacca had loved her Turd Machine Deluxe so much, she went out and bought 19 more of them.


Gothic Diana Ross turns the men upside down with her long, long notes.

Ant D. Yu was having fun spinning this tune at the Manteno Optimal Club until Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies had showed up and made a stink. Word has it he still plays it when she’s not there.


Pat Splatt loves spammity spam, spam spam spam, beautiful spam spam spam spam.


Brandon Dixon thinks his tractor…mmm…imbecile machine is sexy.


One half of the rap group The Chickenheads, Tyrell “Ty-Fowl” Fowler burps along to this song:


MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt’s Pool Toys

~ Jen ~ 3 Comments

“Why does your brother Damien keep buying pool toys in the middle of Winter?” Wally Green asks his Illinois pharmacy-chain clerk, Kankakee Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist, Robbie Hurlbutt.

Robbie says nothing, chooses to ignore his boss and keeps on stocking shelves as he hopes to leave early so he can skip out on closing.

“Has he moved a body or something?” Wally says of Robbie’s equally creepy and narcissistic brother Damien.

Robbie ignores Wally, finishes stocking and sneaks out the door while the store owner is not looking so he can head down to the bar. First, he has to meet his speedball dealer.

Robbie, high on uppers, spends 20 minutes chatting up the bartender, while other customers grow impatient and angry as he is holding up the mixing of their cocktails and the pouring of their beers.

Robbie downs his downers and chases them with prescription painkillers he stole from his elderly mother PJ.

The inebriated Elvis impersonator texts his brother Damien, hoping he will join him and take him home, however after multiple selfies and text messages saying how much he loves his brother, Damien does not reply.

Cinema-13 clerk, bulbous neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt strokes his dayglow-orange facial coiffe, and sets out a clipboard containing a sign-up sheet requesting email addresses for a newsletter. A theater customer walks up to the movie theater counter and asks what the newsletter is about. “It’s just a newsletter,” the sneaky narcissist Damien replies in his typical smug tone.

After the picture finishes its run and the ushers escort all the guests, Damien collects the newsletter sign-up sheet and heads to his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest to sleep on the floor. Before he can retire for the night, he get annoyed over the mess of texts and photos from his brother Robbie. Damien would rather sleep in his mess of plastic tubs, and boxes of the things he loves more than people, than head back to Kankakee to pick up a drunk. Thinking he can gain something from helping his brother, he drives down to the Kankakee bar at which Robbie is performing slurred Elvis Presley Karaoke. The two bumbling idiots get into Damien’s beat-up van and head home. 

“What about my purple clown car?” Robbie asks Damien.

“Get it tomorrow.”

Damien gets a text from a coworker whose birthday is coming up soon. Knowing well it is illegal to text and drive, Damien messages his coworker, lovebombing her about the $50 gift card he is going to buy her, bragging about the surprise she clearly expressed she did not feel comfortable accepting.

After nearly crashing, Damien flips off the other driver and heads to Robbie’s Kankakee apartment, crashing on his floor instead.

Damien and Robbie wake up to snow on the ground. Damien retells the same story about his father N. Ron’s obsession with the weather channels he has already bored Robbie with at least 80 times now. Robbie leaves the room, stumbling on record albums he dumped all over the floor to get to the bathroom. Even though he is terrified of getting locked in the washroom while pooping, Robbie wants to get away from Damien.

Robbie emerges, and Damien pulls out the newsletter sign-up sheet, filled with names and email addresses. “Hey Robbie, my number-one brother? I would love to ask a favor from you. Can you contact Pat Splatt and try to sell him these email addresses? I collected them to send out messages getting out the good things us tender-hearts at the Bourbonnais Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) Club can do to help us men fight misandry. I would like to sell him a copy because I need the money to buy my coworkers gifts. I spent my paycheck already on action figures.

“What’s in it for me?” Robbie asks his equally self-centered brother Damien.

“Well, our theater has an extra Gothic Diana Ross poster from when we sponsored her show a couple years back.”

“Sold.” Robbie grins ear-to-ear and dials up Kankakee criminal and email spammer Pat Splatt.

The Hurlbutt brothers drive over to Pat Splatt’s flat, where the straggly long-haired Pat is busy harvesting emails from the Internet using his Spam-O-Matic computer program. The three group together to organize their petty crime. 

“Damien, I can pay you per email reply, that’s it.”

“Oh come now!”

“Oh go now, Damien. That is my final offer. Take it or leave it. I don’t have to offer you anything.”

“I know, I know, I know…” Damien says like a broken record, mimicking a certain furniture commercial emanating from Champaign. 

Damien reluctantly hands Pat the photocopied sign-up list containing contact information he collected from unsuspecting moviegoers.

Damien then heads to Wally Green’s to buy more pool toys and chucks them in his bathroom. After whizzing, he washes his hands with far more water than he needs and sprinkles the water all over the bathroom floor, leaving on the bathroom light and fan because he does not care.

Damien begins typing up his MRA “newsletter” in a word-processor program on his 10 year old desktop computer, resting atop a wooden folding table, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. The rotund neckbeard emails his diatribe while wearing his graphic tee displaying the text:

“I can 

EXPLAIN 

it to you

But I can’t

UNDERSTAND

it for you.”

A few days go by, however nobody takes Damien up on his offer to join the Bourbonnais MRA Club. Nobody clicks on the ads for the 21 Conference either. 

Damien realizes he needs to get ready for work now so he can make it on time after taking his two-hour shower.

Mr. Hurlbutt walks into the theater barely on-time. His boss, theater owner Konrad Teirant, calls him into his office.

Damien’s heart sinks and he utters a melodramatic “gulp” as he walks over to Konrad’s office.

“Damien, you really dropped the ball this time. I have been receiving numerous complaints from customers who have been getting emails about some misogyny club.”

“What?“

“This is unacceptable. They told me they signed up for a newsletter here? I never ordered you to or anyone else to put out a call for contact information. Do you want me to get sued?”

“Well…no” an embarrassed-because-caught Damien tells his boss.

“Damien, you have been working here a long time. You know that if we want to gather contact information so we can sell it, that would come from me. And only so I can profit, not you Damien. You’re not that important. Not at all. In fact, I can fire you at any time. I am telling you that because I am your friend. Oh by the way, why do you wear that dumb fedora? It looks stupid. And wash your beard. It smells. Don’t tell anyone we had this meeting. Go home and stay home the rest of this week. I will call you about next week’s hours.”

An excited Damien rushes home to play with his pool toys because he is happy he has the week off, not wondering at all if his boss will even call him back to work the next week.

Where’s the Beef?

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Kankakee bill collector Sybil Katrina Kibble sighs. No matter how many times she turns the key in her car’s ignition, its engine would rather fart and shart than start.

“Stupid freaking LeBaron!”

Much to her chagrin, Sybil’s Chrysler Boxmobile doesn’t talk back to her this time.

“Oh man, I’d much rather talk to my car than to those stupid morons on the bus…I wish they would get better hobbies instead of bothering people. Read a book or something…”

A very tired Sybil waits at the nearest stop, pays her fare and sits down in a seat toward the middle of the city bus. She avoids looking at the other riders, and instead gawks at the bus’ console instead.

“I wonder if Ma has seen that new parking brake design. I haven’t seen it in her bus-parts collection yet,” Sybil thinks to herself, bobbing her head to the mumble-country music playing through her headphones.

Sybil’s already tense heart races as she witnesses the unthinkable:

Pris Dixon, wife of Brandon Dixon who owns the local imbecile machine lot, uses her young daughter as a punching bag. “How dare you disrespect me!” Pris yells at the innocent child.

“What are you doing? What the heck are you doing?” Sybil yells to Pris as she intervenes to stop the violence. As grumpy as Sybil can get, she has enough of a conscience to at least help an innocent child who cannot defend herself, because duh!

“Mind ya own business!”

Pris calls Sybil every name in the book.


“It’s everybody’s business! It’s illegal to hit an adult, it’s illegal to hit a child!”

“Wanna go? I’mma gon’ kick yo’ butt!”


“Oh, grow up now.” Sybil shakes her head and waves away Pris.

“Stop it ladies!” the bus driver yells out, and Sybil flashes a thumbs-up. Sybil saves the video she had secretly recorded on her phone, pushes up her glasses and breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls the cord to get off the bus just in time for work.

Miss Kibble logs onto the Collect-o-Matic 2000 and makes her first phone call. Sybil can’t wait for the weekend after yet another long, stressful week during these strange times.

It’s now Sunday, April 31st at the Manteno Cantina and Optimal Club. This week’s live entertainment is ready to start.

“Hi! I’m Mr. JB, but you can call me Mister Beef! I’m your host today here at the Manteno Optimal Club! Get ready contestants, cuz we’re gonna play…What’s Your Beef? Now our fine contestants are going to all meet in the ring and answer one simple question. Whoever is still standing will win our grand prize of One Million Craptocoins, generously donated by the queen of the porcelain throne herself, Mrs Bernadette Cacca!”

A slow clap emanates from the audience.

“Now, contestants, hear me loud and clear. I will only ask you all this question once: Does whipped cream go on cake?”

“Ding ding ding!” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran rings the bell with her beak, then returns to her regularly scheduled preening.

“Now I’m getting hungry for some burritos, I’m gonna go in the back and find the beef!”

JB walks into the kitchen storage room and starts berating the staff. Loud arguing can be heard. Meanwhile, the contestants just stand there and look at each other.

“Whipped cream is not frosting, it’s whipped cream.”

“Yeah, why do people put that crap on cake? So boring.”

“Yeah…no, I would never put whipped cream on a cake. I want my cake and I’m gonna eat it too!”

The contestants share a laugh. Bog witch, communal narcadoodle and entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca yawns and rubs her eyes. Meanwhile, the cantina patrons watch the local news on the venue televisions. A reporter comes on the screen detailing a story why the Kankakee police looking for Pris Dixon, airing the evidence Sybil Kibble had secretly recorded and sent along with her report.

“Why does this JB, JBeef whateverhisface moron have such a big following on teh interwebs anyway?”

“Beats me.”

“Brainrot.”

“Yeah, anything for skibidi clicks I suppose…”

The contestants collectively shrug and look out at the bored audience, however this does not last long. Their boredom suddenly got jump-scared by a typical denizen of the Moroniverse: A loud thump shakes the cantina wall as a rather rotund, middle-aged woman comes busting through the door.

“Hey, I heard there’s some kind of Beefeater game?”

“Child abuser!” the crowd points at Pris, whom they recognize immediately after having seen her ugly mug on the TV news.

“Adult abuser!” the cooks point at Mr. Beef as he emerges from the kitchen after having chewed them out as if he were Gordon Ramsay or something.

“You want a piece of me?” Pris eggs on the crowd.

“Meet me in the ring, baby! JB smirks at the crowd with his giant set o’ choppers, his cold, soulless eyes stare into the abyss before the rage consumes him as he enters the ring. Both bumbling nitwits cannot wait for the attention and of course – social media cred.

Pris climbs up onto the stage and drops her ghetto blaster.

“Ow, ow, ow, my foot!”

She had wanted to crank up some tunes by the copyright-simps Metallica, but oh well — too bad, so sad.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” Carla rings the bell with her steel talons.

JB blasts some butt-trumpet tunes in his opponent’s general direction.

Pris chucks a beer can at JB and of course misses, spilling that poor lager everywhere. Awww those poor hops, sacrificed for nothing..

JB dances around the ring, puts his hands to his ugly head and flips the bird with not only one but both hands! Wow — what a move! So creative.

Pris charges at JB like the raging beast she is, slips on the beer she had spilled, and hits her head on the concrete floor of the ring.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Pris calls out to the crowd for help, but nobody cares.

Gothic Diana Ross, The Midnight Supremes and their boyfriends point and laugh at the mess.

“Ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead!” they gleefully sing as they head out the door to drive home in the black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.

The patrons and staff all begin to walk out, they’ve had enough.

JB and Bernadette round up all the craptocoins, close up the joint and drive to Manteno. Bernadette loads them back into her basement Turd Vault, arms the two Turd Machine Deluxes guarding it and runs up the washroom. Then she poops.

Five days later, Pris’ dead body is found by a restaurateur after some customers at a nearby joint complain about “that nasty barbecue sauce smell next door,” demanding a refund.

Fertilized Minds

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.
View all responses

“This skunkweed ain’t skunky enough. Gotta add more port-a-pee.”
– Peppi Cacca, Fartner, Peppi’s Portapotties


“Not more flatulence testing! Stop feeding me corn and send me home!”
– Damien Hurlbutt, world’s largest source of natural gas, test subject at Area 51’s Alternative Fuels Division

“I keep circling and circling…I’m getting hangry…gotta be some fresh carrion around here somewhere.”
– Carla Moran, Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, Sterile supply technician


“These dog bones are making me constipated! I want a refund!”
– Sybil Kibble, bill collector, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS)


“What are they burning now?”
– Gothic Diana Ross, Singer and Vet Tech

“Poop!”
– Bernadette Cacca, Entramanure

Peppi’s Water Pipe Dream

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“Hey Diana! Check out this big, beautiful picture my Peppi smoked up for me!” Manteno entramanure, bog witch and communal narcadoodle Bernadette Cacca brags about the huge printout containing her likeness surrounded her bootlickers, to her neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes.

“You’re holding it upside down.”

“What?”

“I saw Smokey Ashe, Undead Greg waiting in Hell’s in-processing line during my last internship. Lucy Furr was checking them in.”

“You’re not God, you know honey…” Gothic Mary smirks. The Midnight Supremes collectively snap their fingers, break into song and dance their way back to their Gothic Victorian home next door to the Caccas on Kant Street.

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran drops by for a visit. She flies into a tree again, then plops to the grass.

“Oh hi Mom! Look what Peppi made for my birthday month!”

“Oh-kay. Why are you pretending to be Jesus?”

“I know. I know. It’s really me using a Vulcan mind meld on aunt Sonya. I have not gotten a gig since she had flown the coop. I’m trying to revive my career!”

“You don’t even like Star Trek.”

“Yeah I do. I really love that Dr. Spock guy and his Jedi mind tricks,” a very confidently incorrect Bernadette plainly spits her alternative facts.

The Midnight Supremes share a giggle at Bernadette’s newest gaffe, Bernadette’s loud mouth wide open to catch a fly shrinks down to a shriveled grimace.

Then she farts.

Bernadette Cacca Gets Yeeted

~ Jen ~ 24 Comments

“Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to crap but only farted,” a forlorn Bernadette “Bern” Cacca sings on her porcelain throne, practicing kazoo and accordion. She lights a fart, burns her doodoo in the fireplace, then makes a call to a Northwestern Illinois bar on her smell phone.

“Poopy’s.”

“Hi, my name is Bernadette Cacca. I’m a famous singer near Chicago.”

The bartender giggles.

“I have a wonderful offer to make your bar.”

“May…I take your order?”

“I would like to open a Poopy’s here in Manteno.”

“I thought you were from Chicago!”

The bartender continues to giggle as he hangs up on Bern.

To increase her bottom line of attention, money and bootlickers, communal narc-a-doodle Bernadette offers to sing and play her accordion cover songs at a charity event to raise money for the victims of the Russian war against Ukraine. She dreams about all the praise, awards and photo opportunities she can gain from making it look like she cares. She does not raise money for this or any other cause because she feels concerned about the efforts of living beings trying to stay alive, fighting or fleeing a psychopath trying to take over their beautiful country. She just loves to pretend.

Bern heads home from a long day working her and her husbands’ business Peppi’s Portapotties, excited to burn the porta-poopies in her fireplace, only to be interrupted by a phone call.

“Hi, Bernadette…ummm…Cake-Uh?”

“Cacca.”

“Yeah, I am calling about your gig at the Gaslight Bar tomorrow night.”

“Oh hiiii! I am THRILLED about playing this extraordinary gig at 7:00 tomorrow night.”

“Good. We are calling to tell you about a slight time change. Due to staffing shortages, we need to move your gig back an hour.”

“I am a pillar of the community and a national treasure! Your tone is not appropriate for someone doing business. I would get used to people like me.”

“So are you coming or not? We have other guests who want to play and help—“

“Okay, okay, see you tomorrow. Don’t forget it!”

Bern teams up with local cybercrook Pat Splatt to develop her pretend money Craptocoin. The bum-waste-bin overlord thinks it is cute to sell Craptocoin at the charity event and decides she will solicit tips using her funny money.

“Hello Manteno! Thank you all for coming! Let’s raise some money! Gimme your requests! CraptoCoin only, my handle is @BMCacca! Maybe you already doing it, and that’s awesome!

ALSO, a shout-out to my extraordinary hairdresser @lilacroule from Croule, Young and Lovely who keep me lookin’ good! AND, my makeup by fabulous @marigoldyoung! So much love to their salon. Practices are things done more than one time regularly, and I have been practicing hard for tonight’s fundraiser! That’s why I call them practices!”

“And…without further ado, give it up for the Manteno Wonder herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca!”

A slow clap is heard, mixed in with hoots and hollers from Bern’s obsessed fanboys.

After finishing her last accordion cover tune for the first half of her set, “My Fart Goes Boom”, Bern runs to the washroom, humming “Let’s all go to the restroom” as she poops and farts.

Mrs. Cacca emerges, approached by a Chicago television reporter. 

“Hi Bern. I would like to interview you. We got a press release—“

“Not now, after.”

“I have other stories to cover. Let’s do this now.” 

“The show must go on.”

“I am from Ukraine and have family there.”

“Fair enough, let’s do this interview up on stage. We will both look awesome up there!” Bernadette gushes.

The Chicago TV reporter enters stage right, Bernadette stage left. Reporter Elena Emm stops to remember her questions so she can begin her interview. 

An impatient Bernadette sighs loudly, whistles and hums.

“Why are you staring off into space? Are you in a fantasy world?” Bern snarks, snickers, thinking only Elena can hear her.

“I am blind,” the reporter advises the oblivious Bernadette, unaware a camera operator is filming the entire interview.

“Here let me touch your face,” the ableist and ignorant Bern belittles the Chicago TV news reporter, reaching for her face.

Elena knocks Bernadette unconscious with a single blow to her piehole, then proceeds to yeet her into the crowd of bootlickers.

“This show is getting entertaining” Gothic Diana Ross says to her bandmates, The Midnight Supremes, who are waiting in the wings.

“I may be visually impaired, but I’m not stupid” Elena Emm says to the crowd who had poured in to find out where their entertainer Bernadette had gone, only to have that communal narcadoodle chucked right into a pile of them, knocking the fanboys over like a set of bowling pins. Strike!

Happy she got a scoop on the poop-mistress extraordinaire, Elena and the news team head back to Chicago to produce their segment for the next morning’s newscast.

“Next up, give a hand for these lovely ladies, Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes!” announces the emcee, who had called the Manteno girl group last minute to replace their annoying neighbor Bern Cacca on the bill.

“You look so good on the outside”

— Cold Cave

MoronicArts Classics: Bern Book

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

“Story time with Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes? At the Manteno Library? I would say that a trip to Manteno is not complete without spending a few hours at the Manteno Optimal Club with Bernadette Cacca! Hmmpf!”

“Why don’t you start your own book club, honey?” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Moran asks her communal narcadoodle, bog-witch niece Bernadette.

“You’re the best!”

“Butt first, a trip to Bucketheads.”

“Why are you going to a hardware store?”

“It’s my own personal prop department!”

“Hot dawg!”

Bernadette pinches a massive loaf upstairs in the washroom while tapping away at her smell phone to announce yet-another-gig her aunt Sonya got her. Ahhh, the stench of nepotism.

BOOK CLUB NIGHT, TUES with yours truly! Join me at @MantenoOptimalClub TONIGHT, AUGUST 18, 9:30pm-3am. What will I read? It’s a surprise!  It’s the hottest new event in Kankakee County!

“I never drank coffee while I was in college. I drank pop,” Gothic Diana Ross complains to the Buckstars staff about her coffee again. 

“What’s this crap? A port-a-potty made out of poop? Do you drop dookie in it, on it, or next to it?” Diana scrolls through her Fakebook feed as she waits for her iced caramel latte to get re-made.

“She’s no Bansky…” Gothic Flo quips.

“I know, we should crash her gig. Maybe we can heckle her or something,” Gothic Mary giggles.

“Well, there is this card game…ooops. Nope, we’re not old enough,” Diana laughs as she reads the community events.

“Oh darn.” The dark gothic beauties share a laugh and drive away from their Gothic Victorian home in their black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.

The Poopy Groupies surround Mrs. Cacca and shower her with a gush of superlatives at the Manteno Optimal Club:

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to Illinois!”

“You make me feel like a star, Bern!”

“It’s the Manteno icon herself! You should be beatified!”

Queen Bernadette rolls out her porcelain throne and makes an announcement:

“Today, I’m here on a campaign to promote regularity! I’m sure you saw my announcement on TV! I was on every channel!”

The portapotty empress sits on her toilet which she just bought from Bucketheads Hardware and begins to sing from a book:

image: “regular” book

“Being regular is important to me, and I hope it is EQUALLY important to my regulars. I love my Poopy Groupies! Nooowwww–baaaaaack–toooooo-the—booooooooooook!”

The Poopy Groupies hoot, holler and catcall. Yes the cat-calling is sexist but the queen of the porcelain throne does not care what kind of attention she gets, as long as she gets it and she is the center of attention. After all, she feels entitled to it since she does gigs like these for charity.

The cheering crowd of Bernadette bootlickers is cut like a knife from a few voices in the crowd.

“Why are you pooping in public?”

“Oh honey, I am not really pooping. See look, all golf balls!”

image: toilet box on a hardware store shelf. image on box of flushed golf balls. text on box reads: "Flush like a champion."

The crowd roars with laughter.

The Midnight Supremes join in on a tune of their own:

“You can’t hurry death
You just have to wait.
Charon works on his own time,
No matter what prayers you say.”

Upset about getting upstaged, Bernadette throws a fit:

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, an unruly citizen who is obsessed with pooping!”

Awkward silence fills the hall of the Manteno Optimal Club. Eyes roll. People begin to chortle.

“I am reprising my role from the Human Body Odor EXCLUSIVE show, “Dropping the Deuce.”

A voice emerges from the crowd.

“Hey, I have a gift for ya Bernadette!”

Sybil Kibble hands Bernadette a box and runs. Happy for the distraction, Mrs Cacca opens her gift. “Is this for meeee? Oh you are the best.”

Bernadette shows her malcontent for the gift, and even the mere thought behind it. She rambles like a Turd Machine spitting out letter-blocks from a craft store. 

Sybil Kibble escapes Bern’s word-salad diatribe in her trusty Chrysler LeBaron as do the Midnight Supremes in their sleek sportscar.

Bernadette continues to sing and ramble like the moron that she is, as she watches her mug on the community FartTV, ignoring the confused crowd leaving her stupid book club: “Late last night when the moon green, around the corner came a turd machine…shots were fired, a scream was heard…Join me here next week as I livestream again…oh dear.”

Seasons Yeetings!

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Entramanure and communal narcadoodle Bernadette Cacca loves doing charity gigs just to look good on the outside. Gothic Diana Ross & the Midnight Supremes can not wait to try out their new trebuchet to avenge their Manteno neighbor Bernadette for relentlessly nagging them and stinking up the block burning port-a-poopies.

Yeet-o-Matic!

MoronicArts Classics: MHA Sounds the Alarm

~ Jen ~ 3 Comments
Kon Teirant

Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Accounting Chief Konrad “Kon” Teirant is having trouble balancing the assets against the liabilities, even after having cooked the books to a carbonized mess.

Mack E. Avelli

Chief Executive Officer Mack. E. Avelli calls in Konrad to hold a meeting.

“Kon, if we cannot make ourselves look good to our investors, we are going to fail as a company. I don’t need you to be honest about it, I need you to make us some more money. Just get it done.”

“I’ll think up something. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Good,” the fifty-something Mack says to Konrad and starts texting his 22-year-old wife Judithann, who ignores his message because she is too busy flirting with daemons.

It is midnight here in Kankakee.  

The fire alarm sounds for the third time this week at the Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments, complete with strobe lights, sirens and a man’s voice repeating the same message over and over again.

As the residents of this sorry apartment building wake up and use the washroom, Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) takes the elevator up to each floor in the tower. 

“It is midnight and you know what time that is! Come on, guys, let’s all dance! Didn’t you see that four-page flyer we left on all of your doors telling you to exercise more? We knocked on your doors because we had nothing better to do! Resident deejay Konrad is on the ones and twos!” exclaims property manager, narcadoodle and Vaudeville clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant.

DJ Konrad Teirant picks some records out of his crate, and begins spinning and scratching, rapping over the music.

Resident Tyrell Fowler — out in the hall wondering what the racket is about — explains to Konrad “dude, you cannot scratch 1950s love songs,” and walks back into his unit.

“Let’s get out the glowsticks everybody!” Madeline says as she pulls them from the fire-hose compartment on the wall.

Robbie sings Elvis tunes as he dances away, doing moronic martial arts moves on the in-between.

Robbie Hulrbutt

The MHA troupe packs up their party-gear and heads upstairs to the next floor in the tower.

When the crew are all done waking up their residents, they head downstairs to the office and turn off the alarms. Finally those poor residents can get some sleep.

“Here is your check, Kon. We will write it off as a business expense here at the complex.”

“Great, I will bring it to CRASS tomorrow,” Kon tells his wife Madeline and they head home in Robbie’s clown car. Elvis has left the building.

“Oh good, I got it,” a resident says sitting in her bed, as she reviews the video she recorded on her phone.

Konrad Teirant heads into the CRASS office, strutting along the halls with a turd-eating-grin across his face as he makes his way over to the office of his supervisor, Mack E. Avelli.

“Kon! You have a great smile! You should smile more often.”

Kon hands Mack the knife…errrr…check.

“Oh good! Now you can keep your job!” Mack tells his subordinate Konrad.

Kon says nothing and heads back into his office to cook more books.

Meanwhile, the CRASS phones light up like a Christmas tree. However the increased call volume is not from debtors calling back the CRASS collectors.

“I saw that video on the news, your accounting dude and his buddies woke some poor folks up in the middle of the night hosting some hokey rave party? What were you thinking?” 

Beep.

“Hey, this Trisha Cobb, better known as Gothic Diana Ross. You know, from The Midnight Supremes? We saw what you did when we watched the news. That’s not cool.”

Beep.

“Hello, this message is for Mr. Avelli. I am Geoff, an auditor with the firm Deltoid & Tush. We were asked to contact you about your accounting records. We are stopping by in an hour.”

“Kon, how do we cook the books now? Ya better cook them good this time,” Mack shouts to an empty room. Since he was up half the night, Kon took the rest of the day off to go home and now he is fast asleep, sawing a forest.