How best to get out the vote, than to contaminate your rivals’ food? Like a frat-girl prank, a group of girls are reported as having resorted to tainting the food of another.
What a great way to advance your cause, ladies? For emptying the contents of their brains into strangers just minding their own business eating, they have been specially selected to receive this collective Golden Moron Award! Now bring it home ladies, show it off to your friends!
Thank you to the bot known as Alfred on my favorite social media, Counter.Social for drawing Kankakee’s biggest dog food connoisseur, debt collector Sybil Kibble!
If you are tired of Elon Musk Bones thrown out by the X-Parrot, then you might like Counter.Social. It’s completely free of crap like algorithms, spambots and trolls. It’s run by this cool hacktivist codenamed “The Jester.”
Past fan art:
Drawing by Alea Ner
“Wash that Bernadette right out of my hair!”
— Sybil
“Brandon Dixon is Half-Asleep” drawn by Zotco.
“Sybil Kibble” by GlowButter
A bonus Damien Hurlbutt drawn in the background of this “Ghoul” painting by an artist who prefers to remain anonymous:
It was a
Dopey,
Sleepy
day.
Kankakee resident, expert crusher of candy and prolific collector of school-bus-parts JoAnn Kibble, joined Snow White along with the remaining five dwarves, talking to some squirrels.
This one took notice.
“This friendly #squirrel gives an about-face three times. I hope to meet up with him again soon! 12/10 will feed again.” JoAnn said with a smile. Then she went back inside her apartment to sort her stop signs, seat belts and kill-switches by make and model.
How many trips to prison does it take to get into this moron’s thick skull? The world may never know.
This clown has been in and out of the criminal justice system so many times, he may as well move in. Get this career crook his well-earned three hots and a cot!
For smirking his way through life, we hereby award Maurice Kearse 50 Golden Moron Awards! That’s right, one for every time he has gone in and out of that barbed wire fence.
Time to reel him in for good!
C’mon Deckard, I ain’t waitin’ around for ya all night. This is LA after all.
BZZZZZZ!
Time to die! Nothing like having an ITCH you can never SCRATCH!
What? Mother’s Day Card? Youtube, lemme tell you about my mother…
If you’re not Lizzie Borden, you’re not a life-hack, just an imposter.
Former wrestler, entramanure and charity show-tunes do-gooder-just-for-the-photo-op Bernadette Moran Cacca is busy slurping down her breakfast burritos at the Manteno Cantina, as part of her personal campaign to promote regularity. Last week she bragged to her fan club, the Poopy Groupies, about her constipation.
“Did you know they re-made ‘Yo Mama’s House’ into a full-length feature film?” Bernadette asks the random stranger seated at the table next to her.
“Huh?”
“You betcha. And I’m in it!”
JB the Turd Burglar walks in with Poopy Groupies club president, Aunt Sonya Moran, and Bern’s drunken husband Peppi.
“You’re a national treasure, Bernadette!” JB exclaims.
“Bernadette for president! Feel the Bern!” screeches her aunt Sonya, a shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture.
“You’re no Bernie Sanders!” chuckled a stranger from across the cantina.
Konrad Teirant is foaming at the mouth at his Bourbonnais business.
“This guy is a hot mess. Our janitor called in again! Imma gonna done post his job alrighty.” Konrad Teirant, mad that he can’t keep good cleaning staff, prints out a help-wanted sign to be posted on his Cinema-13 multiplex:
“Now hiring cleaners. $7.50 an hour, experience preferred.”
“Kids these days don’t wanna work!” Konrad whinges as he hangs the signs all over his cinema property and at bill-collection company Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee where he is in charge of cooking the books, err, working as their Controller.
Bernadette Cacca can’t wait to see her face on every silver screen in the county. She buys tickets for every showing of “Yo Mama’s House,” in every single movie house, excited for the opportunity to take selfies at every single showing, so she can brag “I’m on every screen” in her Fakebook feed.
It’s opening night at Cinema-13. Bernadette sits down in the row right up front so she can see her mug grow as big as her ego.
A rumble takes over her belly.
“Oh crap.”
Bernadette tries her best to hold it.
More rumbles make waves through her intestines, heaving her flesh increasingly as the minutes pass. She can’t wait any longer, so she runs for the washroom.
“It smells like rotten eggs and death over there,” box office clerk Bratley Teirant says as he points toward the ladies’ washroom at his father’s business. “I’m expecting a mushroom cloud to emerge any second.” Bratley ducks and covers.
Bernadette causes a cinema-wide brown-out at the spectacle, courtesy of her overflow error. The raw sewage floods well beyond yonder and into the electrical system powering the projector, sound system and the point-of-sale software.
Konrad has to think fast and on his feet. He dons his waders and books it to the ladies’ washroom to do doo clean-up dooty.
Mr. Teirant emerges from his outdated washroom carrying a big bag alright – just not full of money.
“What are you doing in there? Can’t you get things right? You childish little man!” his wife, 7 foot tall dumpster clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant shouts at her 5’4” hubby.
“Ha-ha!” Bratley laughs and points at the people who gave him his genes. He’s not very bright either.
Picture a world, a wild Karen in a land far from her own. If she threw a tantrum in another language, would anyone understand? Would they care? That poor entitled Karen, so ignorant, she forgot to learn the language of the land. Instead of using the Internet to learn a new language, she used it instead to leave this complaint. Cook your own fish, Karen!
Because she acted like your common, ordinary, sad xenophobe – who clearly had a failure to communicate – we are proud to present Karen with this Golden Moron Award! One can only imagine how boring her life must be, but we’re too busy to care.
Manteno entramanure, communal narc-a-doodle and Og-on-the-Bog Bernadette Cacca has been wanting to turbo her Turd Machines she had bought from Wally Green’s.
Now’s her chance!
As if her crappy ritual burning her company’s port-a-poops in her backyard has not been enough to irritate her next door neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes, basic Bern eyes a bigger one.
Quoth the new advertising blitz on every app, social media and PooTube video:
“Your pharmacy products* will be delivered to your house within one hour of ordering, or Wally will deliver it himself! *Prescriptions excluded (because Wally is too cheap to hire enough pharmacy technicians)“
“Hey kids, it’s staff meeting time! Our pharmacy clerk Robbie got recently re-promoted from the sales floor! Everybody give him a round of applause!”
A slow clap is heard.
“Do I get more money, Mr. Green?”
“Nope, just more work.” Now we have this marketing blitz going on where our customers are guaranteed to get their things within an hour or I will deliver them myself. I order our staff to prioritize the men in the queue, so that the single ladies can score dates with us!” the desperate barfly and wacky inventor Walter Augustine Green orders his primarily straight and bisexual male drugstore staff.
“Are ya sure about that, boss?” Robbie Hurlbutt asks, and giggles. “Sounds like a groovy idea. Can I make the deliveries?”
“No Rob, we need you in the pharmacy.”
Robbie sings audibly some Elvis tunes, passive-aggressively, as his boss leaves to hopefully deliver some love to some Illinois ladies.
Desperate Wally will do anything hoping to score a date. Wally purposely makes the women’s deliveries late, so he can invite himself to all kinds of ladies’ homes.
Ding-dong.
“Hi, Rachel, I have your beers, just sign here.”
“Why are you so late? These should have been here two hours ago. You should be ashamed of yourself. I want a refund.”
“I’m worth a million dollars, let me inside and I will make you feel like even more!”
“I have a boyfriend! Plus you’re a gross old man!”
Rachel Shelley and Wally argue, because Wally won’t take “no” for an answer, until her boyfriend Leon Peeonne chases Wally off their property.
Next stop: Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments.
Wally calls rapper Tamika Euforia from his car.
“I have your contact lens solution, ma’am.”
Ms. Tamika buzzes Wally in. MC Lyte can be heard Cold Rocking a Party in her apartment.
Wally goes up to the second floor and knocks.
“Hi Tamika! Just sign here.”
The compact, medium skinned woman sporting a buzz-cut signs and goes to shut the door.
“Now wait a minute, lady. Wouldn’t you like to see me, now that you have your contacts?”
“See who?”
“Me. I think you’re cute.”
“Dude, I’m a lesbian.”
“Oh, I like Libyans!”
“It means I like girls, you moron!”
“Me too, why don’t you—“
SLAM!
Next stop, Manteno.
“Peppi’s Port-a-potties, king and queen of the throne.”
“Oh hi, honey. This is Wally Green! I have your stool softeners and fiber pills.”
“You’re awesome! I’ll be right out!”
Entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca runs out the door, goes to hug Wally with her poopy hands, dirty from emptying out some port-a-loos as he delivers her pills (meanwhile bragging about charity crap she only does for the photo opportunity). Of course, she did not wash her hands.
“I’ll…just put these here.”
Wally sets the bag on the ground, runs to his delivery car and speeds away, almost getting pulled over by that one Bourbonnais cop who drives up and down same main-drag repeatedly.
“Robbie, you can make the deliveries from now on,” Wally tells his pharmacy clerk, and Kankakee’s number one Elvis impersonator.
The more things change at Wally Green’s, the more they stay the same.
MoronicArts 
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