Classified Ad Fails from the 1990s
Tag: humor
Archfarchnad?
My favourite Welsh word is the word for supermarket — “#archfarchnad”
Dw i’n hoffi coffi – I like coffee
(no covfefe about it)
Weithiau, dw i’n prynu losin – Sometimes, I buy candy
(Andes Candies are great, unlike Andy Skandees)
Llefrith, ffrythiau a llysiau — Milk, fruits and veggies are my other top three.
“Archfarchnad” is fun so say. It sounds like I am cursing, and feels just as cathartic, when I’m just talking about the grocery store. (Though I would not blame you one bit for cursing in Walley World.)
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Music to annoy your enemies!
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!
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MoronicArts Classics: Sucks to be Damien
Knock-knock.
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.
Damien locates his phone and calls his vulnerable narcissist brother Robbie.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Robbie’s voice is heard.
“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..
“I am so glad I showed you his crazy letter,” Lori tells Ha.
“I am so glad we met in that support group online.” Ha confides in Lori.
Screaming is heard emanating from down the street. It cannot be made out. Moments later, sirens begin to wail.
“You dodged a bullet” Ha says.
“We both did.”
“What a moron” they both say, in unison.
“Jinx!”
“Oh he’s jinxed alright!” Lori says and they both giggle as they greet the pizza guy.
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Damien’s Dreamland Christmas Wish
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.
“Now time for your daily flatulence testing!”
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Cheese or Snow?
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Five Things Bernadette Cacca is Good At
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!
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Satan Unveils His New Welcome Sign.
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.
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Safety First, Judi.
Twenty-two-year-old Judithann Avelli, wife of CRASS chief Mack E. Avelli, and unemployed brat really has a thing for daemons. This enquiring mind wants to know whether or not she can get knocked up by those interdimensional hellspawns, therefore she turns to the Internet, just like these guys.
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Golden Moron Award: Little Miss Fake Worrier From the ‘Burgh.
Today’s Golden Moron is a real doozy. This dumpster fire had gone from bending over backward saying to a severely depressed person, “Get help. I’m worried about you” to blocking them two days later.
Who brags about working 50 hrs a week and volunteering 30, yet can be found on social media most hours of the day posting about lawd-only-knows-what?
Hmmm…
To the sixty-eight-year-old moron in Pittsburgh who had gone out of her way to passive-aggressively worry about a human being with actual feelings, only to block them, we hereby award you The Golden Moron Award! We would have painted it yellow and black just for you, however, we are way too busy.
We sincerely hope you get caught using Facebook at work – if you even do work — and if you do, you get fired.
Awww, so close to retirement age, only to lose your pension? Sucks to be you.
MoronicArts 
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