“School bus parts! Sybil, let’s pull over and get some of those!” JoAnn Kibble exclaims to her daughter Sybil as she drives past a school.
“It says School Bus Parking, silly” Sybil corrects tells her ma.
“School bus party?
“Parking!” Sybil screams.
“Oh darn.”
JoAnn Kibble, her daughter Sybil Kibble and JoAnn’s bestie PJ Hurlbutt are joined by a hungry visitor.
Damien Hurlbutt, movie clerk for Teirant Cinema-13, stars in their new TV commercial. Can you feel his enthusiasm?
“I know.”
— Damien.
Illinois neckbeard, communal narcissist and movie theater clerk Damien Hurlbutt went off the deep end when his then-wife, Lori, stopped tolerating his verbal abuse and rightfully left him.
He sent this letter to her psychologist and her psychiatrist after she separated from him. Apparently, this ticket clerk thought he knew more about psychology than the licensed clinicians who practice. The latter provider called it a “lunacy letter.” The former said she had never seen anything like it in all her years practicing.
Who makes up this stuff?
Oh yeah, people with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).
“I drove all the way from Manteno just to play Running in the 90s and it’s broke. Get me the manager!” demands the entitled 43-year old Bern Cacca, throwing a fit like a bratty kid at a Schmucks grocery store.
“I am the manager,” says Brenda who walks away and laughs at Karen, I mean Bern.
Bern says “I should get a free game” as she storms out the store and peels away in her white sedan, thinking she is in a drag race with the other customers.
Oh man, the douchenozzle I encountered on yet another medical trip surely wanted to have his way! He rode all the way on his high horse from Toledo to the seats occupied by a nice lady who boarded a few stops earlier in Indiana, and tired me who got on at Chicago.
Like Charlie with his golden ticket, this bunghole headed to Buffalo huffed and puffed because someone else was sitting in seat number 10. No, he did not move to another vacant seat, because that made too much sense. Instead, he made demands that the nice social worker next to me get up from HIS seat.
After the nice lady moved out of sight and mind from this moron, that ennui-consumed piece of work sat down next to me and made demands I plug in his charger. No please, no thank-you, he did not even ask.
I told the bumbling tool he did not have to sit there. After all, if he moved to another seat it would be the exact same thing, just somewhere else on the train. He would even get to his destination. Nope — the dope started calling me names like a schoolyard bully.
But wait — there’s more! The beligerant gentleman made sure to mansplain to me that there is one outlet per passenger. Naaaaw.
I took the high road and found another seat, the fool chose to die on that hill. Good for him — I bet he wants a prize.
Here you go, Fool on the Hill: I award you Moron of the Week! Now go sit down and do your homework. If you are good, you won’t get detention.
Medical trips really suck. Jen wants to travel for fun. Buy her a ko-fi (or just say “hi.”)
The Beatles Rock!
A few years from now, Communal narcissist and poopyburner Bern Cacca, who wanted to be everybody’s friend, but only to use them finds herself forced out of Manteno and into the pits of Hell.
“Satan, why am I here?”
“But I did all those favors! I played accordion for the Optimal Club! I gave people rides! I–“
“Did you do those things to help, or to make yourself look good?”
“Uhhh…”
“And how many times did you admit you did something wrong. Count them. I will wait. So will my visiting intern Gothic Diana Ross. She will take you to your cell. Do you prefer jagged rocks or bubbling excrement?”
As much as Bourbonnais communal narcissist and fedora-sporting neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt wanted to attend his big birthday bash, he could not make it because he got stuck on the toilet.
Instead, we bring you these important words from Squirrely Dan.
Manteno narcissist of the communal kind, and poopyburner extraordinaire, spies a wild Gothic Diana Ross at the local Wally Green’s and runs after her.
“Oh my gawd! I am so happy to see–“
“Go away. I don’t like you.”
Not willing to respect boundaries, nor caring for personal safety, Bern chases Diana into a forest.
The girl was never there.
Bern made her way back into the bog, from where she came.
“Ma, would you like a dog food wrap?”
“No thanks, Sybil. I’ll take a raincheck.”
“I wrapped them up in toilet paper, Mother!”
JK shakes her silvery coiffe.
“Are there squirrels along the boardwalk?” JK asks her daughter, who is busy munching away at her doggy bag.
“Mmmnnnpf” a hungry, occupied Sybil replies in the negative.
“Speaking of squirrels, where are our tickets to the squirrel petting zoo?” JK inquires.
Sybil digs around her black-and-white striped purse, and pulls out the envelope Robbie gave her.
“Coupons? I thought they were comping us. These only give us a dollar off! The admission is $20 a pop! And where are our hotel keys? They said they were getting that, too!”
“Ummmm…” JK’s jaw just hangs.
“I have a plan.”
“Are we still going to the show?”
“Aw yeah, we are going early, in fact.”
6:00 PM rolls around and Sybil has already gotten to the bar with her mom, JK. The two were a bit delayed by their detour to the novelty store.
“Where is the ladies’ room?”
The bartender points in the general direction.
Sybil and JK each take a stall and begin blowing up the inflatable women. Sybil applies makeup, a blonde wig and readers to hers and JK applies a short, gray wig and round glasses to her doll. They walk out the restroom and place their dolls in two seats toward the back of the bar.
Sybil and JK leave the bar, giggling as they exit. They head to a casino where they spend the night.
The Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) Vaudeville act begins. Konrad Teirant tells his awful puns, then his wife, Madeline Topolla-Teirant, the colorful clown, juggles and attempts to balance on a large ball. Robbie Hurlbutt, mediocre Elvis impersonator, sings and dances like the fool he is.
PJ Hurlbutt cheers on her son Robbie, who she thinks is the greatest singer, meanwhile Pat Splatt sits there in his seat texting.
The show ends and Robbie takes a head count.
“We’d like to thank our fans Pat, my Mom PJ, and our buddies Sybil and JK!”
“Encore! Encore! Encore!” the lone fan, PJ, shouts.
“Did you say encore? We aim to please. Robbie is going to serenade a special fan who came all the way from Kankakee, Illinois!” Konrad announces.
Robbie comes down from the stage, toward the back of the bar and begins to sing “Burnin’ Love”.
Robbie is in shock that the “person” to whom he is singing does not react, nor move at all. “She is not a sincere fan.” Robbie says into the microphone after his number.
“Robbie, you moron. That’s a blow-up doll!” Madeline shouts.
Robbie jumps back in sheer embarassment.
“Elvis has now left the building.” Konrad announces.
The Moronic Half-Assets pack up, ready to leave. “That was a bust. I got really flustered up there.” Robbie sighs.
“We did not return much on our investment, did we?” Konrad gripes.
“Time to pack up and leave. If we drive home in our clown car, and make it home without stopping, maybe we can make up for our losses. Time to go!”
Robbie is in the Men’s washroom, wizzing away.
“Robbie, why do you leave the door open? I tell you about that time and time again!” Madeline screams.
A loud slam is heard.
“Rrrrrrrrgh!”
“Robbie, you are not Elvis, and you are not going to die in there.”
The MHA members pack up their stuff, and Robbie follows them into his clown car.
“I wonder what act is up next?” Robbie asks.
“I guess we’ll never know. Step on it Robbie!”
An announcement is barely heard from the purple clownmobile as Robbie pulls away, and rolls up his window, Kankakee-bound:
“Next up, from Manteno, Illinois: Gothic Diana and the Midnight Supremes!”
“Rrrrrrgh—I love her! My dreamy—“
“Shut up and drive, childish little boy,” Madeline commands as the rain pours down and the moon shines down on the Moronic Half Assets.
MoronicArts 
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