Kankakee bill-collector, basic babe and dog-food connoisseur Sybil Kibble thinks this rap tune is such a bop, she made it her ringtone.
Tag: kankakee county
Bern Cacca’s Stinky Stickers
Communal narcissist, obnoxious driver and Manteno-based portable-waste operator Bern Cacca went to another Schmucks grocery store hoping to play her favorite drag-race simulator after her out-of-order experience the last time.
Though their Running in the 90s game was also broken, Bern did get to spend her quarters on cleaning out these vending machines instead.
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Konrad’s New Brown-Drink Adventure
Tycoon tyrant Konrad opens a new café inside his Bourbonnais multiplex, Cinema-13. The barista had just poured the drinks and of COURSE he orders his son Bratley to pick them up.
“You’re hired! Now git to work!” Kon demands while he dreams of the big bags he will make from his new bean-soup business venture, happy to be rid of his former concessions clerk Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt whom he fired after he stopped showing up to work, because he was too busy getting caught trying to storm Area 51.
Want to go behind the scenes and see the artistic process behind these silly stories? Visit: https://ko-fi.com/artbyjenx and if you feel so inclined, leave Chief Moron Wrangler Jen a tip. The Moroniverse will thank you. :)
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Behind the Moroniverse – Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt
The main inspiration behind fictional character Damien Hurlbutt has is so self-centered, he thinks this blog is all about him.
Seriously. I hope over time more people learn about communal narcissists and how they insidiously abuse people. Overts and covert narc-a-doodles are bad enough; communals are even sneakier. I would not wish narcissistic abuse on my worst enemy and wish no ill will. I just wish they would all form their own narc colony on a deserted island and leave the rest of us alone.
Or better yet, drop them from planes into an erupting volcano, and vaporize them so they cannot make more narcissists.
I was married to one of these evil souls. Had I known he was the son of Satan, I would not have dated him, moved to Illinois to marry him, leaving behind a job I loved to take one that was less than pleasant. 0/10 would not recommend.
Now divorced, this real-life neckbeard and “men’s rights activist” has told his friends that I draw cartoons of him and write stories about him.
Has he heard of Squirrely Dan?
My ex works as a senior library specialist and loves to read. I would hope that someone like him, whom I would think has a good grasp on literacy would understand that Damien and all the other morons on this blog are fictional characters — as in pretend people, not real ones. DUH.
Apparently my former husband thinks he works in a movie theater, like the random stranger whom I had met in 2004. Just like the fictional Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, this real-life despot had been offering cloned movie tickets in return for a date, to us call-center coworkers taking breaks outside. I did not meet my ex until 2008.
I will never forgive my ex for trying to turn the spouse of my late friend against me in his smear-campaigning. Such a tender-heart, a self-proclaimed “old soul” writes lunacy letters like the drivel below and sends them to his estranged spouse’s medical providers.
Because, umm, a librarian knows more about psychology than an actual mental health provider? yeah…no.
My ex thinks so. Behold part of this lunacy letter he sent to my mental health team:
I will never forgive him for telling me he was “a nice guy for not throwing me into oncoming traffic” while we were walking into the hospital. Yeah, a really nice guy NiceGuy™ does that, right?
I will never forgive him for manipulating the divorce judge into letting him take custody of my cat Holly, whom he repeatedly hit (“it’s just a light tap” he gaslit when caught) and put into the shower to “punish.” Who does that to a cat? Has he helped move a body or something?
He had been seeing the same therapist as a convicted murderer who made international headlines, the killer had been living in the same apartment complex as my ex the night of the murder. I left him at 8:30 AM the day after the poor lady was abducted.
I will never forgive my ex for idealizing, devaluing me and then attempting to discard me, shortly before I left him.
I write and draw MoronicArts stories to cope with having been abused. I feel it helps and I am a lot happier back in New York State, doing my own thing, living with my sweet kitty.
My hope is that my stories help others who have been abused by these monsters cope and process the crap they have been going through and hopefully bring a little joy to them, and myself also. Oh and it s fun to draw silly cartoons of fake events and pretend people doing moronic things to each other..
Do you think you may going through domestic violence or know someone who suffers it? Emotional abuse is still abuse and a form of domestic violence. Please click this link to learn more and to find help in your area: https://www.un.org/en/coronavirus/what-is-domestic-abuse
Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.
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Carla & The Candy Factory
“I am so tired of sticking my beak up animal butts to slurp out all the entrails. I want some chocolate! Why does everyone else get to have THEIR ice cream?”
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran hatches a plan and flies down to the swamp where her love-child, bog witch extraordinaire Bernadette Moran Cacca swims and devours the living when she’s not burning port-a-poops nor doing charity cover songs just to look good.
“Hey, do you want to go with me to the Egon Spangler Candy Factory in Ohio? That’s where they keep all the dum-dums.”
“No, it’s not nice to call people a dum-dum…” the holier-than-thou Bernadette Cacca snarks as she rejects her mother’s offer and bites the head off a man whom she just ate for supper.
“Fine. Don’t come to ME when YOU want a favor!” Carla squawks as she flies away.
“What an idiot. First Sonya breaks into my apartment, moves some stuff around, then she pees on my bed. Last year she posted a nastygram on my door accusing me of stinking up the floor from cat pee. The litter-box had just been scooped and there was no smell. If she poops out another fake lease violation, I am going to scream. Then I’m gone done report her to the Illinois Fair Housing Department. I’m done with her shenanigans.”
So go the postings on Manteno People and Places. Albion Places and People. Musings Around South Bend. This is not her first rodeo. She owns apartment complexes all across Northern Illinois and Indiana.
“Yeah, last year when the guys came in to do the bug inspection, they broke my shower-head. Then Sonya had gone and issued ME a violation!”
Complaints continue to pour in.
“Come in” Sonya Marie Smith Moran says, beckons, then gets up to close the door.
“Yeah I’m here to pay my rent.”
“Name and apartment number?”
“Edith Smith, apartment B240.”
The tall, slender, shapeshifting humanoid vulture taps away at the keyboard with her talons.
Edith can see from the angle at which she is standing in the tiny, closed office that there is a flash-note on her account.
Sonya’s assistant, JB the Turd Burglar comes over and looks at Sonya’s screen, craving Evansville brains after a long day stealing turds.
“You’re late.”
“I just got the bill Friday and it’s due today.”
Sonya’s eyes get really big.
“OK I am just gonna stand here and watch this interaction to make sure it’s copacetic.”
“Here is my check. I’d like my receipt.”
“You overpaid.”
“I would like my receipt.” Sonya prints her receipt and Edith walks out the door.
“She did not seem as biligerant and obnoxious as it says on the computer.”
“If it’s who I think it is, she made my last assistant cry,” Sonya projects.
Edith cracks the door back open pokes her head back in. “No that was two assistants ago. That was Erick, and he’s an idiot. He deserves it.”
“Put in that she eavesdrops too.”
Edith walks away, lets the door hang, and laughs in Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dumbs’ faces. “You guys are morons. You need to get better hobbies! Maybe you’d sleep better!” she cries out sarcastically, then looks away, strutting her stuff like she’s living her best life — because she is.
“What’s this?” JB asks as he holds up a blue and white winter hat with the words “Be Nice” embroidered all over it.
“It fell off a truck,” Sonya snarks as she puts the hot hat onto her hard head.
“Time you asked for a refund!” JB jokes as he points at his boss, who does not look pleased to say the least.
JB leaves his job for the day and drives his Turdmobile over to his favourite singer’s house. No not Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes, thankfully for them.
“Bernadette!”
“JB!”
“Hey I got something for ya, honey puddin’!”
JB shows Bernadette the hat his malignant narcissist boss ripped off a tenant and puts it on his communal narcadoodle lover’s head as he walks in the door.
As the two sit on the couch to chill, JB’s former boss – and Bog Witch Bernadette’s other lover – Undead Greg Schneissder emerges from the washroom. Bernadette, the self-proclaimed “piano dominatrix” gets up and gives Greg a stern look. Hey poopy-brown eyes say it all.
“I flushed this time!”
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Don’t nag me, lady.”
Undead Greg spies his employee JB sitting in his seat. “Hey, wanna go over to Evansville and eat some friends? I mean some fried brands. Brains. Excuse me, I’ve had too much of your spicy fecal matter again.”
“I’ll do anything to get out of Manteno.”
After losing all but two dollars in the local mini-casino, Carla soars over to the factory in Northwest Ohio hoping to satisfy her sweet-tooth, only to discover they don’t even make chocolate there.
Hanging her beak in disappointment, she tries to raid a mini-mall ice-cream shop in Sandusky, only to be chased out by the customers grossed out at the sight of a vulture with a six-foot wingspan invading their space.
After doing some fluffy sky donuts across Ohio and Indiana, Carla goes looking for a vending machine. Sadly the only ones she could find take CryptidCoin — not to be confused with Craptocoin.
The shapeshifting humanoid vulture busts the door open of a highway convenience store down in southwest Indiana. “Ah finally, some chocolate ice cream with peaches, licorice and oatmeal raisin cookies! My favorite kind!” Carla thinks to herself as she wolfs down the entire half-gallon. She savors her last bite, only to puke it all up outside.
“Get away bird, or I will call the cops! Stop stealing our crap!” the clerk demands of the bird-brained thief. Carla had tossed her cookies and ice cream out of fear. That’s what you do if you’re a vulture.
Undead Greg and his buddy-pal JB have just got their fried brains at the annual festival in Evansville, Indiana. JB chows down when suddenly Greg’s plate is swiped by an unseen force. He slams down his fists and starts making off-color remarks.
A certain vulture can be seen in her natural habitat, eating dead stuff off a plate.
“Wow, that’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen all day,” Cierra Glitchmore says to her wife.
“You’re surrounded by people eating brains,” April Fool-Glitchmore deadpans.
Then Sonya empties all over the ground and her feet the caustic waste of her previous day’s feast.
“Have that lady arrested!”
Sonya causes a public freakout, cameras naturally rolling, including those of the Evansville television station covering the brainy event.
“I pee freely. I poop freely. I’m a bird. I go wherever I want to. You can’t discriminate against humanoid shapeshifting vultures! Do you know who my niece is?”
“Umm, never heard of her,” Kitty Bee reports.
“Carla? What are you doing here?”
“And this is history in the making. As you just saw this…umm…human vulture thing just…well…make a mess where she probably should have not gone. Evansville police have got the woman, bird person in custody. Man, it’s been a day. Reporting live for Evansville TV, this is Kitty Bee.”
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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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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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Peppi Wants a New Drug
“Been drinkin’ again?” Manteno narcissist Bernadette Cacca asks her husband, sociopath and portapotty co-proprietor Peppi Cacca.
“Can you blame me?” Peppi replies as he takes another moonshine swig from a jug marked “XXX”.
“I want a new drug,” Peppi thinks to himself, “one that won’t make me heave.”
Peppi Cacca knows crap is king, after all he and Bern own a portopotty business. Bored with binge-watching the Crap Me Outside Girl rapping on TakTik, Peppi starts looking for videos on how to get high on uTube. After scrolling through pages of unpredictable results, Peppi sits through a four minute commercial and watches a video filmed at Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.
“Plutonium tastes sweet” the presenter announces.
Intrigued, Peppi asks YooHoo Answers in their Qanonsense section if Queue can tell him if snorting Plutonium can get him high. After all, Peppi believes everything he reads on the Internet.
Peppi goes to Wally Green’s and Bucketheads looking for plutonium to buy, but comes up empty. No 11 per cent off sale for him, no buy one, get one 50 per cent off (but never free) either.
Driving home, Peppi gets stuck at a light at the intersection underneath the I-57 interchange. Under the bridge he spots a wild Leona Krabalsky, the Kankakee town troll.
Peppi drives his crapmobile to the underpass, going through the red stoplight because he thinks the laws do not apply to him. Peppi rolls his window down and yells his mating call “git, git, git” to Leona.
“I don’t want you and I am not for sale!” the elderly hag growls.
“You got some anything good?” Peppi clarifies wearing his turd-eating grin.
“I just might. What’s your pleasure?”
Peppi and Leona shake hands and Peppi peels out after chucking the brown paper bag into his backseat. Peppi rushes back home to meet wife Bernadette at their Manteno shack for dinner.
Bernadette and Peppi sit in their bedrooms, eat their Hardlees burgers and fries and belch a bunch of times. Bern lifts her leg and farts.
“Ahhh, that was a good one,” Bernadette says with glee.
Peppi takes his newly discovered rocks out the paper bag he bought from Leona.
“Mmmmmmmmm…this is sweet” Peppi thinks out loud as he munches on the pebbles.
Then Peppi pukes up his dinner since he was drunk.
Bernadette walks in on Peppi tossing his cookies in their washroom.
“Hey, what’s up?” a nosey Bern asks her beloved Pep.
“Blecccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhh” Peppi repies into the toilet.
“What were those cat turds doing in your bedroom? I need to burn them. Let me light a fart first to spark the flames and then I will watch them burn in the fireplace.”
Bern watches the glisten and pop, all aglow, gleaming like a twinkle in Bern’s eye. “Ooooh, that smell.”
Disgusted that Leona sold him fake Plutonium, Pep cooks up a way to make some cash.
Bern and Pep team up to make a mumble rap video. Pep raps and plays a single snare drum which fell off a truck, while Bern sings show-tunes while playing her accordion she uses to trick people on the internet into thinking she cares about charities.
The video fails to get monetized.
Bern makes a TakTik viral video lighting her farts and burning poopies in her fireplace which her fans adore. Then Bern runs out of poops because the neighborhood turd-burglar JB Martin stole them all.
Bern makes a collection of her own poops to burn since she needed more, and makes more TakTik videos, becoming an “influencer.” Companies offer to mail Bern free toilet paper in return for her becoming their brand ambassador.
As Bern logs into accept the free toilet paper, the Caccas’ fire alarm goes off from the unattended poopies burning in her fireplace.
The Manteno Fire Department rushes over to the Caccas’ house.
Bern screams with excitement when the Waaaaaah Machines wail and fart as the firefighters rush to their house to put out the fire, clapping as they arrive.
“Hi guys, I really love those fart noises your fire engines make. Can I get one of those keen blow-horns for my house? I think they will go great with my accordion routine I do for charity and the Turd machine I mounted on the side of the shack to shoot at Gothic Diana Ross.”
“Shut up and leave, your house is on fire,” the firefighter warns Bern as the two Caccas walk away and watch their house burn, along with the poopies.
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Behind the Moroniverse: Peppi and Bernadette
Manteno’s own Peppi and Bernadette Cacca might seem like empty characters at first, however there is a much darker side to them. Like all my characters, the Caccas are inspired by a combination of real people.
I have known Bernadette’s main inspiration my entire life. She had lived next to my grandmother. As kids, she was the entitled brat who wanted things her way or the highway. I used to try and dodge her, running the other way because she annoyed me so much, but then she would not leave me alone.
I clearly remember her insisting on calling me my deadname, despite my pleas for her to stop. Bernadette hasn’t any concept of boundaries and neither does her main inspiration. She just pretends to care.
In high school, she had found a way to manipulate people into thinking she was a wonderful person. I had to ask her an urgent question for a design I was creating for a play in which she starred, right before I had to catch the bus to trade school to design it. Instead of turning around and answering me, the “stage manager extraordinaire” sitting atop a desk kept talking faster and louder to the other student, drowning me out.
To add insult to injury, the real-life communal narcissist tricked the teacher into making ME apologize to HER. I will never forgive her for that abuse.
The real-life communal narc had been working on an app-only HBO show of some sort and playing piano for an LGBTQIA+ charity. You read that right; the same person who deadnamed me repeatedly is raising money for an LGBTQIA+ cause. Hmmm…
Now she is gaslighting people into thinking she cares about the Russian invasion into Ukraine, singing at charity events to raise money, and course to get that almighty photo opportunity. My best friend and her husband have family in Ukraine; this is personal for me. I do not care about a moronic photo op when my friends and their family are fighting for their lives, running from a DIC-tator who wants to bring about the Apocalypse.
I read she yelled at a late-night television host for getting too close to her piano. This behavior does not surprise me, having come from a person who has a history displaying her sense of entitlement to those closest to her.
I created my character to help cope with a lifetime of abuse from a narcissist who tricks virtually everyone into seeing her mask, which I suspect has been crumbling. I hope it falls off for good and she slithers away into a life of obscurity, working by herself, abusing nobody. Or maybe she will live out her life in the bog, devouring the living like the character whom she had inspired, Bernadette Moran Cacca.
Have you known a person like this?
Peppi Cacca’s name came from a rabid doorman in Italy who sexually assaulted me. Character Peppi Cacca’s main inspiration is a toxic, former neighbor who had stunk up my apartment with skunky weed and sadly abused his cat. I had gotten the idea from Pepe LePew and used to call him Pepe LePuke as I heard him through the ceiling vomiting every morning while he was upstairs visiting his boyfriend with whom he was having an affair. I am so glad to be out of that apartment complex, and in a much quieter, cleaner place – waking up to birds in the trees, not skunk-weed stench.
Awhile back, I had overheard him on the bus bragging to the driver about his drinking, making the excuse “can you blame me?”
I blame him for his own behavior.
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RSTLNE Spells Wrestling, Right?
“Calm Down” Jina Vs The Manteno Wonder
It is the year 1997, in the month of May, day the first at the Bradley Amateur Wrestling League (BrAWL).
“In this corner, standing at 5’4”, weighing 250 lbs is Bernadette Moran, the “Manteno Wonder!'”
“In the other corner is her opponent, 240 pound 5’6” ‘Calm Down’ Jina Hansen!
“You beat me last time, kiss your beeehind goodbye!” Bernadette shouts.
“Calm down, calm down!” Jina gaslights.
“I’ll give you calm!”
The two Kankakee County wrestlers go at it.
Stagehands wheel a couple of beds into the ring and the ladies start to jump like five-year-old children. The crowd boos Jina and throws tomatoes, peaches, eggplant, radishes, and ranch dressing into the ring at her which make a sloppy mess over her bed.
Jina picks up the salad ingredients and shoves them onto Bernadette’s bed.
“Clean it up!”
“I’ll clean YOU up!”
“Calm down! Calm down!” Gina gives her familiar line which makes The Manteno Wonder anything but calm.
Bern knocks the crap off her bed and chucks it crap at Jina, who slips on the dressing spilled across the ring.
Bernadette pins Jina with her bum. Then she farts.
“One, two, three!” the referee chants as they beat the floor and the two jump up, Bernadette’s hand raised in victory by the ref, Jina’s farty head reeling from the stench, stomach about to retch.
It is the last time Jina ever wrestles. She is disappointed to find out it is all an act and goes back to her old job harassing customers at a local donut shop.
MoronicArts 
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