Dr. Eddie Dixon Graduated at the Bottom of His Class.

After Kitty Bee had been waiting 45 minutes to see Kankakee physician and father of imbecile-machine salesman Brandon, Dr. Eddie Dixon finally makes his way into the exam room.

“I only have time for one problem per visit. What is going on with your weight? I see you gained ten pounds.”

“Medication side effects?” Kitty replies.

“No, you see Kitty, a pill has no calories, it cannot make you gain weight.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.” Kitty replies.

Dr. Dixon scrolls through Kitty’s patient record on his laptop computer.

“Why are you on so many medications, Kitty?”

“Because you PUT me on them, you moron!”

Breaking News: Secret of the Lost Socks Solved!

A Kankakee, Illinois bill collector and dog-food enthusiast discovered the secret entrance to the sock void in her dryer,

“I went looking for that last sock, and found it just barely hanging on. Thankfully it escaped the force of the black hole and I saved it from eternal doom,” Sybil Kibble told MoronicArts.

This groundbreaking scientific discovery will certainly help laundry-doers across the globe. More research is needed to figure out how that void got there in the first place.

Robbie Hurlbutt: A Hot Mess

Yesterday, November 17th, was Wally Green’s store clerk, Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist Robbie Hurlbutt’s birthday.

“Are you hosting anyone for Thanksgiving?”” Wally asked Robbie.

“No, my table is rather small.”

“How about your birthday?”

Robbie spied a discounted flower bouquet and rang it up himself to ensure he got his employee discount, not caring that it was against company policy.

“I bought myself these flowers to put on my tiny table.”

The smallest violin played over the store intercom.

In walked Robbie’s number one crush, Gothic Diana Ross, whom Robbie had a history of relentlessly stalking.

“Diana, it’s my birthday and I want to give YOU these roses if you spend it with me.”

Unimpressed, Diana knocked the bouquet to the floor and walked away.

“Be sure to clean up that mess,” Wally Green tells his subordinate.

“Diana, I spent all that money on you, and you just threw my love away,” Robbie said to try and guilt-trip the singer and leader of the Midnight Supremes.

Diana giggled and walked out the door.

I Wanna Speak To The Manager

“We need to increase our bottom line,” CRASS CEO Mack E. Avelli tells his entire staff in the board room.

“Size matters.”

Laughter fills the entire room.

“Our budget is only so big and we need to increase our revenue to exceed expenses. We could only give so much to the Optimal Club last year and we had to shortchange the Kankakee Medicine Pronouncing Competition, even though we had already committed. We need good ideas, only the best.

Dale raises his hand.

“I know. I have a really good idea. How about we do things the Dale way this year…”

Mr. Avelli sighs.

“No just listen up. I’m worth your time. How about we spend less money on charity? That way we will have more money for the things we need. It all makes sense. We can do things the way we have been doing them, or we can do things the Dale way.”

“That’s enough Dale. We need to look good for the community. Image is everything. Who will go next?”

“Maybe we can hire more people to cut back on overtime? I am swamped with purchase requests!” Linda Stay says.

“Nice idea, but work faster,” Mr. Avelli snarks.

Sybil raises her hand.

“Sybil Kibble! What is YOUR grand idea?”

“I know. How about we call up and say we are “Kristy” from Management. Ask the debtor to call us back. We have no Kristy working here. Block caller ID so the suckers will not know it is us!”

“Great idea Sybil! Change all scripts immediately and don’t forget to double down on every call, everybody!”

The collectors get to work.

Calls come in.

“I would like to talk to Crispy?”

“Crisco called. Hahahaha.”

“Is the Cisco kid? My router is stuck. Can you fix it?

“Yeah I hear I won a free trip to Frisco. When do I go?”

More calls roll in.

“Yeah I heard a manager called me. I wanna speak to the manager. This is Karen.”

Team Leader Sybil Kibble cannot keep up with the call volume. The Collections Representatives keep transferring all their calls to her because they keep asking for a manager. After all, the messages stated a manager called for them! 

The phone system shuts down due to Denial of Service, in other words a system overload.

“What are we going to do?” CRASS CEO Mack E. Avelli asks Sybil Kibble in her office.

“Act more ethically next time?”

They share a laugh.”

“Carrier pigeons,” Mr. Avelli smirks.

It is CRASS business as usual.

Rich People Problems

[ Part five of a continuing story which inspired people to rise up and start this petition: https://www.change.org/p/albion-college-remove-dr-mathew-johnson-from-albion-college ]

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“Why are people up here in Albion so anti-Reynolds? I have done nothing but help this community. The other day, I told an obese lady about the new gym I wanted to build. I wanted to help her. But, noooo, people are so rude and mean. They do not appreciate my help! After all, they shut down The Mathew B. Johnson School of Intrepid Arts — The Best Martial Arts School around I could have taught them kiddos how to make PSI Balls!!”

“Those are fake.”

“I know. But but makes us money, and I want to teach ’em! This whole state needs a good schoolin’! This whole world!”

“Hey Barry, why don’t you call that Bernadette moron, the bog witch who sings opera for charity?”

“Don’t you remember? She and her husband drove all the way from Manteno, Illinois and just left! I mean, how rude! Everyone hates me!”

“How about we drive down to Manteno. Maybe we can try their porto potty business since their number always goes to voicemail. I can only listen to that recording of them polka-rapping about porto potties so many times.”

“We have nothing better to do. I am bored. Let’s go!”

“Take that ugly desk with you. Maybe you can give it to her to pay for our public-relations clean-up act.”

Barry and Terry Reynolds run to Manteno. 

“Turn left. Then turn left. Then turn left. Recalculating.”

“That dang GPS, why does it screw up so much? It has one job!” Terry exclaims.

Terry and Barry arrive at Peppi’s Portapotties. 

“Dang! Just missed ‘em. They closed ten minutes ago. Let’s do a drive-by past their house.”

The bumbling idiots drive past the Caccas’ run-down shack. Nobody’s home. Spotting the beautiful slate, Victorian Gothic home next door, their curiosity draws them in.

The Westminster Chimes are played as they ring the doorbell. A 5’10”, slender, medium-skinned Gothic beauty answers the door, wearing an all-black dress and fishnet stockings.

“Yeah?” Gothic Diana Ross answers.

Barry’s stoic face turns a slight smile.

“Umm, hi Miss. We will not take up much of your time.”

“You’ve already taken up too much.” Diana quips.

“What’s the deal with your neighbors? The Caccas?”

‘Oh man. Just don’t.”

Diana inches away and begins to close the door.

“Wait? Miss! We have this $1000  desk we can give you, if you just talk to us!”

“I’ll tell you where to put that desk.”

Diana slams the door and goes back to singing rehearsal with the Midnight Supremes.

“Barry, I gotta whizz.”

“Yup. You’re the boss.”

“No Diana is. Let’s go.”

Barry and Terry pull into the nearest corner Wally Green’s. While Terry is emptying her bladder in the washroom, Barry finally answers the sales clerk who asked him six times if he needed help finding something.

“Yeah, do you sell those SpamMaster 2000 CD-ROMs?”

“No, sorry. Are you looking to send unsolicited emails? I got a guy.” Drugstore clerk, covert narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt slips Barry the number for Pat Splatt, petty criminal and junk emailer.

Pat Splatt multitasks, sending out heaps of junk emails on one monitor, while repeatedly right-swiping on the other monitor.

Barry and Terry meet Pat Splatt at midnight on the street, not far from the interchange bridge under which Kankakee troll Leona Krabalsky is sawing wood.  The three shadowy figures shake hands and part ways. The Reynolds drive onto Interstate Route 57 North, toward Chicago-O’Hare Airport, and board a plane for their monthly vacation. 

“We’re headed to Australia and we’re so stoked!” reads the craption below Terry’s Fakebook post, loaded with the hashtag #RichPeopleProblems. Terry cannot wait to take photos of her legs and feet.

Pat Splatt hopes to buy an overly lifted truck to compensate for his lousy personality with all the money he makes spamming on behalf of the dysfunctional former leaders of the Mathew B Johnson School of Intrepid Arts.  Brandon Dixon’s imbecile machine lot is booming with their end of year sales and Pat hopes to wheel-and-deal himself one.

While Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds spend loads of money they got from who-knows-where, seeing the sites of Australia, email junker Pat Splatt is busy sliding unwanted emails into the inboxes of college students all over the USA. Pat spams on behalf of disbarred college president Reynolds about the wonders of PSI Balls and how Barry Reynolds can teach them to defend themselves from psychic attacks. A second wave of spam stinks up the computer mailboxes of students at UCLA, Yale, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Colgate, Boston University, Loyola, Olivet Nazarene, Baylor, Kent State, Oregon State, Nebraska and Iowa City, spewing propaganda to try and connive random students into taking Barry’s online martial arts courses “because he is a nice guy who does a lot for the community.” 

A sleeping Barry is awakened by an unexpected phone call. 

“This is the Albion Health Department. We have received multiple complaints about a cockroach infestation at your compound.”

“It’s 3AM. Who the heck is this?”

“Huh? I don’t know where you are or what you’re talking about. We need you to rectify the infestation or we are going to have to condemn your property.”

“I’m in Australia on vacation with my wife.”

“Must be nice. I have not had a vacation in 21 years.”

Barry hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. The Reynolds spend the day at their exclusive resort on Australia’s Gold Coast taking pictures of themselves and braggity-boasting on their Fakebook pages.

A month later, the relaxed, but tired couple heads home to their Albion McMansion. Several “Condemned” signs are seen posted all over their estate. 

“What the heck now? After all we do for this county? This state? The entire Universe?”

Beep-Beep-Beep goes the Avelli Truck, lowering a shipping container on the grass outside the massive, now-condemned Reynolds residence.

“What’s this?” a stern Barry asks.

“Your new home. There’s even room for your desk.”

A truck from Peppi’s Portapotties pulls up, “King and Queen of the Throne” its lettering reads below a smiling cartoon depicting owners Bern and Peppi Cacca.

“His and Hers,” Peppi says to the Department of Health worker overseeing the Reynolds property seized by the City of Albion, Indiana as he sets up the two portable toilets.

“We are NOT going to sleep in there.” Barry says with his nose to the air, walking away from the metal shipping container.

“You can live in a dumpster. We won’t judge.”

Barry checks his bank account, hoping to stay in a swanky hotel.  The robobank announces “Negative Forty-Nine Thousand, two-hundred twenty-four dollars.”

“Paaaaaaaaat!” Barry and Terry exclaim as they fall to their knees in unison, mad because their goose is cooked.

Awww, sucks to be them.