Beanefits of Being Morons

Doris Krabalsky is bored waiting in her bed for her meal and medication. Who knew staying in the hospital could be so boring? Doris decides to go for a walk to the nice skin cancer patient she met earlier in the day.

“I have the perfect solution for you.”

“Is it the stinky pink drink?” the lady asks?

“No, I drank that for four years.” Doris replies.

“I am not using essential snake oils because I am smell-sensitive,” the elderly lady replies.

“Nope.”

Doris’ nurse walks in. “What is going on here? Patients are not supposed to go into other patients’ rooms. You all signed and initialed an agreement when you got here.”

“She was just telling me about a new treatment for my skin cancer.”

“Oh no, selling stuff is strictly prohibited here.”

“I am not selling, I am recommending.”

“Recommending? Only licensed medical providers are allowed to do that here, per your agreement Doris. Now you broke three rules. Three strikes, you are out. I am afraid we will have to release you.”

“Waaaaah! What about my bum knee?” Doris growled.

“Oh, ma’am your pain was not that bad anyway. I will be back shortly with your discharge papers. Are you calling for a ride home or shall we have Security escort you?”

“Hrrmph.”

Five hours later, the Kankakee town troll Leona Krabalsky walks in the room after leaving her home undeneath the bridge.

“Bustin’ outta here?”

“They are sending me home too soon,” Doris sighs to Leona.

“You say? How so?”

“They told me not to suggest our fine products to other patients.” Doris says to Leona.

“Oh, you should see these magic beans!”

“I have tooted enough, Leona.”

“No Doris, magical beans, not musical.”

The two sisters head out after Doris signs her discharge sheet.

Doris walks into her home and Leona meets her in the den.

Leona opens up a small paper bag and pulls out a handful of dried beans.

“You see, Doris, these are not any beans. They are magic beans.”

“How are they magical?” Doris asks her sister.

“They can make us lettuce.”

The two sisters look each other in the eye and grin.

“By convincing our customers that these beans I bought at the grocery store they have special health benefits which they do not, and persuading them to pay more than they need, we can make a lot of green!” Leona tells an intrigued Doris.

Doris and Leona get busy setting up a Fakebook page. Since Pat Splatt has left town for South Africa and is unreachable, the Krabalsky sisters develop a marketing plan on Utube.

“Since Grammarlee did so well advertising their overpriced Autocorrect program before every video, I thought we could make an even longer commercial with even more annoying music and sound effects!” Leona tells Doris.

“Let’s do it. Add a slide whistle, boom clappity music and a vuvuzela.”

“Done,” Leona tells Doris, feeling accomplished.

Emails come in and so does money. Beans go out. As the word gets out, so do more beans.

“Soon we will have to hire a bean counter!” Doris jokes to Leona.

“Ding!”

“Ahhh, we got our first review. Hopefully it will not be our last!” Doris tells a nearby Leona.

“These beans did not work at all. I thought these were magical and I did not feel a thing. I did not see a thing! Not recommended!”

“Ding!”

“I planted these magic beans and my beanstalk did not lead me to find a giant. I want my money back!”

“Ding!”

“I ate these musical beans I did not even toot even once. What a ripoff!”

Doris and Leona log onto Welp to read their reviews and they are even worse. Every customer wants their money back and contacts the duo for a refund.

“What do we do now, Doris?”

“I guess our product is a ‘has-bean’.”

MoronicArts Classics: Nobody’s Home

After yet another long week calling up strangers at work, patients in hospitals and people just trying to cook supper for their families, Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble is feeling stressed and irritated. She works as the team leader collecting dubious debt for Kankakee’s most shady debt-collector Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), and she’s tired of people hanging up on her.

“Out of dog-food again! Dang, I just bought some at Schmucks! How did I eat all those Alpo cans so fast? They must be making them smaller now.”

Image: green-toned cartoon showing a blonde woman at a computer. Text on monitor reads "Collect-o-matic."

Needing someone with whom to vent, Miss Kibble goes over to visit her best friend and next-door neighbor, Mrs. Pearl Jo “PJ” Hulbutt who is busy meditating. Sybil barges right in and startles PJ who nearly bangs her head on the table, then tells her to “calm down!”

“Ah my boys have not come around lately. They don’t appreciate their mother and all I do for them! Have you seen that Kitty Bee lady? Her hair is pink now!”

PJ rambles on complaining about person after another. “Have you talked to your father?”

“I stopped talking to him years ago. You ask me that every time I come over. Why?”

“My father was not so nice. It says in the good book we should forgive people and pray for them to change.”

“He’s dead. His new wife was just as abusive, I hear she has an extra room. Why don’t you call her up? I am sure she would like the company. She’ll probably ask all kinds of questions about me! Go up to Chicago and spend a month or two to see what it’s like. Just call her after I leave.”

“No need to go overboard with your remarks. They are entitled to their beliefs as well. As a person with a daemon latched onto her body at the age of two that never leaves me alone, I understand fear and misunderstanding. I’ve been judged for my demeanor and nosey words my entire childhood but I still care and help others. I define me not other people.”

image: black and white cartoon of a blond woman outside a building, crows encircling her head as she screams.

Livid, Sybil Kibble stomps back to her home, and eats her last dog bone; much tastier than the word-salad her neighbor had spit out. Meanwhile, PJ hops on a bus to find more people to annoy:

“Why are all these people getting at the bus at once?” PJ Hurlbutt asks aloud to a bus full of strangers, looking around for someone that cares. An enquiring mind wants to know. PJ repeats her nosey nonsense and adds more crap to her routine. “Look at that lady with the green hair. Does she know those tattoos are permanent?”

“I’ll tell the mayor,” Dorian James deadpans, making a cheeky grin while adoring his boyfriend Ant’s half-sleeve.

Sybil calls a bunch of friends, hoping to hang out.

Pyramid-scheme-peddlers Doris and Leona Krabalsky’s phones go straight to voicemail.

Sybil drives her white Chrysler LeBaron to investigate why people are ignoring her calls and texts.

Slowing down through the I-57 underpass, she seeks the Kankakee troll Leona. Nope, she’s not home. 

Out of desperation, Ms. Kibble calls her hairdresser Lila Croule at her home-based salon, even though it’s a week too soon to get her face-frame cut, but sorry; more voicemail jail.

Sybil continues North toward Peotone to find her sharp-tongued stylist Lila Croule, hoping to trade barbs about moronic customers. After she parks her reliable box-mobile, she rings the doorbell at Lila’s front door. No answer. The RRRRRRGH of the lawn tractor stops and Sybil spots Lila trimming the edges of the grass using her $1000.00 hair shears, completely tuning out Ms. Kibble.

image: full-colour cartoon of a purple-haired woman riding a purple lawn-tractor, holding up a pair of shears. A blond woman peeks over the wooden fence.

“I hope these folks don’t visit my grave one day, since they don’t bother me while I’m alive! Hmmpf.”

As she drives back home to Kankakee, Sybil sees her subordinate Dale Davis jogging on the sidewalk, beeping his watch repeatedly. Dale waves to Sybil and beckons her to come hither so he can confess her love, and she just drives on by. Her stomach turns. She then drives to Major’s Supermarket to buy her favorite meals: buys 50 cans of Alpo, with which she drowns her worries at home, glad to be away from the rest of the Moroniverse.

image: yellow, black and white cartoon of a blonde woman wearing glasses, eating dog food.

MoronicArts Classics: That’s A Weird Flex, Robbie.

Image: two panel, black-and-white cartoon. 
Panel 1: an Elvis impersonator does pull-ups on the bus as a gothic woman looks away.
Panel 2: The Elvis impersonator dances at the bus station in the background, the gothic woman seen from behind in the foreground asleep.

Kankakee drugstore clerk, covert narcadoodle and self-proclaimed Number One Elvis Impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt spies his number one crush Gothic Diana Ross riding the bus. Hoping to impress her, like a peacock shaking his tail-feathers, Robbie flexes by doing pull-ups on the railing. Diana looks away, trying to hide her laughter.

Robbie continues flexing at the bus station, dancing around like a moronic fool as the rightfully uninterested gothic beauty Diana falls asleep, waiting for the Midnight Supremes to pick her up.

(Thank you for the prompt and the tip, Jennifer!)

A Hunka-hunka burnin’ junk

Kankakee bill collector, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Glee Club member and self-righteous narcadoodle Pam Frickfrick is such a huge Elvis fan, she bought up every single dancing Elvis bear she could find. Her favorites have built-in sensors to start singing, dancing and farting on her co-workers every time they walk by.

“You know, I wrote a book, actually seven. I know something about money. Let me tell you about–“

“I just want to speak to your supervisor.”

Before Pam has a chance to talk the guy out of escalating the call, Lead Debt Collector Sybil Kibble walks up to her cube, chomping on a dog biscuit.

“You know, Pam, we are losing money because of you.”

As Pam continues to ignore her supervisor and instead bothers the person about his dubious debt, her harmonica collection, alphabetized, and her obsession with stealing lawn ornaments, the robot bears sing and danc to a garbled recording of “Burnin’ Love.”

“Hey Pam, I think we have our new on-hold music!”

“Just wait a sec–“

Sybil knocks down all the android ursids into a big box and yoinks them from her subordinate. “Get back to work!” Miss Kibble commands to Pam, taking the cacaphony chorus line to Operations Manager Mikey Philips for a little dissection and maybe some vivisection, too.

Pam begins to smell smoke, gets up, stares across the office.

“Who’s got the cigarette?”

“Go back to work Pam!” the entire collections team chants in unison, shaking their collective heads.

Thankfully the smoke alarm stays silent for a change. Sybil hates farty horns.

Manteno Mayoral Meeting Madness!

The Manteno Optimal Club joins the village in congratulating its new mayor.

Wally Green, drugstore owner, wacky inventor and newly elected president of Bernadette M. Cacca’s fan-club sits and waits his turn to talk about opprtunities to sell more CrapStraps, StrangleTangles and Sleevies in Manteno.

Other Poopy Groupies Peppi Cacca and Dorian James wait in the hall, as the room is overflowing. Kankakee debt-collector Sybil Kibble tries to talk the village into letting Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) build a second location there. After all, what’s better than one collection agency to hound you about unpaid medical bills, than two?

A very desperate-for-dookie-downloads Bernadette Cacca burps, then bursts into the room, belting her newly formed tune:

“Buy Craptocoins, they are good for you, made from 100 per cent, recycled port-a-poo!”

“Mrs. Cacca, you need to add yourself to the agenda first before taking the podium.”

“No, I don’t need any immodium, I’m regular now!”

The new mayor waves Bern away like the waft of stench she brought in.

“Where have I heard that song before?” Wally Green thinks aloud, then blows his nose into one of his monogrammed hankies.

“Who brought the bullhorn?”

Gothic Flo of The Midnight Supremes just shakes her head and enjoys the popcorn.

Bernadette’s idea gone, like a fart in the wind.

Manteno port-o-dump proprietor extraordinaire, communal narc-a-doodle and turd-machine operator Bern Cacca wanted to sell her bottled farts, butt dang it, someone beat her to it.

Sulking, she lights her gas blasts to spark the poopy-burning flames instead.

The Queen of the Plastic Throne enjoys watching the port-a-potty waste gleam in her fireplace, as she sits in her rocking chair, drinking root-beer while watching GG Allin videos.

image: color cartoon depicting cartoon poop emojis burning in the fireplace

Bern Cacca is #PoopingForKaitlin (and Stephanie).

Bill Collector Awareness Day

Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?

Also known as “International Thank A Debt Collector Day”, Kankakee bill-collector Sybil Kibble thinks this day is just keen. Next time she calls, throw her a dog bone or two to celebrate this uniquely moronic holiday (just not the Brand X kind).

“You can have that one for free, Pat.”

Kankakee art student, grifter and narc-a-doodle Pat Oswald Splatt posts to Redditopixly begging for volunteers to help with his “nonprofit” app project that’s really for profit.

He interviews three people remotely – all three he rejects even though they were well-qualified – simply because he is a sadistic moron who gets a high off hurting people’s feelings. The empathy is small with this one. Size matters.

Taking a different approach, Pat posts to Fakebook and the X-Parrot begging for free art, a fancy computer and people to tell their friends about his new, non-existent gadget in the making.

After asking a bunch of people if “this is still available?” he starts to get a few replies from people who are a little too nice.

“Hi, you asked about the computer?”

“I don’t like that machine. Can you give me a bigger hard drive?”

“I’ll show you my hard-drive! Click.”

“Yes, the art is available! I’d like to help out.”

“That drawing will suit. Can you make it a little bigger?”

“If you want it, pick it up. Otherwise I will sell it.”

“Come on man, it’s for a good cause!”

“It’s already framed. I put a lot of time into that picture. Time is money and mine is valuable, yes mine. Waste my time again and I’ll send you a bill!”

A “This person is no longer available” message promptly appears at the bottom of the chat window.

Pat messages 89 more people, but his calls and texts go unanswered.

Undead Greg Schneissder walks by Pat’s house, pounds on his door, busts it down.

“Got anyyy braiiins?”

Pat gives Greg the stinkeye, waves him away with one hand.

“Poopies?”

Pat reaches for his shotgun, however the zombie walks away before the non-existent warning shot could be non-fired.

Greg wanders over to a neighbor’s apartment and stares into his window, fixated on the television game-show.

“We surveyed 100 women and asked them, what about men—“

“Farts!” the contestant answers after slamming her hand down onto the set-piece.

“What about men do women find most attractive? Let us seeee…FARTS!”

“AAAANT!”

A big-ol’ X covers the screen and Greg giggles at it, slowly pointing his left arm or finger, he doesn’t remember which.

As Mr. Splatt barricades his newly broken door to keep out zombies, a newly formed text appears on his phone (not to be confused with Newly Formed Turds).

“I thought I’d never hear from him!” Pat thinks aloud, as he makes a mad dash for the door.

After moving the heavy boxes, metal sculptures and broken computers, he opens the doorway to let in his delivery.

Too late!

“Heres your free crap!” the Fakebook freebie group member yells out to Mr. Splatt.

“What? Pat shouts as the dump-truck lowers a whole load of manure all over his front lawn – and him.

“What the truck? The landlord is going to freak out!” exclaims a neighbor.

“Yummm, turds!” Undead Greg cheers as he makes his way towards the pile o’ pig poo, sits down, takes out a fork and a spoon.

By George! He Just Slid Into Sybil’s Inbox

They just show up!
CRASS creditors love Sybil so so much, they call her on the weekend.
Do you make these questions up as you go along, Mr. Denzel, or does somebody write them down for you?

Poor George, he’s just not a people person. He and Sybil have different tastes.

Saturday in the Park

Opposites attract, smells repel, unless you’re Bernadette and Peppi Cacca.

Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno, Illinois’ very own entramanure, communal narc-a-doodle and self-proclaimed “Queen of the Plastic Throne” comes back to the shack which she co-habitates with her drunken husband, Peppi.

Her mouth once wide open enough to catch a fly (or two), now sports a look of contempt after having headed home from the widely-attended Chicago “Hands Off” protest.

“A whole bunch of people walked by, and not one person, not even once, took a single video or picture of ME!”

“That’s that dang liberal protest, right?” Peppi asks.

“Yeah.”

“I told ya to vote for that other guy. Let’s go Brandon!” exclaims the bald, squat, beady-eyed, 70-something geezer, reeking of skunky weed made extra skunky, from rolling in the port-a-pee after he had finished a port-a-job.

“They got plenty of video of other people and their signs, some even made the Chicago news! The national news, too! Why not ME? Ever since Aunt Sonya left, people forget how talented I am, how much I do for the world, how much I poop. I have not gotten a single gig since she flew the coop!”

“She’s just busy I’m sure. Sit down with me, relax, we’ll watch The Wonderful World of Dung together.”

“The original or the remake?”

“The remake is streaming now…”

“Oh I hate the remake!”

Bernadette storms up the stairs, into the best room in the house to sit, poop and play accordion.

Her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran flies into town, rams into the Cacca home once again.

“Maaa!”

“I did a fly-by earlier and you weren’t home!”

“I was at the protest up in Chicago! Didnt you know? I can’t wait to tell you how much I did for America! It’s really good for my image–”

“Not now honey, family’s coming over.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Nobody told me about it!”

“I did, you just forgot.” Carla gaslights.

“No you didn’t.”

“Okay, okay, okay, drop it. Just get ready. Take YOUR shower!”

Bernadette continues to poop as her mother sets up the uninvited picnic tables and other crap out back. A committee of shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures fly on down to the House of Cacca to party on down, and pee on her lawn.

“My daughter has a beautiful voice!” Carla brags about her daughter to her family who had just flown in from the next town over to enjoy a feast of freshly squashed roadkill. Her cold heart shines bright in the face of company.

“Where’s Sonya?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s awful rude of her not to come down. I kept calling, she never answered. Did she get the presents I sent her?”

“Why do you even bother?”

“Shall I sing for you guys?” Bernadette interrupts. “I just tuned my accordion and vuvuzela horn! How about a tune?”

“Not now. Maybe later. I’ve got something to show you!” Carla’s evil grin begins to creep over her face.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a surprise. Come with us.”

They peck, umm, pack into the van like a band of mad clowns and drive over to the hospital in Kankakee.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“We’re going to the hospital!”

“Did somebody die?”

“No.”

“Get hurt, have a heart attack? I wanna know.”

“No, Bernadette.”

The Morans park their van and then walk down into the basement of the hospital, towards a sign marked “Central Sterile Supply.”

“I’m giving you a tour.”

“Of the hospital basement?”

“Yeah. I used to work here when you were little. Time for you to get a real job!”

Bernadette runs away as fast as she can, screaming, cursing and singing show-tunes.

“They, they—they do vivisection in here!” Bernadette exclaims madly as she busts on out the door.

A few locals shake their collective heads at the sight. Just another day in Kankakee.

The port-a-dump proprietor is eventually rounded up and taken in for an evaluation, just not the occupational kind.

After a few hours, Bernadette’s drug test comes back negative and the nurse sends her home. She calls her husband on her smell-phone and of course he does not answer, so she walks home.

A few Kankakee County residents spot Bernadette walking down the road, point and laugh.

“Don’t make fun of me or I will find you attractive!”

“Say what?”

“We saw you on TV!”

“TV? What?” asks a puzzled Mrs. Cacca.

Bernadette begins to grin a bit, visions of people praising her for holding up social justice signs fill her mind, even though she only does it just to look good on the outside.

“Yeah, you ran out of the hospital screaming like a looney bird! You’re a meme now!”

“I MEME AM WHAT?”

“OMG It’s the meme girl! I want a picture with her!”

Bernadette crawls into a nearby bog and takes a massive dump. It smells like someone died over there, or maybe it was just her ego.