Wally Green’s New Self-Checkout

To save money on staffing, Kankakee drugstore owner, wacky inventor and barfly Wally Green installed the new HAL 9000 Grocery Scanners in his corner stores, designed by engineering students from the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana.

“Quantity needed…Dave.”

“Don’t forget to take your items…Dave.”

“Don’t forget to take your items…Dave.”

Damien’s Butt Got Hurt Over Farts-In-a-Jar Idea

Poor Damien Hurlbutt. The Bourbonnais cinema clerk and communal narcissist who secretly loves to fart had this same idea. He got all mad, because he wanted to team up with Kankakee huckster Pat Splatt and sell his own farts on cBay:

Since this random lady got rich selling her gas blasts, Damien had to continue working at Cinema-13.

Maybe Goop will be calling, or Manteno’s very own portapotty-entramanures, Bern and Peppi Cacca.

Moron of the Week – Bored Youtube Troll

“When I grow up I wanna be a Youtube commenter.”
– Nobody

We have all seen them, the Internet trolls, the lost souls of the World Wide Web. These hobby-less wonders sit in their mother’s basements and type crap nobody cares about, hoping to upset someone or two.

Ennui clearly got to the best of this bored tool. A lone kid behind a keyboard and a monitor, with nothing better to do than leave moronic comments on independent musicians’ remixes, he probably thinks he is the only person who ever made a song before. Or maybe he just wants to bother strangers because he has no life. Maybe both?

How does he get his housework done? If he is that bored, he can come over and clean my cat’s litter-box, and then do my laundry, putting it all away after he folds it. I will not mind.

When translated, the troll’s drivel roughly says this:

The self-proclaimed musical genius could have just scrolled by and found a song he liked better, listening to that instead.

Sadly, used his idle hands to become the Moron of the Week. This is a clear example of how he wasted his time.

Enjoy your award, dude. You earned it.

CRASS Company Classifieds

Clio Bersola, Human Resources Director of the Kankakee debt collection firm Credit Recovery Associates, LLC (CRASS), decides to make work a little more fun, in response to having received many complaints regarding a stressful work environment. She got permission from CRASS’ big cheese Mack E.. Avelli to open up a classifieds’ section to all employees, since their therapy goat idea did not work.

Leaked from the CRASS intranet, here are some of the ads posted by CRASS staff and their buddies.

CRASS Classifieds: No matter how long you work, an ad in the classifieds never stops working.

001 LOST AND FOUND:

Lost: My mind. Please help! Call Mack at 555-3700.

002 ANNOUNCEMENTS:

Wanted: The beast in my dreams…the one that makes them loony! Call Judithann Avelli at 555-FIND if you find him. Don’t tell my husband.

004 FREE CRAP

Free movie tickets for any of m’ladies who would love to adorn this tenderheart on a date to the theater. I tip my fedora to you. Email Damien Hurlbutt at connivingpimp@hautemail.con

006 AUCTIONS:

Auction at the corner of Wally and Green Streets. Half-ply toilet paper, finger ale, a date with Wally Green and more.

010 WHOLESALE, RETAIL AND WHATEVER:

Lifetime supply of Sitagin, Just like the energizer bunny commercial from 1991! $40. 555-0000.

Money for sale! $20 bills only $26. Call 1-900-IM-CHEAP. Only $10 a minute.

011 APARTMENTS, UNFURNISHED:

One room apartment with water, 1 3/5 baths, 2 windows, no pets allowed. Call 555-RENT and ask for ext. 3SHACK.

020 FARM ANIMALS:

The perfect animal for all your farm work! Many colors from which to choose and low maintenance too! Call the Parakeet Center for more information at 000-BIRD.

030 INFORMATION FOR SALE:

Underground alien bases! Call Konrad at 000-UFO-RIDE to buy some information.

032 SERVICE FOR SALE

We scratch CDs, records and crush cassettes. Reasonable rates. Call 555-KRUSH

100 VACATION SPACE FOR RENT

Swampland! Free port-a-potty with every stay. Call OUT-HAUS and ask for Bernadette.

120 AUTOMOBILES

BRRRRPPPPPPHPTTMOBILES! All makes and models of these teeny-weeny motorbikes. As low as $500, seats and tires extra. We also have plenty of lifted trucks to lift your ego. Call Brandon’s Imbecile Machines at 815-555-STINK. Free roses for the ladies!

Pat Splatt Poops the Question

Bourbonnais multiplex clerk, neckbeard and communal narcissist, Damien Hurlbutt, has caught word that his estranged former wife Lori is coming into Kankakee County for a doctor’s appointment. He is deathly afraid of running into her because he is scared she might confront him about his history of verbal abuse toward her, tarnishing his squeaky-clean image. He heads over to his brother Robbie’s apartment to ask him and fellow con man Pat Splatt to come up with a sneaky way into avoiding her.

“I’m back!” Damien tells his younger brother and fellow narcissist, Robbie.

“I’m front!” Robbie snickers back.

“I am leaving town for a week or longer. I am telling my boss at the cinema and then hitting the gas. My ex-wife is coming back into town and I am scared.”

“Scared?” Robbie replies in his typical faux-Elvis voice.

“Yeah. Sssh, don’t tell anyone. I really look good online after I smear campaigned her to all my friends, even to that famous couple until they had told me to stop messaging them, sending them presents and mailing them weekly postcards. I had sent them a drawing I made all by myself after our friend passed away since I had talked them into letting me send them art instead. I swear, they are really impressed! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” Damien exclaims with glee as he rubs his palms together.

“Just man up and deal with it!” Robbie Hurlbutt tells his older brother Damien.

“Come now. That is not how you talk to a fellow Men’s Rights Activist! You know that!” Damien says on the defense to Robbie.

“I hope you get the time off approved.”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay…” Damien repeats ad nauseum, not knowing his little brother Robbie is already out of earshot.

“Ding-dong.” 

“You’re wrong!” Damien snickers beneath his breath to the person at Robbie’s door.

A half-grinning Pat Splatt opens the door and struts inside.

“I popped the question!”

“What question?” Damien asks.

“Heyyyy…where did you meet her?” Robbie replies and looks away.

“Hey Pat, my ex is coming into town and I am feeling lukecold about this. I was wondering if you could help come up with a scheme—“

“Damien, I just got engaged!”

“I know, I know. My ex is due in sometime this week. I would like to gingerly bow out of town but I have to work. What do you suggest I do?”

“Hey, can I sing at your wedding, Pat?” Kankakee’s number one Elvis impersonator, the one and only Robbie Hurlbutt asks.

“Do you know anything besides Elvis?”

“I can sing lots of oldies.” Robbie replies.

“Do you play any metal?”

“No, but you can book me really cheap. I will throw in my groovy dance moves for free.”

“I’ll consider it.” Pat says to Robbie.

“So where did you meet her?” Robbie asks.

“The dating app OKStupid. Hey, I’ll show you guys a picture.” Pat gets out his phone and opens up said dating app.

“Who’s Daniel Sprague?” Damien asks.

“Oh, that’s my profile,” a half-embarrassed Pat replies as his gawky, straggly self shows the Hurlbutt brothers the obviously-stolen photos of the handsome, athletic man in the photos with the gorgeous hair and eyes. 

The Hurlbutts smile and ask to see his new girl.

“Her name is Alix. She’s from South Africa.”

“When did you meet her?” Damien asks.

“Oh, a month ago.”

“She came to Kankakee?” Robbie asks?

“No.”

“Hey Damien, let’s work on avoiding your ex,” Pat says to change the topic and the three work on scheming.

The next day arrives and so does Damien. Unlike Pat, Damien rings the bell and waits. While he waits, he taps his foot and jiggles the doorknob a dozen times. Make it a baker’s dozen.

“Well doesn’t that put poop in your soup?” Damien asks Robbie.

“Say what?” 

“My time off did not get approved. I have to work. That means if my ex-wife comes into town, and visits the theater, she could say something bad about me if I am mean to her! What do I do?”

“Weren’t you saying you had heel spurs, just like the former president?”

“You know, the Moon landing may not be real but darn it, my bone spurs are!” Damien sternly replies.

“You deserve a long, hard week off.”

“You know, that’s right. I’ll just call in.” 

“What do you do at that theater anyway?”

“Oh, make copies of tickets and give them away. And make color copies of things I print out…all on the company’s dime. Why not? They’re paying for it.”

The brothers share a giggle and Damien drives home to his neckbeard nest to sleep on the floor.

Damien dials his supervisor, Cinema-13 owner Konrad Teirant, on his ten year old flip phone to call in “sick.” 

“You will need to be examined by a doctor and have a written excuse for each day you are out. Company policy.” Konrad says to Damien.

Upset and surprised by this rule, Damien makes an appointment to be seen. The office cannot tells him he cannot in until next week.

“Phew!” Damien says aloud after he hangs up his ancient flip phone and writes down his doctor appointment.

Damien drives over to Robbie’s apartment, where Robbie, his roommate Andy Skandees and Pat Splatt are all watching TV.

A bulbous Damien sits down on the basket chair and nearly falls out, while Pat stares angrily at his phone on the couch next to Andy, who is relaxing in his white tank top and cargo pants.

“She says she wants to come meet me. In person. I keep telling her I am busy. She says she is on her way to Kankakee in a week-and-a-half for a business meeting via way of Chicago!” an unhappy Pat exclaims.

“Why don’t you want to meet your girl? Andy asks.

“Reasons,” Pat replies.

“Did I tell you my story about the poop elves?” Damien asks with a large grin on his face.

“Way too many times…” the rest of the room answers in unison.

“Oh, I forgot.” Damien lies.

The Kankakee storm rages on, and then changes to sun five minutes later.

Damien spends the next week off work, feeling glad he does not run into his former wife out and about, especially at work. It is review week coming up and he is deathly afraid of this time of year, as he is every year. Damien lives to impress, and will not even let his peers throw him a birthday party because he is not the one doing the impressing. If anyone would care enough to surprise him —  not that they would — he would take over the check, (in a not-so-polite-way) and insist on paying on it himself thinking that would somehow impress them. Damien only does this for image, as he only cares about himself. He just wants to look good to cover up his lack of empathy.

Damien goes to the doctor’s office the following Monday before returning to work at the movie theater that night. After all, he had just spent a week off for his heel spurs!

While waiting for about an hour for his fifteen minute exam, in walks a familiar-looking woman, along with a much older lady. Damien looks up.

“Oh gawd.” Lori says to her friend after briefly looking over at Damien and then back at her friend.

Damien is now shaking with fear. He immediately dials up Robbie. It goes straight to voicemail. He calls Andy. Same thing. He calls Pat.

“Hey, man. It’s an emergency.”

“Be right over. I am charging you double-time.”

“Fine.”

Damien flips over his bronze-age phone and waits, tapping his fingers, whistling audibly.

Thirty minutes pass and Damien has not been called back to see the doctor, neither has Lori.

Pat Splatt walks in, cowboy boots a-clomping.

“Hi Damien. What’s going—“

“Look, Pat.”

Damien points across from him, to his former wife and her friend.

“What do you want from me?” Pat asks.

“That’s my ex wife! I thought her appointment was last week! You gave me the info.”

“So what. Things change. It happens.”

“Hey, you sound familiar!” says one of the ladies across from him.

“Hey-hhmm-hhuhhh—hmmm—what?” a melodramatic Damien replies.

“No not you, that guy next to you.” the elderly lady replies in her Cape Town accent, appearing to be about 72.

“You mean Pat?” Damien snarkily replies.

“Pat? I thought your name was Daniel!”

“Alllll-iiiiixxxx?” a stunned Pat Splatt replies.

“Yes, sonny. It’s me. I had told you I was coming into town. But you hadn’t wanted to meet me. I wonder why not? You do not look anything like your picture. The engagement is off.”

“Well neither do you!” Pat exclaims.

“Calm down everyone!” a staff member shouts from behind a window.

The group of people waiting wonder how any of them would get any calmer by a comment like that.

Damien is eventually thrown out of the office and Lori is called in next.

Needless to say, Damien does not pass his yearly review at Teirant Cinema-13. Poor Damien. If only he had just tried to be nice. But then again, he would not be Damien. 

Shop Till You Drop, Sybil!

It’s a sunny day in Kankakee and Sybil is out for a walk. Sybil is strolling to the beat of auto-tuned mumble-country in her earbuds, when she spots a green cloth bag with a dollar sign on it lying on the ground near the Last National Bank of Kankakee County.

“Hmmm, what should I do?” Sybil wonders for a moment. 

“Should I go on a shopping spree, or take it home and shove it away in a drawer. I know! Shopping spree! I will pretend I am on Shop Till You Drop and go crazy with it! It’s my lucky day!” Sybil tells herself. She grabs the bag off the ground and heads home to her McMansion, gets in her Chrysler LeBaron and heads out.

Sybil pulls into the Bradley strip mall, which had contained the only Buckstars that ever went out of business in the history of the world. She walks into Miser & Co. Collectibles. “SALE! Three for the price of two (must buy three)” reads the storefront signage.

Sybil gets the biggest cart she can find and starts loading it up. “Oooh, fat free oil. I cannot get enough bottles of this.” 

Sybil spies another item she supposedly cannot live without. “Dehydrated water. How keen. Must grow my collection.”

Sybil continues to add to her cart. “A seatbelt belt? I could rock one of those. Oh and what is this? A golden mustache earring? Hot dog!”

“Hey Sybil, m’lady, m’lady” says a nearby Damien Hurlbutt, looking over the store’s record collection with his younger brother Robbie.

“Oh, tell your mother I said hi.”

“Yup. Will do.” says Damien. A silent Robbie has his nose buried in the Elvis LPs.

“Almost time to check out, just need to get a few more ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs. They are buy one, get one half off, y’know?” Sybil thinks aloud.

“I know.” Damien says, because he thinks it is all about him.

Sybil heads to the checkout counter, her basket almost overflowing with useless crap. She waits in a long line to check out. As she approaches the clerk, reaches for her money bag.

“That will be $500.69.”

Sybil opens up her bag and pulls out the bills. However, they do not look right to her. They are smaller, thinner, and printed on different colored papers. Sybil’s frown stretches down, her face turns red from embarrassment.

“Ma’am, did you really think you could pay us with Monopoly money?” says the clerk.

Sybil faints. She had shopped until she dropped.

Hobbies Are Important

“Excuse me Miss. I have something important to tell you.”

The 4’6″ Kankakee pyramid-schemer Doris Krabalsky stares down 5’11”, athletic Gothic Diana Ross who is minding her own business, drinking iced coffee at a table across the café.

“Yeah…no”

“There’s a cure for that,” Doris verbally spams Diana as she rubs her arms to suggest something was “wrong” with the medium-skinned singer’s limbs.

“These are tattoos, you idiot.”

The angered leader of the Midnight Supremes pauses and then delivers some important information to Doris.

“There is a cure for nosiness. It is called getting a hobby.”

The scared fool Doris leaves the café in silence, just in time to avoid getting a knuckle-sandwich delivered straight to her pie-hole, courtesy of Diana.

Wally Green’s Rejected Patents

Wally Green has been notorious for his wacky inventions for quite some time. Some of his ideas have made it into his drug stores. Others failed to pass patent approval and almost landed him in prison.

Finger Ale

Made from real fingers, this new organic health drink was set to be the new health craze, only it failed FDA requirements, and put Wally on several law enforcement watch lists.

Toiliot

This production-oriented, automated toilet would flush well ahead of schedule and make sure to splash its user, doubling as a bedde. As an added bonus, Toiliot would entertain people by making fart noises after flushing, much like Wally would when he blew his nose.

Passhole

This computer program would require its user to type in their password correct the first time. Any error would result in electric shock and their account locking up immediately.

Do not look for these products at a Wally Green’s near you.

Wally Green’s Music Machine

Have you been wanting to create a pop tune but are too lazy to write music? Are you the type of person who goes for quantity over quality? Wally Green has the machine for you!

Pop music producers have been using it for awhile, but this is the first time they’re admitting it. Wally’s Music Machine is a tabletop electronic device, made by by Kankakee pharmacy owner, wacky inventor and wannabe ladies’ man Wally Green:

It randomly generates pop songs at the push of a button using Wally’s patented AI (Automated Insipidness). Try it!

Hear what Wally’s customers have to say:

“It’s as easy as pressing 1-2-3,” says a record producer for one of the Big 5 record labels, speaking on condition of anonymity. “Just power the device on, press ‘start’ and out comes a song.” 

You can even create remixes using the device. “Just pop in a CD and it does all the work for you.” he adds. You can even add effects, using plug-ins like the overused Antares Auto-Tune, and built-in preset to crank it up higher than needed on purpose. 

The record producer states that, because of it is so easy to use, producers of Top 40 pop songs use it. “You don’t have to be a nuclear physicist to run it; you don’t need have graduated 6th grade to make a pop song. It changed my life. Now I pay my girlfriend to wipe my bum for me..” 

This reason, explains an executive for the RI Double A, is why so much pop music sounds alike.

“I may live all by myself in my ginormous mansion in Beverly Hills, surrounded by bags of cash and a fridge fulla caviar. I may go for weekly high colonics. If the stations play these songs enough, kids will like it…no matter how terrible it is. If we can minimize the amount of time spent producing a record, we can increase our profits exponentially. That’s all we want, that’s all the label wants. Who cares about art or paying the artist? Cha-ching.”

Buy your Music Machine at a Wally Green’s on a corner near you. Or not.