Excuses, Excuses.

“Excuse me, excuse me sir, YOUR laundry is done!” shapeshifting humanoid turkey-vulture Carla Moran squawks at Konrad “Kon” Teirant who had fallen asleep at the Manteno mini-casino/laundromat “Spin-n-Sudz.”

“Yeah! I need a machine!” sister Sonya Moran says at the man who had ruffled her feathers in his sleep.

Carla continues to poke Konrad, who had spent the past week staying up late cooking the books into a mutated mystery-meat mess at the Kankakee bill-collection company Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS).

Carla shoves Kon into the slot-machine, causing it to spin into oblivion, make a racket and flash like a fire truck.

“I won the jackpot!” Konrad says in a startled haze.

“No, dude, that’s my jackpot!”

“It’s mine!”

The two avian sisters peck at each other over Konrad’s money, to which they think they are entitled. The love money more than Kon, and that is hard to beat.

The owner walks in. “Who let these stupid birds in? Don’t y’all know not to feed the animals?” she says as she scans her eyes across the mini-casino and bar. She picks up a broom.

“Shoo ladies! Shoo! Fly away and don’t come back now, y’hear.”

Konrad goes to collect his winnings, ignoring the warning screen right under his nose:

“TILT!”

“Sorry sir, malfunctions void all transactions. It says so right on the sign.”

“Wha–“

“It’s our policy.”

Konrad audibly shuffles his feet over to the laundromat to pick up his clothes, like a toddler ready to throw a tantrum.

“Sorry sir, we just closed. You’ll have to get your laundry tomorrow.”

A wild Konrad storms out the building into the Manteno parking lot looking for someone else to blame for his own mistake, because why take responsibility when you can just blame someone else? So goes the mind of a tyrant anyway.

“You stupid birds! You cost me my big bag!” Konrad yells into the Midwestern clouds at the vultures who had long flown away, like a wolf howling at the moon, or a pixellated coyote from a casino slot machine if you prefer.

Then it begins to rain.

At Least Sonya Did Not Chop Off The Giblets and Send Carla the Bill.

Shapeshifting humanoid vulture and Midwestern slumlord Sonya Moran was busy minding her own business, taking a break from chowing down on a carrion score found on the streets of Manteno, Illinois. Her bored sister Carla thought it would be cute to bother her sister for no reason whatsoever, other than to get a rise out of her. Ennui filled the creature with rage. After all, she only looks good on the outside.

“”When is the last time you cut your hair? It looks awful!” the self-righteous narcadoodle Carla berated her histrionic sister Sonya.

“I’ll clip YOUR wings!” Sonya lunged back, massive shears in tow.

“Oh no, not the blood feathers!”

Bernadette, You Can’t Handle The Truth!

“Oh my gawd, JB, stop holding your fork like a shovel. You look like someone from the backwoods,” Manteno’s very own Bernadette Moran Cacca berates her Poopy Groupy and secret lover JB the neighborhood turd burglar right in front of her husband and co-entremanure of their portable washroom business.

“Now why are you eating that with your hands?”

“Two words, “Finger foods.”

“D’aaah-is it made from real fingers?” Fellow Poopy Groupy Undead Greg Schneissder asks Bernadette as he slithers over to the table.

“No, horses’ ovaries. That’s what hors d’oeuvres means in English,” Bernadette claps back.

“That’s not true!” JB argues.

“Yes it is!” the confidently incorrect Bernadette argues with the turd burglar in a recursive loop. The family that poops together, stays together.

Yet, communal narcadoodle Bernadette graces the cover of the Manteno Sentinel again for her charity work playing accordion and kazoo show-tunes at the Manteno Optimal Club. Her aunt, slumlord, and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Moran helped get her the press about some upcoming event crap. No wonder people want to yeet her.

Prepare the trebuchet!

YEET-O-MATIC!

These Are Not the Morans You Are Looking For.

Contrary to unpopular belief, these hijinks were carried out by plain ordinary vanilla humans, bearing the same names as the humanoid turkey vulture sisters Sonya and Carla Moran:

https://www.irishtimes.com/news/crime-and-law/courts/district-court/woman-guilty-of-trying-to-pass-herself-off-as-her-sister-1.2269672

No humanoids were harmed in the making of this story.

JoAnn Kibble Judges the Squirrelympics!

Kankakee squirrel watcher, candy-crusher and school-bus-parts collector JoAnn Kibble was hand-picked by her daughter Sybil to judge the annual Squirrelympics!

Brought to this community every year, the event is sponsored by Sybil Kibble’s employer: bill-collection-factory Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), because they are here for you, and only for you!

“We don’t just take your money, we give it back, too!”
— Mack E. Avelli, Chief Crook and and Money Launderer, CRASS

JoAnn Kibble Meets Her Squirrelly New Friend.

It was a

Dopey,

Sleepy

day.

Kankakee resident, expert crusher of candy and prolific collector of school-bus-parts JoAnn Kibble, joined Snow White along with the remaining five dwarves, talking to some squirrels.

This one took notice.

“This friendly #squirrel gives an about-face three times. I hope to meet up with him again soon! 12/10 will feed again.” JoAnn said with a smile. Then she went back inside her apartment to sort her stop signs, seat belts and kill-switches by make and model.

Do Androids Drop Their Electric Phones?

C’mon Deckard, I ain’t waitin’ around for ya all night. This is LA after all.

BZZZZZZ!

Time to die! Nothing like having an ITCH you can never SCRATCH!

What? Mother’s Day Card? Youtube, lemme tell you about my mother…

Konrad’s Got a Big Ol’ Bag.

Former wrestler, entramanure and charity show-tunes do-gooder-just-for-the-photo-op Bernadette Moran Cacca is busy slurping down her breakfast burritos at the Manteno Cantina, as part of her personal campaign to promote regularity. Last week she bragged to her fan club, the Poopy Groupies, about her constipation.

“Did you know they re-made ‘Yo Mama’s House’ into a full-length feature film?” Bernadette asks the random stranger seated at the table next to her.

“Huh?”

“You betcha. And I’m in it!”

JB the Turd Burglar walks in with Poopy Groupies club president, Aunt Sonya Moran, and Bern’s drunken husband Peppi.

“You’re a national treasure, Bernadette!” JB exclaims.

“Bernadette for president! Feel the Bern!” screeches her aunt Sonya, a shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture.

“You’re no Bernie Sanders!” chuckled a stranger from across the cantina.

Konrad Teirant is foaming at the mouth at his Bourbonnais business.

“This guy is a hot mess. Our janitor called in again! Imma gonna done post his job alrighty.” Konrad Teirant, mad that he can’t keep good cleaning staff, prints out a help-wanted sign to be posted on his Cinema-13 multiplex:

“Now hiring cleaners. $7.50 an hour, experience preferred.”

“Kids these days don’t wanna work!” Konrad whinges as he hangs the signs all over his cinema property and at bill-collection company Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee where he is in charge of cooking the books, err, working as their Controller.

Bernadette Cacca can’t wait to see her face on every silver screen in the county. She buys tickets for every showing of “Yo Mama’s House,” in every single movie house, excited for the opportunity to take selfies at every single showing, so she can brag “I’m on every screen” in her Fakebook feed.

It’s opening night at Cinema-13. Bernadette sits down in the row right up front so she can see her mug grow as big as her ego.

A rumble takes over her belly.

“Oh crap.”

Bernadette tries her best to hold it. 

More rumbles make waves through her intestines, heaving her flesh increasingly as the minutes pass. She can’t wait any longer, so she runs for the washroom.

“It smells like rotten eggs and death over there,” box office clerk Bratley Teirant says as he points toward the ladies’ washroom at his father’s business. “I’m expecting a mushroom cloud to emerge any second.” Bratley ducks and covers.

Bernadette causes a cinema-wide brown-out at the spectacle, courtesy of her overflow error. The raw sewage floods well beyond yonder and into the electrical system powering the projector, sound system and the point-of-sale software.

Konrad has to think fast and on his feet. He dons his waders and books it to the ladies’ washroom to do doo clean-up dooty.

Mr. Teirant emerges from his outdated washroom carrying a big bag alright – just not full of money.

“What are you doing in there? Can’t you get things right? You childish little man!” his wife, 7 foot tall dumpster clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant shouts at her 5’4” hubby.

“Ha-ha!” Bratley laughs and points at the people who gave him his genes. He’s not very bright either. 

Golden Moron Award: A Karen in a Far-Off Land

Picture a world, a wild Karen in a land far from her own. If she threw a tantrum in another language, would anyone understand? Would they care? That poor entitled Karen, so ignorant, she forgot to learn the language of the land. Instead of using the Internet to learn a new language, she used it instead to leave this complaint. Cook your own fish, Karen!

Because she acted like your common, ordinary, sad xenophobe – who clearly had a failure to communicate – we are proud to present Karen with this Golden Moron Award! One can only imagine how boring her life must be, but we’re too busy to care.

Bernadette Cacca’s New Turd Machine?

Manteno entramanure, communal narc-a-doodle and Og-on-the-Bog Bernadette Cacca has been wanting to turbo her Turd Machines she had bought from Wally Green’s.

Now’s her chance!

As if her crappy ritual burning her company’s port-a-poops in her backyard has not been enough to irritate her next door neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes, basic Bern eyes a bigger one.