Coming soon to Brandon’s Imbecile Machines:
Imbecile Tractors!
Brandon Dixon wants to add a lawn and garden division to his Imbecile Machine shop in Kankakee. What do you think?
(photo from https://www.wideopencountry.com/30-tricked-tractors-defy-practicality/)
Two-timing Rachel Shelley came over from Detroit to meet her OKStupid lover, Damien Hurlbutt, only to cheat on him with Kankakee heroin addict and useless hoser Leon Peeonne.
Cinema clerk, neckbeard, and communal narcissist Damien continues to leave “M’lady” messages from his flip phone. He thinks he is going to win because he is such a “tenderheart” and “an old soul.”
“It’s hotter than a boiled owl!” Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narcissist Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt thinks aloud, as he heads down the stairs to get his mail. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I got my postcards off CBay. I bought over 200 from this guy, one at a time. What a great seller! I can’t wait to impress my friends with these! All these favors I do, oh boy, oh boy, they will get a SURPRISE!”
A lady across the way gives Damien the side eye.
Damien logs onto his personal computer, setting atop a wooden folding table. He tries to log onto his alternate Fakebook account, purposely created to stalk his ex-wife Lori and her friends, who divorced him because he abused her.
“Oh man, I cannot get on. What is this about getting reported again for violating the terms of service? I did nothing wrong. I am just a nice guy who has no rights. What about us men?” Damien types into the box in response to Fakebook’s “How did we do?” questionnare.
A few minutes pass. “Ding!”
Damien awakes from a deep sleep, all his loud snoring ceases.
Damien jumps up to log onto his computer.
“Hehhhhhhhh…” Damien sighs.
“We have permanently disabled this account due to multiple third-party complaints. Do not attempt to log in again.
— The Fakebook Team.”
“Now this account is crumped. I know! I will just make a new one! That will show them. Hmpf.”
Damien clears his browser’s history, cookies, cache and then reboots his machine. He reloads Fakebook and tries to create a new account under a diffent name so he can continue to harass his ex-wife, because he clearly has nothing better to do with his time.
“We are sorry, Damien. Maybe you should go out sometime and get a life. Do something productive. Get off the internet. We are closing both your accounts due to impersonation.
— The Fakebook Team”
“Those damnedable Fakebook people! They really put poop in my soup! Both my accounts are clunked over! I wish I could zogg over there and give that clump of people a piece of my mind!”
Damien goes into the bathroom, takes a huge crap, does not wipe and heads straight for the shower. He does not believe in wiping. After he gets out, he runs out the bathroom door, leaving a lake of water on the floor in his wake to get a towel.
As Damien dries himself, he shakes off like a dog, getting water all over the living room carpet. He gets an idea.
Damien dries his hair and then his manhood with the blowdryer.
Damien gets out his box of 200 postcards and sits down, looking a lot like Homer Simpson in his tighty-whities. He scrawls away into the night.
Weeks go by and Damien wonders why he has not heard back. Damien turns on the television, as he has not been able to log onto Fakebook:
“Breaking news: Alabama lawmakers stalked by a mysterious Bourbonnais man. Over 200 postcards containing crude drawings were sent to Alabama politicians opposed to women’s reproductive rights. According to reports, some of the content contained references to so-called ‘MRAs’ or ‘Men’s Rights Activists’, a reactionary group known for their anti-feminist views. Some of the content could not be shown on TV. We will print his address for our viewers’ protection. Back to you.”
Damien gasps, gulping down six antacids to purposely constipate himself because he does not like pooping around people. He craps his pants anyway.
Shady Bourbonnais neckbeard and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt went dumpster diving the morning after he and his part-time lover from Detroit, Rachel Shelley, got into a bitter fight and she threw some of his hoarded items into the dumpster.
“Dumpster! Dumpster! Dumpster!” Rachel cried as she chucked Damien’s hoard into the metal hopper outside his apartment.
As Damien dug for the treasures he loved more than his woman, little did he notice the danger lurking behind him.
Illinois neckbeard, communal narcissist and movie theater clerk Damien Hurlbutt went off the deep end when his then-wife, Lori, stopped tolerating his verbal abuse and rightfully left him.
He sent this letter to her psychologist and her psychiatrist after she separated from him. Apparently, this ticket clerk thought he knew more about psychology than the licensed clinicians who practice. The latter provider called it a “lunacy letter.” The former said she had never seen anything like it in all her years practicing.
Who makes up this stuff?
Oh yeah, people with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).
Kankakee slumlord, cheapskate and overt narcissist Madeline Topolla-Teirant is trying to get her life back in balance during her Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) cross-country tour, coming soon to Utica, New York!
“Oh snap, that’s the last bite!” Kankakee debt collector Sybil Kibble exclaims as she shakes the now-empty bag of dog food, and turns it upside down. “I am really hungry too.”
Sybil hops in her white Chrysler LeBaron and drives down to Wally Green’s drugstore. As soon as she steps through the door, demoted pharmacy clerk who thinks he is Elvis, Robbie Hurlbutt greets her.
“What can I help you find today?”
“Do you have any Dog Chow?”
“We are fresh out.”
Sybil exits, walks by Robbie’s purple clown car with a giggle and gets behind the wheel of her LeBaron.
Sybil parks in the “Expectant Mothers Only” space at Schmucks grocery store and walks in. “Who is going to know I am in menopause anyway?” Sybil says to herself as she walks through the automatic door.
After a thorough combing of the pet food aisle, Sybil comes up empty. She hopes the third time is a charm, and drives over to Bucketheads hardware store.
After walking past the 11% off everything sign, Sybil hopes to save big money on dog food, which she usually scores toward the back of the store. However she strikes out yet again.
Sybil gets on her smart phone after exiting the store and calls Wally Green’s 1-800 customer service number. After spending 45 minutes in the on-hold abyss, the call disconnects. She tries two more times and her call gets disconnected immediately.
Sybil walks back into Wally Green’s to try and figure out what is going on. She asks to speak to the Manager on Duty. “I am sorry you are having trouble reaching our customer care line. Our representatives are trained to keep hanging up on all callers until the queue is gone.”
Angered, Sybil Kibble needs to do something to relax. She picks up a newspaper and reads the headline: “Nationwide Dog Food Shortage.” Sybil slams down the paper and storms out, heading to the local bar. “I need a drink,” Sybil mumbles to herself.
Sybil sits down at the bar. Before the bartender can even wait on her, barfly and notorious ladies’ man Wally Green emerges.
“Hey babe!”
“Oh, hi Wally.”
“Can I buy you a drink, hon?”
Sybil accepts because she is cheap.
Wally begins to bore Sybil with his tall tales about his family almost having inherited most of Manhattan Island.
Sybil interrupts Wally’s rambling:
“Hey, why are your stores out of dog food anyway? I am so hungry.”
“Oh yeah, I have a secret stash at my house. Wanna go back to my place?”
Sybil looks Wally in the eye sporting a devilish grin.
The pair arrive at Wally’s McMansion. Wally offers wine, she declines.
Wally starts to bore Sybil about his road trip to Florida as he really likes the heat.
Sybil interrupts and asks about dinner.
Wally offers to cook her a romantic meal. Sybil agrees with excitement.
“It will be a surprise. I know you will love it!”
Visions of dog bones dance in Sybil’s head. Wally emerges from the kitchen with a plate full of gefilte fish, and Sybil almost pukes.
“You’re not impressed?” Wally asks.
“Umm, no I eat dog food.”
“You’re a bill collector. Makes sense. If you stop calling my store, I will give you some cans of Alpo.”
“That’s my favorite kind!” Sybil exclaims. “But I won’t take you off my list. You owe us too much money.”
“Then will you kiss me?”
Sybil gags and dashes out Wally’s McMansion, back to her own, where she settles for cat food instead.
Happy Birthday Damien Hurlbutt! We hope you made it out that dumpster okay!
Sybil Kibble unveils the new “Enigma” computers for her debt collection team at Credit Recovery Associates in Kankakee, known better by their acronym CRASS.
“How do you get on the Internet?” asks a quizzical Dale Davis.
“Just type “INTERNET” and then “RUN.”
“How do you load the Collect-o-matic 2000?” a wary Judy Avelli asks.
“Just hook the machine up to a parakeet cage and type away.”
(Buy Sybil and the other denizens of the Moroniverse a Ko-fi or two to help keep this site up and running!)
Damien Hurlbutt’s birthday is coming up on August 10th. To celebrate his birthday, I would like to share some early concept drawings of him and other morons.
Below is an early character design for an unnamed Dale Davis.
The next few drawings I created early on for a previous series which I merged into MoronicArts. Look for them in my forthcoming novel.
MoronicArts 
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