Tag: moronicarts classics

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt’s Pool Toys

~ Jen ~ 2 Comments

“Why does your brother Damien keep buying pool toys in the middle of Winter?” Wally Green asks his Illinois pharmacy-chain clerk, Kankakee Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist, Robbie Hurlbutt.

Robbie says nothing, chooses to ignore his boss and keeps on stocking shelves as he hopes to leave early so he can skip out on closing.

“Has he moved a body or something?” Wally says of Robbie’s equally creepy and narcissistic brother Damien.

Robbie ignores Wally, finishes stocking and sneaks out the door while the store owner is not looking so he can head down to the bar. First, he has to meet his speedball dealer.

Robbie, high on uppers, spends 20 minutes chatting up the bartender, while other customers grow impatient and angry as he is holding up the mixing of their cocktails and the pouring of their beers.

Robbie downs his downers and chases them with prescription painkillers he stole from his elderly mother PJ.

The inebriated Elvis impersonator texts his brother Damien, hoping he will join him and take him home, however after multiple selfies and text messages saying how much he loves his brother, Damien does not reply.

Cinema-13 clerk, bulbous neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt strokes his dayglow-orange facial coiffe, and sets out a clipboard containing a sign-up sheet requesting email addresses for a newsletter. A theater customer walks up to the movie theater counter and asks what the newsletter is about. “It’s just a newsletter,” the sneaky narcissist Damien replies in his typical smug tone.

After the picture finishes its run and the ushers escort all the guests, Damien collects the newsletter sign-up sheet and heads to his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest to sleep on the floor. Before he can retire for the night, he get annoyed over the mess of texts and photos from his brother Robbie. Damien would rather sleep in his mess of plastic tubs, and boxes of the things he loves more than people, than head back to Kankakee to pick up a drunk. Thinking he can gain something from helping his brother, he drives down to the Kankakee bar at which Robbie is performing slurred Elvis Presley Karaoke. The two bumbling idiots get into Damien’s beat-up van and head home. 

“What about my purple clown car?” Robbie asks Damien.

“Get it tomorrow.”

Damien gets a text from a coworker whose birthday is coming up soon. Knowing well it is illegal to text and drive, Damien messages his coworker, lovebombing her about the $50 gift card he is going to buy her, bragging about the surprise she clearly expressed she did not feel comfortable accepting.

After nearly crashing, Damien flips off the other driver and heads to Robbie’s Kankakee apartment, crashing on his floor instead.

Damien and Robbie wake up to snow on the ground. Damien retells the same story about his father N. Ron’s obsession with the weather channels he has already bored Robbie with at least 80 times now. Robbie leaves the room, stumbling on record albums he dumped all over the floor to get to the bathroom. Even though he is terrified of getting locked in the washroom while pooping, Robbie wants to get away from Damien.

Robbie emerges, and Damien pulls out the newsletter sign-up sheet, filled with names and email addresses. “Hey Robbie, my number-one brother? I would love to ask a favor from you. Can you contact Pat Splatt and try to sell him these email addresses? I collected them to send out messages getting out the good things us tender-hearts at the Bourbonnais Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) Club can do to help us men fight misandry. I would like to sell him a copy because I need the money to buy my coworkers gifts. I spent my paycheck already on action figures.

“What’s in it for me?” Robbie asks his equally self-centered brother Damien.

“Well, our theater has an extra Gothic Diana Ross poster from when we sponsored her show a couple years back.”

“Sold.” Robbie grins ear-to-ear and dials up Kankakee criminal and email spammer Pat Splatt.

The Hurlbutt brothers drive over to Pat Splatt’s flat, where the straggly long-haired Pat is busy harvesting emails from the Internet using his Spam-O-Matic computer program. The three group together to organize their petty crime. 

“Damien, I can pay you per email reply, that’s it.”

“Oh come now!”

“Oh go now, Damien. That is my final offer. Take it or leave it. I don’t have to offer you anything.”

“I know, I know, I know…” Damien says like a broken record, mimicking a certain furniture commercial emanating from Champaign. 

Damien reluctantly hands Pat the photocopied sign-up list containing contact information he collected from unsuspecting moviegoers.

Damien then heads to Wally Green’s to buy more pool toys and chucks them in his bathroom. After whizzing, he washes his hands with far more water than he needs and sprinkles the water all over the bathroom floor, leaving on the bathroom light and fan because he does not care.

Damien begins typing up his MRA “newsletter” in a word-processor program on his 10 year old desktop computer, resting atop a wooden folding table, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. The rotund neckbeard emails his diatribe while wearing his graphic tee displaying the text:

“I can 

EXPLAIN 

it to you

But I can’t

UNDERSTAND

it for you.”

A few days go by, however nobody takes Damien up on his offer to join the Bourbonnais MRA Club. Nobody clicks on the ads for the 21 Conference either. 

Damien realizes he needs to get ready for work now so he can make it on time after taking his two-hour shower.

Mr. Hurlbutt walks into the theater barely on-time. His boss, theater owner Konrad Teirant, calls him into his office.

Damien’s heart sinks and he utters a melodramatic “gulp” as he walks over to Konrad’s office.

“Damien, you really dropped the ball this time. I have been receiving numerous complaints from customers who have been getting emails about some misogyny club.”

“What?“

“This is unacceptable. They told me they signed up for a newsletter here? I never ordered you to or anyone else to put out a call for contact information. Do you want me to get sued?”

“Well…no” an embarrassed-because-caught Damien tells his boss.

“Damien, you have been working here a long time. You know that if we want to gather contact information so we can sell it, that would come from me. And only so I can profit, not you Damien. You’re not that important. Not at all. In fact, I can fire you at any time. I am telling you that because I am your friend. Oh by the way, why do you wear that dumb fedora? It looks stupid. And wash your beard. It smells. Don’t tell anyone we had this meeting. Go home and stay home the rest of this week. I will call you about next week’s hours.”

An excited Damien rushes home to play with his pool toys because he is happy he has the week off, not wondering at all if his boss will even call him back to work the next week.

MoronicArts Classics: Bern Book

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

“Story time with Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes? At the Manteno Library? I would say that a trip to Manteno is not complete without spending a few hours at the Manteno Optimal Club with Bernadette Cacca! Hmmpf!”

“Why don’t you start your own book club, honey?” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Moran asks her communal narcadoodle, bog-witch niece Bernadette.

“You’re the best!”

“Butt first, a trip to Bucketheads.”

“Why are you going to a hardware store?”

“It’s my own personal prop department!”

“Hot dawg!”

Bernadette pinches a massive loaf upstairs in the washroom while tapping away at her smell phone to announce yet-another-gig her aunt Sonya got her. Ahhh, the stench of nepotism.

BOOK CLUB NIGHT, TUES with yours truly! Join me at @MantenoOptimalClub TONIGHT, AUGUST 18, 9:30pm-3am. What will I read? It’s a surprise!  It’s the hottest new event in Kankakee County!

“I never drank coffee while I was in college. I drank pop,” Gothic Diana Ross complains to the Buckstars staff about her coffee again. 

“What’s this crap? A port-a-potty made out of poop? Do you drop dookie in it, on it, or next to it?” Diana scrolls through her Fakebook feed as she waits for her iced caramel latte to get re-made.

“She’s no Bansky…” Gothic Flo quips.

“I know, we should crash her gig. Maybe we can heckle her or something,” Gothic Mary giggles.

“Well, there is this card game…ooops. Nope, we’re not old enough,” Diana laughs as she reads the community events.

“Oh darn.” The dark gothic beauties share a laugh and drive away from their Gothic Victorian home in their black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.

The Poopy Groupies surround Mrs. Cacca and shower her with a gush of superlatives at the Manteno Optimal Club:

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to Illinois!”

“You make me feel like a star, Bern!”

“It’s the Manteno icon herself! You should be beatified!”

Queen Bernadette rolls out her porcelain throne and makes an announcement:

“Today, I’m here on a campaign to promote regularity! I’m sure you saw my announcement on TV! I was on every channel!”

The portapotty empress sits on her toilet which she just bought from Bucketheads Hardware and begins to sing from a book:

image: “regular” book

“Being regular is important to me, and I hope it is EQUALLY important to my regulars. I love my Poopy Groupies! Nooowwww–baaaaaack–toooooo-the—booooooooooook!”

The Poopy Groupies hoot, holler and catcall. Yes the cat-calling is sexist but the queen of the porcelain throne does not care what kind of attention she gets, as long as she gets it and she is the center of attention. After all, she feels entitled to it since she does gigs like these for charity.

The cheering crowd of Bernadette bootlickers is cut like a knife from a few voices in the crowd.

“Why are you pooping in public?”

“Oh honey, I am not really pooping. See look, all golf balls!”

image: toilet box on a hardware store shelf. image on box of flushed golf balls. text on box reads: "Flush like a champion."

The crowd roars with laughter.

The Midnight Supremes join in on a tune of their own:

“You can’t hurry death
You just have to wait.
Charon works on his own time,
No matter what prayers you say.”

Upset about getting upstaged, Bernadette throws a fit:

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, an unruly citizen who is obsessed with pooping!”

Awkward silence fills the hall of the Manteno Optimal Club. Eyes roll. People begin to chortle.

“I am reprising my role from the Human Body Odor EXCLUSIVE show, “Dropping the Deuce.”

A voice emerges from the crowd.

“Hey, I have a gift for ya Bernadette!”

Sybil Kibble hands Bernadette a box and runs. Happy for the distraction, Mrs Cacca opens her gift. “Is this for meeee? Oh you are the best.”

Bernadette shows her malcontent for the gift, and even the mere thought behind it. She rambles like a Turd Machine spitting out letter-blocks from a craft store. 

Sybil Kibble escapes Bern’s word-salad diatribe in her trusty Chrysler LeBaron as do the Midnight Supremes in their sleek sportscar.

Bernadette continues to sing and ramble like the moron that she is, as she watches her mug on the community FartTV, ignoring the confused crowd leaving her stupid book club: “Late last night when the moon green, around the corner came a turd machine…shots were fired, a scream was heard…Join me here next week as I livestream again…oh dear.”

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt Storms Area 51

~ Jen ~ 17 Comments

Make it rain with N.F.T.s – Newly Formed Turds! Craptocoin mined the old fashioned way! Ask Bern Cacca how.

“Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” Bourbonnais multiplex clerk, fedora-sporting neckbeard and communal narcadoodle, Damien Hurlbutt exclaims when he gets a link to a message bearing the subject “thank you Damien Hurbutt–old soul and tender-heart.” It has arrived from one of his favourite puppeteers on Fakebook, whom he has been stalking, mailing weekly postcards to her home address.

Damien hems and haws, not used to getting the praise to which he feels entitled. He clicks the link, which leads to a “You Are An Idiot” video, complete with Fakebook comments section on the female performer’s page rightfully poking fun at his narcissistic behavior.

Damien rages due to his narcissistic injury, ego deflated to the size of a pea. He throws his computer out the window, hitting an older lady on the head, instantly killing her.

Bored and fearful he will be locked away forever, without a chance for narcissistic supply, Damien hoovers his ex-wife Lori. Ennui gets the best of him: Damien emerges from nothing by false flagging Lori’s social media content, hoping to get her into Fakebook jail. Instead, Damien goes to real jail – Kankakee County jail – as he awaits his trial for manslaughter and stalking.

Damien’s enabler, fellow communal narcadoodle, and fart-enthusiast Bern Cacca posts bail. Damien goes home, assuming he will get the acquittal to which he feels entitled.

Think again.

A bounty hunter is sent out to sniff out Damien; Bern’s transaction failed because she paid in Craptocoin and burned it all…in her fireplace. 

“The only thing I like better than mining Craptocoin, is burning it…” Mrs. Cacca says as she cooks her books at the Manteno shack she shares with her husband Peppi.

Damien pursues Bernadette, who is not home, nor at work. Damien heads over to the bog she inhabits, which she uses as a bathtub and and slow-cooker for devouring the living. Unfortunately for fugitive Damien, the sign at Bern’s Bog reads “the bog witch is out.”

Damien gets a “fake news” tip sent to his flip-phone by Pat Splatt that Bern went to Area 51 for a toxic secret flatulence experiment. Keep flames away from butts.

Artist’s rendering of secret experiment room

Damien tries to sneak into Area 51 after taking pictures of the “Photography Prohibited” Area 51 “No Trespassing” sign.

Damien heads toward the once-secret base nicknamed “Dreamland” and gets rightfully arrested by the military police.

The officers, tired of shooting people on sight and patrolling the same remote corner of Nevada, decide to bring Damien in and question him. Damien sits down at a metal table, glances down at the floor, all by his lonesome. Out of seemingly nowhere, a group of five military personnel materialize in the room, all facing the bulbous neckbeard. ”Face to Face” by Daft Punk plays over the public address system, beat-matched into a remix of ”Paris 400” by SebastiAn. Area 51’s DJ really likes French House Music.

“Nice floor tiles you have, M’Lady!” Damien smirks, hoping to impress the leader with his negative humor.

Obviously not impressed, the Area 51 security team haul Mr. Hurlbutt into a solitary cell in the top-secret experimentation wing, where human and extraterrestrial scientists work to develop a “super-soldier” performing experiments like turning humans into giant spiders and installing amplifiers into cyborgs to blast Katy Scary music to scare away terrorists.

Damien makes his one phone call to Pat Splatt, asking where Bernadette had gone.

“Bern is at Area 21, not 51”

“Why did you text me she was at Area 51 then?”

“Umm…typo?”

MoronicArts Classics: Bernadette Cacca Joins The Illuminati?

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

After hearing Manteno entramanure, communal narcadoodle and bog witch Bernadette Cacca’s kazoo showtune covers on her husband Brandon’s phone, Pris Dixon tells Bernadette she is her biggest fan and wants to join her fan club, the Poopy Groupies.

After reading the fan message Mrs. Dixon had delightfully shoved into Bern’s inbox, BM Cacca reads this message posted to her Fakebook wall:

“You have been pre-approved to join the Illuminati! Have fun gaining wealth, power and glory in this secret society! Just pay a $19.99 convenience fee to start!

Text “JOIN” to 23

Or contact Emperor Norton to unsubscribe.

Fnord”

Bernadette of course falls for the scamvertisement, and brags at her next Manteno Optimal Club Charity Concert for Tips and Giggles that she had become the world’s newest Illuminatus. Then she blows some more cover tunes out her butt-trumpet.

Pris Dixon interrupts the gig to deliver a special news bulletin, special only in her mind. She complains she did not get her welcome letter, membership card and poop emoji decal. Bernadette farts in her face and keeps on playing, not missing a butt…umm…beat.

“I need to talk to the manager!”

“OK Karen!” one of Bern’s bumlickers heckles Mrs. Dixon.

Sonya Marie Smith Moran, President of The Poopy Groupies pulls Pris Dixon aside.

“Prius, did you pay in Craptocoin?”

“It’s Pris, short for Priscilla. No, I paid cash. Cash is king ya know?”

“We only accept Craptocoin.”

Pris storms out Manteno Optimal Club and calls her hubs, Brandon Dixon, to pick her up.

Brandon pulls his imbecile machine into the middle of the lot, and realizes his biggest crush is inside singing.

The dysfunctional Dixons have a spat and Brandon runs inside to hopefully get an autograph from his steaming hot crush, Bernadette Cacca from the car auto warranty messages. Pris sits alone inside Brandon’s overly lifted shiny white truck, decorated in sexist decals and MAGAt stickers, and rips a huge fart. Of course, she does not roll down the windows because she loves the smell of her own noxious waste.

“Is this…Bernadette…KaCo?”

“It’s Cacca.”

“Hello Mrs. Cankles. This is Mephisto Smith from the Illuminati. Your application got rejected due to insufficient funds.”

“Oh I have plenty of fun. I just met this AWESOME man here at my—“

“Funds. Your transaction failed. We cannot extend you our exclusive fame and fortune unless you pay us first.”

“Oh, let me whip up another batch of NFTs.”

“Mrs. Cocky, I said NSF. In-suff-icient FUNDS.”

“Newly formed turds! I mine my craptocoin the old fashioned way.”

“You need to wire me 19.99 plus a $23 dollar inconvenience fee, or we will reject your application.”

“What’s going on, beautiful lady, Manteno’s very own national treasure?” Brandon Dixon asks the steaming mad pile of crap Bernadette.

Bernadette storms out and slithers her way into the swamp for the night, putting the extra in bog-witch-extraordinaire.

“Honk honk! A-you-ga!” Brandon’s imbecile machine cat-calls as Pris lays on the horn. Brandon reluctantly drives his wife home and barely makes it. Pris of course was running its engine the whole time, because you know, it’s cold?

MoronicArts Classics: Sybil’s Spit Machine, Bees & Lawnmower-Race Woes

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Kankakee bill-collector and dog-chow diner Sybil Katrina Kibble had left her lawn sprinkler spit-spit-spitting, too lazy to care about water conservation, while she drove her Chrysler LeBaron all the way to Chillicothe to buy herself a sit-down lawnmower right before the race. Sybil insisted on winning the Annual Lawnmower Race.

Sadly, silly-billy Sybil lost the lawnmower race because she was too loopy from inhaling helium.

Too lazy to drive, Sybil wished to hang glide back home to Kankakee. However, she could not fly because she was too scared. This idea never got off the ground.

Meanwhile, Sybil’s spit machine went awry, flooding her entire lawn and that of neighbor Kitty Bee’s too!

Adding insult to injury, Sybil then she got chased by a swarm of angry kitties and bees! Poor Sybil.

She then left compete in Fire Truck racing with her Ma JoAnn! Ooh, what fun!!!

MoronicArts Classics: Robbie’s Singing the Bathroom Blues

~ Jen ~ 7 Comments

Kankakee, Illinois’ number one Elvis impersonator, Wally Green’s drugstore clerk and vulnerable narcadoodle Robbie Hurlbutt has a huge crush on Midnight Supremes lead singer Gothic Diana Ross who isn’t remotely attracted to him, plus she has a boyfriend. He wants to make a huge impression on her because he does not understand the word “no.”

She has a gig coming up soon and he is scheming to find a way to connive his boss, store owner Wally Green into letting him hang up her show poster at work to promote her music as he thinks it will somehow make her like him. 

”Hey Robbie, have a look at these paper towels I invented just for my store: Half the size, twice the cost. All the frustration when you go to rip off a sheet, thanks to me!” boasts a balding, squat, rotund Wally Green as he tips his fishing cap.

“I know, boss, let’s put them on a groovy display table near the front of the store so the suckers — I mean customers — will think they are getting them on sale.”

“Great idea! I am glad I thought of it!” Wally exclaims with glee, throwing his stubby arms into the air.

“Well…now that I, boss, thought of such a splendid idea, I have a favor to ask. This band is really a gas and I want to hang up their poster for their upcoming show at the store,” Robbie says to his superior with bedroom eyes, dreaming of Miss Gothic Diana Ross, the only Boss he could ever want.

“Naw. Get back to work. I need you to make production metrics this time. Start selling people some pills they don’t need.”

Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Lead Debt Collector Sybil Kibble comes into Wally Green’s Drugstore to buy an iced coffee and a bag of dog biscuits for lunch as she forgot hers at home.

“Ehh. Out of order again. Must be that half ply toilet paper,” Sybil thinks out loud.

“The washroom is on the blink?” Robbie asks, aghast.

“Yeah and I am in a hurry!” Sybil shouts as she makes her way over toward the men’s room.

“Do not go in there!” Robbie commands Sybil.

Sybil walks by Gothic Diana Ross in the men’s room, who is looking in the mirror, applying her jet-black eyeliner. She pinches a huge loaf in the stall next to Wally Green, who is busy whizzing away in the urinal. Sybil flushes but does not clean up the mess on the seat, flinging the door wide open with her arm. She makes a beeline for the sink and spots Diana sarcastically chortling away at the Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes poster on washroom wall.

A befuddled Robbie struts into the men’s room. 

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME IN HERE!” Robbie shouts at the women. “THIS IS THE MEN’S ROOM.”

“Get back to work, Robbie, the ladies’ room is closed. Take down this poster while you are at it and apologize to our customers.” Wally Green tells his employee Robbie.

“I am sorry IF I offended you.” Robbie smirks.

“Get lost!” Diana and Sybil chant in unison at his non-apology as they leave the bathroom.

Sybil buys her lunch and drives back to work.

Wally sells loads of paper towels and Robbie is put on temporary janitorial duty until he improves his customer service skills. But don’t lock him in the bathroom. He thinks he is Elvis.

MoronicArts Classics: Greg A. Schneissder is a real GAS!

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Owner of Schneissder’s Sewer Service, Manteno moron, sociopath and zombie Gregory Albert Schneissder thinks his crap does not stink.

This 62 year old fartknocker sports a head full of salt and pepper hair, usually covered up by a ball cap. His eyes glow red and he eats brains for dinner.

Gregory is Chronic; paranoid people will steal his stash, Greg flashes his dime-bag full of perfectly cultivated buds on the bus when he is spaced out on coke he snorted while coming down off a weed high. Yes, he is that dumb. 

This Miami Dolphenergans fan gate-keeps in Fakebook groups. Greg brags about his biggest life achievement, having seen someone in 1991 going down the road who owned one. The one-and-only 1988 Chrysler Conquest – just like the one Gothic Diana Ross drives – Greg witnessed the most important event in his life and tells everybody about it.

Undead Greg stopped driving due to DUIs; he lost his license before the slow-burn-virus took over his undead corpse. Now he can only watch people going down the road who own one. He is butthurt because he no longer can legally hunt down the living driving his Ford imbecile machine, covered in obnoxious decals, bearing wheels way too large for the body.

Ableist as it gets, Greg audibly harasses disabled folks on the bus, stalking them in cafés. He thinks they should work and accuses every disabled young person of “faking it” and tag teams with his BFF Pris Dixon to bully strangers since he is a scared wuss with no life.

Bern Cacca’s biggest fan, Greg made a BernCacca Fans facebook account.

He desperately needs a hobby (besides devouring the living). Manteno residents hope he gets one soon.

MoronicArts Classics: This Is Not The Spam You Are Looking For…

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Junk email broker, failed film student and nextdoor sociopath Pat Oswald Splatt ventured over to the Kankakee County Spam convention with high hopes to rake in new customers to rip off bombarding their inboxes with unsolicited commercial crap for fun and profits.

Sadly, Pat was disappointed to instead find Damien Hurlbutt, Sybil Kibble and her mom JK along along with people actually having fun celebrating canned lunchmeat.

Maybe the self-proclaimed master-marketer should have read the event advertisement more carefully.

MoronicArts Classics: Welcome to Hell

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Kankakee pyramid schemer Doris Krabalsky and Bourbonnais communal narc-a-doodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt both arrive at Hell’s in-processing department at the same time.

“Sign the register” says Hell’s in-processing clerk and former Medical Office Assistant, Lucy Furr, who was notorious for bullying her roommate on their college trip to Italy. Meanwhile, Doris and Damien try to take over.

MoronicArts Classics: Nobody’s Home

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

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.