“What’s that noise? It sounds like a dying cow,” Manteno’s very own bog witch, communal narcadoodle and port-o-dump empress Bernadette Moran Cacca shouts at the voice sabotaging her recital practice:
“You’ve been out there and tried to mix with the animals. Then you meet me. And your whole world changes.”
“You wanna know why?”
“Cuz I’m a liar! Yeah I’m a liar! I’ll tear your mind out. I’ll burn your soul. I’ll turn you into me! I’ll turn you–“
“Just give me one more chance, I will never lie to you again…Hahahahahahah. Sucker!” shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and narcadoodle of the self-righteous kind Carla Moran continues to hiss at her daughter Bernadette, who runs upstairs to her washroom and starts playing accordion show-tunes again.
“In my kingdom, they won’t know how good they’ve got it. Rules are important and I will make sure everybody follows them:
“We will only have one language, English, because I don’t understand any others nor do I care to learn.
All cars will be silver, no exceptions, no decals either.
Everybody will be required to brush their teeth four times a day, use a water pick and report back to me.
Want to see a therapist? Good. All sessions will be recorded and sent to me to make sure you’re not complaining about the supreme leader. It’s MY kingdom, MY RULES.
Everybody will be required to wax the hair off their face. No exceptions.
Only baggy clothes will be worn by everyone.
People will only be allowed to collect practical things and read non-fiction.
We will have three national TV channels, nothing else: HGTV, Fox News and baseball.
Nobody will be allowed to wear underwear or stick their tongues out. In my world–“
“Lady, this is a handicapped spot.”
“I’m only gonna be here for a minute! Calm down!” Carla remarks to the traffic cop out her car window.
“Move your vehicle now or I’m writing you a citation.”
Carla slams her beak on the horn and peels away from the Bradley strip mall, then flies down I-57 hoping to not get caught because in her insecure little bird-brain nothing she does is ever wrong.
“No, Sonya, we need you to keep filing these intake forms of the newly damned.”
“But boss?”
“Don’t talk back to me. Now get to work!”
Sonya files for another 666 hours until the bell rings. “I wanna ring the bell, I wanna ring the bell, why can’t I ring the bell?” Sonya screams as she throws a childish tantrum because she’s not getting her way, much to the annoyance of Hell’s CEO Satan.
“Sonya, you can do your externship on Earth for up to 12 hours, then you’re to be summoned back to Hell.
“Hot dawg!” Sonya exclaims.
Poof! Sonya immediately manifests her apparition in Kitty Bee’s bedroom.
“Why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t you ask me? Why did you report me to the feds?” Sonya-Daemon says to her former tenant to try and intimidate her. It’s 5:00 AM.
“Be gone in the name of the Light! With this your soul I smite!” Kitty grabs her can of D-Mon-Con and sprays beaucoup sage all over Sonya-Daemon.
“And may it be smote.”
“I’m glad I bought two of these. They were buy one, get one half-off at Wally Green’s. Now with extra sage, nice!”
“Wow, that’s a record!”
“Say what now boss?”
“You lasted two minutes and you’re back to Hell already. Now get to work! I need you to do 13 files a minute. Go now! Byyyeeeeeee.”
Satan disappears to mind another department of Hell.
Self-grandiosity does not entitle a person to a Nobel Peace Prize. However, after careful consideration, we here at this wee lil comedy blog called MoronicArts feel honored to bestow this bigly Golden Moron Award, complete with glowing N.F.T (Newly Formed Turd) to the world’s biggest golf cheat, malignant narcadoodle, and wannabe tough guy with an orange spray tan who behaves like a toddler when he doesn’t get what he wants. Even the fictional bog witch Bernadette behaves better than this guy.
While cleaning out his ex-employee’s desk, Teirant Cinema-13 owner Konrad Teirant found Damien’s scribbled-on evaluation forms. Behold, the work of a master-moron!
Taking a break from her shift in the boiling lava and bubbling excrement pits, newly damned malignant narcadoodle Sonya Marie Smith Moran decides that it’s time to take a break. She takes the elevator down to the food court and walks into a Buckstars.
The shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and narc-a-doodle walks up to place her order.
”Hi, I’d like an extra large, hot—“
“You can’t order here.”
“OK…where do I order?”
“You’ve been banned and not allowed to come back here.”
“Why? I’ve never even been here.”
“You’ve been banned,” the ogre robotically repeats, tag on her shirt reads “Jovaan.” “You’ve been banned and not allowed to come back here.”
This is not your typical Buckstars café.
“So, do you sell coffee here?”
“You’re being SO RUDE!” cries the customer ahead of her in line, a 40-something haggardly blonde banished to eternal darkness for breaking a man’s heart, harassing her employees and leaving a wave of destruction behind her everywhere she went.
“Who are YOU?”
“I’m someone who thinks you’re being rude. Very rude, lots of rude, you’re so rude rude rude rude–”
“I don’t even know ya lady!”
“I’m someone who thinks you’re being rude. Very rude, lots of rude, full of all the you’re so rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderuderuderude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rudity Rudy rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude–” cries the damned fool who thinks she runs the place, Jamie.
She’s not the first – nor the last – to try and take over Hell.
After the recovering from the HUD investigation, malignant narc-a-doodle and attention-seeking fool Sonya starts to poop out a bunch more fake lease violations accusing her Manteno, Illinois residents of launching stinkoff from cat pee fair across their buildings and using their floors as washrooms, but this time typing them on a manual typewriter to hopefully evade more trouble from the feds. Sonya leaves her briefly office to whizz, comes back to see this helpful instruction notice taped to her door.
Sonya crumples it up, checks her non-existent security cameras to find out who did it. Ooops. Sonya accidentally forgot to renew her security contract because she did not want to get caught on tape harassing her residents.
Furious, Sonya storms out her door to look for the person, only to see dozens of these same flyers wallpapered across the hall, and outside:
As the frenzied fool and Ferengi fan makes her way to her manager suite, she jumps up in panic to see that a dog had peed ALL OVER her fake violation notices after scattering them on the floor in front of her office (and probably digging his feet in them afterward to show off his hard work).
“Good boy!” she hears off in the distance, a voice too faint to recognise.
“Oh my stars! That dog highlighted every single one of my rule of living violation notices! What am I gonna do now? Those precious papers, my babies…”
Sonya breaks down, gets down on her knees and cries about the dog’s desecration of her factitious fault files.
Wanting a break from work and her usual carrion lunchmeat, the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture takes flight to find the biggest fast food joint she can find.
She lands at a McDonald’s which is so large it takes up an entire Chicago block. Sonya shape-shifts into her humanoid form after having been previously yeeted from a Midwest business which does not allow animals.
Sonya chows down on her greasy burgers and fries, washes them down with a large pop. Wanting a stiff drink and a place to nest for the night, Sonya walks across the street:
“Hotel Ferengi and Bar, sounds like my kinda place!”
Sonya enters the bar and orders a Long Island Iced Tea.
“Sorry, all we got is root beer. I can get you a great deal on a hotel room!”
“Sign me up!”
Sonya scans the QR code and downloads a booking CrapApp. She books the fanciest room in the entire joint and heads to the counter to check in. She hands the clerk her ID, gives him the reservation number and a pint of blood.
“All set, all we need is 50 slips of Latinum.”
“I just pre-paid!”
“50 slips of Latinum, ma’am.”
“I don’t have it.”
“It’s our policy. We need to charge you or you won’t be able to stay here.”
“Who can I talk to about getting it waived?”
“I am the only manager here.”
Calling her bluff, Sonya asks who is above her to hopefully resolve this confusion.
“I have my manager on the phone.”
“Hi Quark. I pre-paid my room.”
“Yes, it’s our policy to charge every guest a 50 Latinum deposit fee.”
“I don’t have it. How do I pay if if I don’t have it?”
The main inspiration behind fictional character Damien Hurlbutt has is so self-centered, he thinks this blog is all about him.
Seriously. I hope over time more people learn about communal narcissists and how they insidiously abuse people. Overts and covert narc-a-doodles are bad enough; communals are even sneakier. I would not wish narcissistic abuse on my worst enemy and wish no ill will. I just wish they would all form their own narc colony on a deserted island and leave the rest of us alone.
Or better yet, drop them from planes into an erupting volcano, and vaporize them so they cannot make more narcissists.
I was married to one of these evil souls. Had I known he was the son of Satan, I would not have dated him, moved to Illinois to marry him, leaving behind a job I loved to take one that was less than pleasant. 0/10 would not recommend.
I wish I had been given the omen.
Now divorced, this real-life neckbeard and “men’s rights activist” has told his friends that I draw cartoons of him and write stories about him.
Has he heard of Squirrely Dan?
Allegedly not.
My ex works as a senior library specialist and loves to read. I would hope that someone like him, whom I would think has a good grasp on literacy would understand that Damien and all the other morons on this blog are fictional characters — as in pretend people, not real ones. DUH.
Apparently my former husband thinks he works in a movie theater, like the random stranger whom I had met in 2004. Just like the fictional Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, this real-life despot had been offering cloned movie tickets in return for a date, to us call-center coworkers taking breaks outside. I did not meet my ex until 2008.
I will never forgive my ex for trying to turn the spouse of my late friend against me in his smear-campaigning. Such a tender-heart, a self-proclaimed “old soul” writes lunacy letters like the drivel below and sends them to his estranged spouse’s medical providers.
Because, umm, a librarian knows more about psychology than an actual mental health provider? yeah…no.
My ex thinks so. Behold part of this lunacy letter he sent to my mental health team:
Projection: A narcissist’s calling card, as is pathological lying. Methinks narcissists have their own code of misconduct, maybe even a manual.
I will never forgive him for telling me he was “a nice guy for not throwing me into oncoming traffic” while we were walking into the hospital. Yeah, a really nice guyNiceGuy™ does that, right?
I will never forgive him for manipulating the divorce judge into letting him take custody of my cat Holly, whom he repeatedly hit (“it’s just a light tap” he gaslit when caught) and put into the shower to “punish.” Who does that to a cat? Has he helped move a body or something?
He had been seeing the same therapist as a convicted murderer who made international headlines, the killer had been living in the same apartment complex as my ex the night of the murder. I left him at 8:30 AM the day after the poor lady was abducted.
I write and draw MoronicArts stories to cope with having been abused. I feel it helps and I am a lot happier back in New York State, doing my own thing, living with my sweet kitty.
My hope is that my stories help others who have been abused by these monsters cope and process the crap they have been going through and hopefully bring a little joy to them, and myself also. Oh and it s fun to draw silly cartoons of fake events and pretend people doing moronic things to each other..
Moronic Martial Arts
Do you think you may going through domestic violence or know someone who suffers it? Emotional abuse is still abuse and a form of domestic violence. Please click this link to learn more and to find help in your area: https://www.un.org/en/coronavirus/what-is-domestic-abuse
Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.
“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 
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