Tag: narcs

Chicken, nest egg, feather.

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran calls her equally narcissistic daughter Bernadette, reads off names of colors, asking Bern to buy her some paint.

“So not Buttercream, not eggshell, but a few cans of the one in the middle.”

“Can you get me a swatch? You know, that strip with all the squares in the different shades you want?”

“I’m not looking for Cubism.”

“You want me to paint your entire house and buy the paint, with no paint chips? Yeah…no Ma.”

“Come home. I need you to come home.”

“I am home.”

“Come home, Bernadette. Live with me for awhile to save some money.”

“I have my own home to paint.”

Bernadette hangs up her smell phone. Her favorite G.G. Allin ringtone plays 20 seconds later. Bernadette rejects the call, butt of course!

“DON’T. YOU. HANG. UP. ON. ME. AGAIN. I’m trying to help you Bernadette, but YOU’RE not letting me help you,” gaslighter extraordinaire Carla projects onto her only daughter’s voicemail, meanwhile Bernie is busy ignoring her mother, dropping a deuce in her washroom and practicing her butt-trumpet solo.

Bernadette heads down to bog she inhabits to take a dip and spend time with her creepy dolls. After freshening up, she drives to the Manteno Cantina to hang out with her fan club, The Poopy Groupies. Bernie tinkles on the pot for a bit and then the ivories for an impromptu poop-up concert, only slightly less annoying than the pop-up ads spamming all over Kankakee County about her bar…erm…THE bar.

Poopy Groupie president, KaCo resident Wally Green videotapes the entire concert from beginning to end, gives a standing ovation along one with other patron, Pat Splatt.

“Hey there hottie! Gimme a kiss!” Pat Splatt catcalls Bernadette. The married entramanure hugs Pat in a deep embrace and the two briefly make out.

“I’d like to take you for a ride.”

Pat, Bernadette and Wally drive down to Carbondale in Bernadette’s poopmobile to learn what Artificial Idiocracy (AI) can do for them at a conference.

After discovering how much money he can make by using AI instead of hiring actual people to work for his Pantherware company, Pat invents a new AI program along with Bernadette’s input dumps.

Bernadette finishes mining some fresh Newly Formed Turds (N.F.Ts) in Pat’s washroom while Pat compiles his new CrapApp.

“You’re naming the new program after me, right honey?”

“No, Bernie, I’m naming it Ozzy.”

“I want you to name it after me! I made the cover of the Manteno Sentinel more than you! I care so much about this community and my friends! Did you see all the money I helped raise for—”

“Ozzy just died. Don’t you have any respect for the dead?“

“Wow, what incredible advice. What are you not understanding about what I’m saying?”

“You sound like the type of person who, during a tornado warning would go off looking for friends and family. Instead of, you know, following directions. It baffles me that Karens like you think the whole world should cater to them.”

“Yeah, you have absolutely no clue. Good luck with that.”

Pat ends up naming the program Pat-GPT and uses it to generate a 15 minute Deepfake of Bernadette cursing out her fans and mooning them, sourcing Wally Green’s footage. The video goes viral, angering the bog witch enough to seek narcissistic supply elsewhere.

Carla is busy preening when she receives a surprise guest.

“Hey ma, I made something for you.”

“Well I can’t accept this.”

“I made it just for you because I’m your biggest fan!”

“Well now I’m your biggest fan ever since Aunt Sonya flew the coop. What is it?”

“AIR MAIL!” Bernadette exclaims with giggles as she flies the paper airplane at her mother.

“It looks just like you!”

“Talk to the wing!”

Damien Goes Batty

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

The world’s largest source of natural gas, Mr. Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, was captured trying to break into Area 51 while running from the law for a crime he committed in Illinois. Instead of digging a desert hole, the camo dudes brought the bulbous neckbeard narcadoodle to the Alternative Fuels Division for daily flatulence testing.

“Security! Come quick! These bats are crapping all over my cell!” Damien exclaims to guard Becky Konkan.

“Don’t get so worked up, Damien. These are your new friends. Try and get to know them.”

“I’m gonna get rabies!”

“Nope, their testing all came back negative. They’re going to hang around us for awhile.”

“I don’t want them watching me poop…” Damien says as he waves the bats away and they retreat to the ceiling rafters above the cell block, then sits down to pinch a loaf. “Phheeeewwwwww” Damien brags. “Look at the size of that log. Peeew! Peeeew! Peeew!”

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt Storms Area 51

~ Jen ~ 16 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?”

Boundaries are important, Carla.

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“Ma, what are you doing here?” Manteno communal narcadoodle, bog witch and Queen of the Plastic Throne Bernadette Moran Cacca asks her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and narcadoodle of the self-righteous kind, Carla Moran.

“Why don’t you dress like the other girls? Don’t you want to be in style? That dress looks terrible!”

“Why the heck are you wearing a French Maid costume?”

“Your place is a pig sty! I’m going to clean it up!”

“You Burnt Your Kitchen?”

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

In this corner: The Manteno Wonder, Communal Narcadoodle and Portapotty Entamanure Bernadette Cacca! In the other corner: a useless real-estate scammer! It’s a battle of nitwits to try and waste each others’ time!

Backside: When communal #narc and #Manteno Optimal Club president #Bernadette Moran Cacca graduated high school she wanted to be a wrestler. When her wrestling career as the Manteno Wonder failed, she joined the army. She kept getting put on poop burning duty and got a dishonorable discharge…from her butt.

Bernadette was in such a hurry to become a regular that she tried to run over one of the regulars at the coffeehouse. She wanted to get the runs. Gotta mine that #craptocoin and N.F.T.s: newly-formed turds for her charity singing and kazoo playing which she does only for the photo opportunity. Looks are deceiving because she makes a good dog-and-pony poop show pretending she cares. She only loves poop.

#PoopingForBernadette

MoronicArts Classics: MHA Sounds the Alarm

~ Jen ~ 3 Comments
Kon Teirant

Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Accounting Chief Konrad “Kon” Teirant is having trouble balancing the assets against the liabilities, even after having cooked the books to a carbonized mess.

Mack E. Avelli

Chief Executive Officer Mack. E. Avelli calls in Konrad to hold a meeting.

“Kon, if we cannot make ourselves look good to our investors, we are going to fail as a company. I don’t need you to be honest about it, I need you to make us some more money. Just get it done.”

“I’ll think up something. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Good,” the fifty-something Mack says to Konrad and starts texting his 22-year-old wife Judithann, who ignores his message because she is too busy flirting with daemons.

It is midnight here in Kankakee.  

The fire alarm sounds for the third time this week at the Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments, complete with strobe lights, sirens and a man’s voice repeating the same message over and over again.

As the residents of this sorry apartment building wake up and use the washroom, Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) takes the elevator up to each floor in the tower. 

“It is midnight and you know what time that is! Come on, guys, let’s all dance! Didn’t you see that four-page flyer we left on all of your doors telling you to exercise more? We knocked on your doors because we had nothing better to do! Resident deejay Konrad is on the ones and twos!” exclaims property manager, narcadoodle and Vaudeville clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant.

DJ Konrad Teirant picks some records out of his crate, and begins spinning and scratching, rapping over the music.

Resident Tyrell Fowler — out in the hall wondering what the racket is about — explains to Konrad “dude, you cannot scratch 1950s love songs,” and walks back into his unit.

“Let’s get out the glowsticks everybody!” Madeline says as she pulls them from the fire-hose compartment on the wall.

Robbie sings Elvis tunes as he dances away, doing moronic martial arts moves on the in-between.

Robbie Hulrbutt

The MHA troupe packs up their party-gear and heads upstairs to the next floor in the tower.

When the crew are all done waking up their residents, they head downstairs to the office and turn off the alarms. Finally those poor residents can get some sleep.

“Here is your check, Kon. We will write it off as a business expense here at the complex.”

“Great, I will bring it to CRASS tomorrow,” Kon tells his wife Madeline and they head home in Robbie’s clown car. Elvis has left the building.

“Oh good, I got it,” a resident says sitting in her bed, as she reviews the video she recorded on her phone.

Konrad Teirant heads into the CRASS office, strutting along the halls with a turd-eating-grin across his face as he makes his way over to the office of his supervisor, Mack E. Avelli.

“Kon! You have a great smile! You should smile more often.”

Kon hands Mack the knife…errrr…check.

“Oh good! Now you can keep your job!” Mack tells his subordinate Konrad.

Kon says nothing and heads back into his office to cook more books.

Meanwhile, the CRASS phones light up like a Christmas tree. However the increased call volume is not from debtors calling back the CRASS collectors.

“I saw that video on the news, your accounting dude and his buddies woke some poor folks up in the middle of the night hosting some hokey rave party? What were you thinking?” 

Beep.

“Hey, this Trisha Cobb, better known as Gothic Diana Ross. You know, from The Midnight Supremes? We saw what you did when we watched the news. That’s not cool.”

Beep.

“Hello, this message is for Mr. Avelli. I am Geoff, an auditor with the firm Deltoid & Tush. We were asked to contact you about your accounting records. We are stopping by in an hour.”

“Kon, how do we cook the books now? Ya better cook them good this time,” Mack shouts to an empty room. Since he was up half the night, Kon took the rest of the day off to go home and now he is fast asleep, sawing a forest. 

Behind the Moroniverse – Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Oh man, the main inspirations for Scary Barry and Terry Reynolds are people I hope you never encounter.

One hundred per cent miserable, and equally evil as her counterpart Barry, there is no pleasing Ms. Terry. She gets joy out of seeing others suffer. She’ll bite the hand that feeds her and once you’re sore from the fresh wound, she’ll bite it again to make it hurt that much more…

Imagine going on a trip overseas to study, experience different perspectives and have fun. That was my hope in the summer of 1999. when I took classes through my university for a study-abroad program in Italy.

What comes to your mind when you think about traveling?

Being forced to share a room with strangers who hated me was the last thing I expected.

Scary Terry was one of the haters. Much older than me, Terry made it a point to harass and belittle me. One time she woke me up and called me “whiny” because I was, you know, groggy like most people who just got up?

And then there was the time Terry told me to cover my legs. I have an autoimmune condition which affects my skin. get over it. Terry, if you don’t like it, then don’t look at it. Find something else to do in Italy than harass a fellow student.

I did smile when Terry had the audacity to talk trash about me at dinner, in front of all the other students from the United States. They told her to shut up and said they did not want to hear it. Neither did I.

Sadly, this Terry person (yes, the real name is Terry, different surname of course) majored in education. I feel bad for any student of Terry’s. No wonder we have some awful teachers in the school system.

When I got home from Italy, I told my family about the abuse I endured from her and her cousin, with whom I was forced to room. Since I did not grow up in a supportive family, they invalidated me by acting like it was no big deal. My feelings are valid.

To help process the trauma from repeated verbal abuse by Terry and the cousin, and the gaslighting I faced when i went home, I created my character Terry Reynolds. I will discuss the cousin in a separate entry.

Taking your road test is nerve-wracking enough. Imagine living in a small city where the sole proctor is a malignant narcissist, taking joy in seeing people fail. Meet the inspiration for Scary Barry Reynolds.

Barry (again, real first name) loved telling students “YOU FAILED” in a stoic tone, with a hint of an evil grin.

And now we get to learn about the psychic attack crap. Back in 2001 (No not 1991, sorry Greg Snyder), I received this junk mail:

Imagine greeting your proctor as you enter the car “Hi Barry” only to be screamed at, likely out of fear “How do you know my name?” And then told “I. Don’t. Like. That.”

Barry may look like Leon Kowalski from Blade Runner, and act like him. It goes without saying he would fail any empathy test. Maybe I should run the V-K Test on him and watch him fail. I just won’t ask him about his mother.

After failing my road test five times with Barry, I passed my test when I took it in another city and of course a different proctor. I had called his supervisor, per advice of my driving instructor, who failed to address the problem, saying “he makes his quota.” Yes, some doctors graduate at the bottom of their class. What do you call them? Yeah, a doctor. .

When I first got the spam, I thought it was for EarthBound cheat codes. Think again.

These morons tried to sell a psychic attack self-defense e-book. The spammer only accepted a check mailed to them, and then they promised to email you the electronic book after they got your check. Yeah, sounds legit.

The email was so funny, I had to save it, and use it for something.

Around the time I got the Defense Against Psychic Attack spamvertisement, I spent a lot of time on message boards chatting about metaphysics. Fans of Dragonball Z asked how to make “PSI Balls” and some even made videos pretending to “psychic attack” people using them. I thought the whole darned thing was so funny, it needed to prompt a story idea. Most of my ideas sat dormant in a different series, which I merged into MoronicArts.

I would create my own dictatorship: Carla Moran

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
View all responses

Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, sterile supply technician and self-righteous narcadoodle Carla Moran is in one of her daily foul moods, plotting out loud her newest grandiose idea.

“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.

Carla Moran’s Ticket to Fly

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“You have a wake to attend.” Undead Greg Schneissder tells his lover, the communal narcadoodle and bog-witch known as Bernadette Moran Cacca.

“What?”

“There’s some dude out there photographing a dead bird.”

“Oh that’s that millionaire from Kankakee.”

“Millionaires in Kank? They exist?”

“Well yeah, duh! His name is Mack, he owns some debt collection firm there.”

“We should start a band called The Dead Fledglings,” the undead sociopath suggests, before waking into a wall.

“That’s so uncouth!” Bernadette’s ringer starts playing a GG Allin Medley.

“Hi Mom! I see you got my Craptocoins! I just mined them fresh myself!” Bernie flushes the toilet.

“Bernadette, take YOUR shower!” the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture demands.

“Mom?”

“C’mon, we’re going on a little outing.”

“Where?”

“It will be a surprise.”

“I’m very busy burning the poops from last night’s port-a-potty job, raising money for the Manteno Optimal Club this weekend, and devouring unsuspecting gentleman callers next time I go to my swamp.”

“Get him out!” “Get him out!” Carla screams at the baseball game.

“Mom?”

“That didn’t even dawn on me. How about you and I take a little break, have some mother-daughter time, maybe we can do each other’s pedicures?”

“Eeeeew!”

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice!”

“Stop squawking at me!”

“No-wrong!”

“We always get into fights because you find that one thing about me to complain about.”

“You’re too sensitive, honey.” Carla gaslights.

“I have this awesome piano gig at the Manteno Cantina tonight. Wanna come see me play?”

“I know, I know, I know. So you’re not coming with me?”

“Yeah…no. That’s my final answer.”

“You mommy will miss you.”

“Good. Go have fun! Gotta run, because I got the runs!”

Bernadette hangs up her smell phone and flushes her washroom toilet again.

Carla of course calls Bernadette right back and leaves a voicemail:

“DON’T YOU HANG UP ON ME AGAIN! FINE! I will fly out to Groom Lake without YOU. We have all been wondering where your Aunt Sonya went but I guess you don’t care. When I find her, I will tell her how YOU mistreated me, and how little you’ve cared about her since she left town. You aunt cares an awful lot about you. And I love you an awful lot. Bye honey.”

Bernadette sees that she has one new voicemail from her mother, and immediately deletes it without listening. Then she poops.

Visions of vacationing in the desert by the lake, fill Carla’s grandiose head, devoid of vision. Lighthouses greet the boats passing in the night, scores of grey aliens cheer outside their ships of the space kind and wave at Ms. Moran, as she approaches the gate of the Dreamland ranch.

The next morning, Carla flies out from Indiana and Southwest toward Nevada, taking breaks to circle around with other vultures in the thermals to rest her wings. They land in Dulce, New Mexico helping themselves to a freshly dead cow, taking the back entrance and chowing down on as much carrion as they can after exiting. Within minutes, they fly away to some trees in the next town over to clean off their outstretched wings.

Carla then flies solo up toward Nevada looking for her Groom Lake vacation spot. Confused by the lack of water, beaches and boats, she stops at a diner in Rachel to ask directions.

“Dry Lake? What the heck is that?”

Disappointed by the lack of water in the Nye County surrounding area, Carla flies toward Homey Air Force Base to find her long lost sister Sonya where she was rumored to have last been seen.

Tired of flapping her wings, Carla walks over to the gate. Signs reading “No drones,” “Photograhy Prohibited,” and “Warning: US Military installation. Unauthorized entry strictly forbidden” are plain to see. She struts over to the guard shack and demands to be let in.

“Ma’am, did you read the sign?”

“My sister is locked inside and I need to rescue her.”

“Do you have ID, ma’am?”

“I have no idea where in there she is, no.”


“Do you have a driver’s license? Passport? Military identification?”

“Come here. COME HERE! I need to show you something.”

“If you don’t have proper identification, I will deny you entry.”

“I am Carla Moran. You DO know my sister, Sonya Moran, do you not?”

The camo dude just laughs.

“If you don’t leave the premises, I am going to have to call police.”

“OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK! OK!”

“Back out the way you came, and head out. Where did you come from and where are you heading?”

“Inside to see my sister.”

“Alright, I’m calling police.”

Within a half hour, the sheriff shows up and take Ms. Moran into custody, issues her a $640 citation, and sends her home.

“Oh my god, my mom’s on TV! Wooooo! Look at this, JB!”

“What’s that honey?” her second-favorite lover Mr. Powers asks. Bernadette’s husband Peppi is out on another port-o-dump run.

Bernie points at the TV and spits out her beer.

“Indiana woman with ties to Kankakee County arrested for — get this — trying to break into Area 51. Reporter Elena Ess is on the scene.”

Bernadette giggles like a giddy child on Christmas and grabs another bottle.

Gothic Diana Ross Plays Bocce to Win

~ Jen ~ 5 Comments

Narcissists want to buy your time…so they can waste it…over and over without paying.

Gothic Diana Ross is busy minding her own business at her specialist’s waiting room up at Rush University Medical Center in Chicago. A routine follow-up appointment, Miss Ross would rather be home having fun singing with Gothic Flo and Gothic Mary, instead of waiting in a crowded room full of strangers. 

An hour passes by and Di still has not been called.

“Hey, I’m Greg Schneissder. Are you from Manteno?”

”Ummm…” Diana rolls her eyes and looks away from the undead Greg,

“I saw one of your shows, you ladies are so beautiful and talented.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you know Pat Splatt?”

“Yeah…no. Eew.”

“Pat is one of the coolest guys around! I hang around him and Bernadette Cacca.”

Diana freezes from panic, already nervous awaiting her lab results.

“Don’t. Mention. Bernadette.”

“Oh why? She is the the nicest person around! And so famous! I see her picture in the paper a lot. She’s a celebrity. Wasn’t she on that Human Body Odor Channel show?”

Diana rolls her eyes.

“How can you say anything bad about her?”

“Stop.”

“I am gonna complain. You are harassing me now. Nobody talks bad about Bern Cacca!”

Di looks at the lady across from her.

“I am sure he was just trying to help.”

“Really? Just…no.”

“How do you know?”

“Just leave me the feck alone.”

“I am gonna just leave. I can’t be at this office where people talk badly about other people!” Greg whinges as he storms down the stairs.

“Deeanna?”

“It’s Diana…grrr.”

Diana grabs her patent leather sack and follows the medical office assistant to be roomed.

It begins to rain, the clouds taking a massive whizz all over Northern Illinois. Thankfully Diana merges her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest onto 90/94 safely and avoids rush-hour traffic to head south on I-57 toward her home in Manteno.  Mind clear from a clean bill of health, the slender gothic beauty slides into her canopy bed, the silky black sheets comforting her as she drifts off to her internship in Hell.

Two hours later, Diana wakes up in a panic, startled by a moron who thought it would be cute to crawl into her bed.

“You know Diana, your music would sound better if you articulated your words better.”

Image: a full-colour drawing of a heavyset woman with brown hair, goofy smile, tongue hanging out, clothed in a poop emoji dress.

A stunned Diana looks over.

“You forgot to lock your door, hon.”

“Get the freak outta my house and my bed!” Diana screams at the top of her lungs and chases out the bored poopy-burner and communal narcadoodle, next-door neighbor Bernadette Moran Cacca.

“How dare you talk bad about my beloved Bernadette!” Gregory Albert Schneissder screams at Diana about the crowd-pleaser for whom he created the Fakebook account “BMCacca Fannn.”

Diana slams the slate door to her Victorian Gothic home.

Gregory slithers over to Bernadette and the pair head upstairs to Bern’s bedroom.

Image: a full colour drawing of a shack next to a Victorian home.

“Can you just, like, not fart in front of me?” Greg asks his date Bernadette Cacca during their date netting some flicks while hoping to chill. 

“No, honey.”

”You don’t fart on stage at those charity events where you sing and play kazoo requests to raise money for the Manteno Optimal Club and for Ukraine.”

“No need to gas-sleight me!”

“You gaslit me!” Greg retorts.

“No, I mean, I need to fart. Farting is healthy. I will implode if I don’t rip ‘em when I need to.”

The swamp-witch Bernadette lifts her leg and her bum goes boom.

A wild Gothic Diana Ross appears in the foreground.

”Heave-ho! Where are your enablers now? Bwa ha ha ha ha!” The Gothic Boss Miss Ross interjects as she yeets the communal narcadoodle Bern halfway down the staircase, and the Midnight Supremes chuck her bum-licker Greg, spocking the pallino down the stairs.

“You left your front door open…” Diana addresses the undead mess spilled all over the basement floor with a smile.

”What did those stairs do to deserve that punishment?” Gothic Mary jokes as the Midnight Supremes leave in amusement.

Image: a full-colour drawing, dimly lit, depeciting three black ladies in Gothic attire.