Tag: narcs

Smell Ya Later, Damien!

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“Attention. Attention. This is a drill. Shelter-in-place now. I repeat, shelter in place now. This is a drill. Shelter in place now” Area 51’s resident alien deejay announces over the intercom.

People run amok. Had they read their emails sent earlier in the week, most of them would have stayed at their workstations instead, per their inboxed instructions, news and alerts.

The chaos wakes up Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, captured test subject living in the Alternative Fuels Division, Flatulence Branch pries loose the door from his cell and wanders over to a control room. He makes a mad dash to the first unlocked computer he can find, credentials still inserted. Then he farts.

After logging onto to his uTube account, neckbeard Damien goes to the channel of his ex-wife Lori, immediately downvoting as many of her videos as he can. You can’t fix stupid. Then the bulbous, bald, bearded bum looks for videos of people sniffing m’lady madame’s feet. Yum!

One of the guards spots the communal narc-a-doodle-doo Damien, quickly dons a safety mask, then hauls him back to his cell. Padlocking his cage, Security adds a deadbolt for additional protection for the workers from the world’s biggest source of natural gas.

The Information Security Team destroys the compromised machine, to protect national security from the leakage both info-wise and anal, then maintenance gets ready to throw the chopped-and-screwed computer parts into the dumpster.

“Aren’t we having fun yet?”

“There’s no room for all this crap, what shall we do?”

“I dunno, remove some of that HAZMAT first.”

“Bingo!”

Maintenance comes back with a dumpster full of hazardous, radioactive Lawd-only-knows-what – plus a few dirty socks throw in for good fun – then chucks it all into Damien’s cage.

“Who-wha-whey-whyyy—“

“These are your new friends, Damien.”

The crew shuts the new 4000 lb gate and walks away happy, knowing they won’t hear, see, nor smell Mr. Hurlbutt anytime soon, except for the poor tech who comes in every morning at 0500 hours…

“Vitals!”

Bernadette Cacca’s Wedding Ring

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment
What type of diamond does Manteno communal narcissist, swamp witch and queen of the porcelain throne Bernadette Cacca wear on her finger?

To The Moon, Bernadette!

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

What better a place to yeet Manteno’s biggest communal narc-a-doodle, ex-wrestler and self-proclaimed queen of the porcelain throne herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca?

Just think, she could have that whole lonely moon, err, planet to herself. What a waste NOT to send her on a rocket there! (Or a trebuchet, her neighbors are not picky).

https://news.sky.com/story/nearby-exoplanet-stinks-of-rotten-eggs-scientists-discover-13175259

MoronicArts Classics: That’s A Weird Flex, Robbie.

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment
Image: two panel, black-and-white cartoon. Panel 1: an Elvis impersonator does pull-ups on the bus as a gothic woman looks away. Panel 2: The Elvis impersonator dances at the bus station in the background, the gothic woman seen from behind in the foreground asleep.

Kankakee drugstore clerk, covert narcadoodle and self-proclaimed Number One Elvis Impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt spies his number one crush Gothic Diana Ross riding the bus. Hoping to impress her, like a peacock shaking his tail-feathers, Robbie flexes by doing pull-ups on the railing. Diana looks away, trying to hide her laughter.

Robbie continues flexing at the bus station, dancing around like a moronic fool as the rightfully uninterested gothic beauty Diana falls asleep, waiting for the Midnight Supremes to pick her up.

(Thank you for the prompt and the tip, Jennifer!)

“Sonya’s Not Had Her Coffee, Yet.”

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

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.

“Go away now! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE!“ cries the imbecile running the counter, waving her arm with an evil grin on her face.

“Okay, okay, okay, calm down you morons!”

Before Sonya could run to the coffee and donut shop across the hall, someone rather familiar pokes Sonya on the back.

“Mom?”

“Hey darlin’!”

“What brought YOU here?”

“Oh, just raising daughters just like you!”

The two humanoid raptors share an embrace.

“Grandpa’s holding a hot barbecue! We’re having a family reunion. Wanna come down?”

“Maybe. What are they grilling up?”

“Soylent Green.”

“I know. But, will they serve coffee?”

Mrs. Moran stands there shaking her head, feathers ruffled. Then she poops.

“Now get out of here, you rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderudeRobloxRubixCube rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderuderuderude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruminating rume rube rude ruderuderudeude ruderude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderuderude rude ruderude rude rude ruderude rude rude rudity Rood Rudy Randy Rhodes rootin tootin’ rude rude rude rube!” goes the word-salad barfed up all over the coffee-shop floor, by their own barista.

The damned all think they’re hot…umm…stuff.

MoronicArts Classics: Aim High

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

“Oh man, I want to see the new movie Aim High but the tickets are all sold out. It opens this Friday, you know, the one based on the newest Nora Roberts book?” Dorian James rambles.

“Never heard of it.” Sybil tells Dorian in the CRASS cafeteria as she crunches her dog biscuits.

“I want to see it when it comes out, but the tickets are sold out because it is a Valentine’s Day movie.”

Sybil has a few extra minutes before she logs onto the phones, so she searches OKStupid for potential dates, reacting to herself as she reads through the personal ads.

“41 year old man in Chicago seeks female. Must be 18-25 and love sports.”

Nope.

“Do you like big trucks? 21 year old guy, loves beer, weed, works hard and plays hard, no games.”

Naw, I like the occasional backgammon.

“Rare frog, last of his species, seeks woman of any age to give him a kiss. Very polite tender-heart. Age 48. Bourbonnais.”

Just a photo of his feet? A bit odd, but I can try I guess.

Before Sybil has a chance to message the stinky feet from Bourbonnais, they email her.

Sybil and the mystery man email back and forth. They hit it off right away. The divorced man complains a lot about his ex-wife, which Sybil tunes out. Sybil talks about her love of lawnmowers and dog food, which the guy ignores only to interrupt her about his “poop elves” story.

It’s a Valentines Day in Kankakee. The birds are chirping and Sybil is tweeting online about how excited she is about her new man and the mystery gifts he keeps teasing her about. Could he be the next Robert Stack?

It is 11:30 and Sybil is on the phone trying to double down on debt. Operations Manager Mike Philips comes by with a delivery.

“Flowers for Sybil!”

Sybil hangs upon the debtor and immediately logs off the telephones. The long, green and cream box, sealed with packing tape, came from New Jersey. Sybil gets out her scissors. She struggles for 20 minutes and finally opens the box. Inside are 12 longstemmed roses individually attached to the box by hard plastic fasteners.

Sybil’s frustration grows as her scissors are not enough to loosen the delicate roses from their restraints, so she grabs a set of pliers from her drawer after five minutes of searching.

Finally, the flowers are out. Thankfully, the potential suitor included a vase. Sybil goes to the ladies’ washroom, fills the vase with water from the sink, and puts the haphazard bouquet on her desk.

Sybil calls her mystery man to thank him.

“You just won Valentine’ Day!” he says to her.

“I did?” Sybil sighs.

“Well, did anyone else get as much as you today?” He asks.

“I do not know. I did not look…and I am not that impressed by gifts. I am more of an acts of service person. I like when people do stuff for me,” Sybil tells the gentleman.

“Look in the box, Sybil.”

She looks in the box. She uncovers a movie ticket.

“You and I can go to the opening of Aim High tonight! I cannot wait to meet you!” he says.

“You sound familiar. What is your name, mine is Sybil.”

“Damien.”

“Oh, you’re PJ’s son. I remember you.” Sybil tells Damien, remembering the terror that communal narcissist Damien caused by mentally abusing his former wife, Lori.

“I know, I know, I know…I will meet you tonight at the show, M’lady Madame. I have long red hair, an orange neckbeard and I wear a black fedora.”

“Right. See ya.” Sybil says to Damien hangs up the phone and laughs.

Sybil dials Dorian James.

“Yup.”

“I got a movie ticket for you. Aim High. Tonight’s the opening night. It is all yours. Have fun!” Sybil tells Dorian.

“Allll-right! Be right over.”

Bernadette: Don’t watch that, watch this!

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

This is the heavy-heavy bog witch sound…on Pootube.

Not watching the Superbowl? Neither is Bernadette Moran Cacca. Instead, the communal narcadoodle, bog witch and portable washroom empress is hosting a watch party with her Poopy Groupies at the Manteno Optimal Club:

Unfortunately, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, Ferengi-loving landlord, and fan-club president Aunt Sonya won’t be there. She flew the poop coop.

Sucks to be Sonya.

Sonya Goes to Market

~ Jen ~ 5 Comments

Part 1: https://moronicarts.com/2024/11/24/get-lost-sonya/

Part 2: https://moronicarts.com/2024/12/21/violated/

“What we’re about to do with you, Sonya, is take that farm-to-table approach.” Dr. Jen Jenner explains to her shackled subject, multi-millionaire malignant-narcadoodle landlord, Sonya Marie Smith Moran.

“WAT?” Sonya squawks.

“Restrain that chick!” The good doctor orders the Security Treatment Aides of Area 51.

“Are you sure that thing is safe to eat?” Jen’s assistant Sam asks.

“I’ll call in an expert. I have a buddy of mine on another planet.”

The wall-to-wall screen displays a conference call window. 

“Call Quark.” Dr. Jenner dictates into her Communicator unit.

The Ferengi overlord’s face flashes upon the screen. Sonya freezes in fear.

“You’re—you’re—“

“This is the dumbest acquisition you ever made. Where did you get that thing, and why? There is no profit to be made in shape-shifting humanoid turkey vultures! How did your boss sign off on that Purchase Request and Commitment? And why? What was the bona fide need?” Quark explains to the genius Dr. Jen Jenner who speaks 777 languages. 

“Quark, you’re my idol! I learned everything I know about business from YOU! Why don’t you speak to ME? Communicate with ME! I love you! Will you marry me?”

The Ferengi leader gives the fluttering feathered fool the evil eye.

“Don’t you speak English? I thought they spoke it on every planet!” the xenophobic turd complains to the foreign friend of the Area known as 51.

“Self-reflection is scary, but necessary.”

“What did he say?” Sonya asks the crew.

“He says he doesn’t like you. Get over it.”

Sonya’s cold, bleak heart fails instantly; the sheer pain of her crush’s rejection sends her beak straight into to the concrete floor, creating a small crack from the impact. Then she poops.

The doors bust open.

“Vitals!”

“Time of death 7:30 AM.”

“Oops, nevermind.” 

The technician leaves the room to go wake up someone else.

“We got a stiff! What are we gonna do with this thing?”

“I dunno, get it outta here, bury it somewhere in Indiana.” Dr. Jen Jenner shrugs slightly and moves onto her next task. Life is good.

THE END

Robbie Makes Billboard

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Kankakee Elvis impersonator and vulnerable narcadoodle Robbie Hurlbutt thinks he is Elvis. He posted this billboard to hopefully bring in some birthday cheer from the single ladies. Do you think it will work? Don’t lock him in the bathroom!

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Hurlbutt Thinks Excess Plastic is Fantastic

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

For Bourbonnais cinema clerk, communal narcadoodle, and neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt, invalidation of others’ feelings has always been one heck of a drug.

”Hey Damien? Why does Buckstars wrap all their plastic utensils in even more plastic?”

”Well actually, Lori…I was watching the Angery Game Nerd Show on PooTube and the host gets mad there is not enough packaging. After all, plastics makers need to make money too…“ Damien the self-proclaimed “nice guy” said to his ex wife at their former home in Champaign. Lori Brown – whom Damien calls “Grimace” – has been happily divorced from the Bourbonnais cinema clerk who sent her doctors lunacy letters, thinking he knew more about psychology than…um…an actual psychologist?

Have you known someone like Damien? I hope not. Lori would not wish his abuse on her worst enemy.