MoronicArts Classics: Aim High

“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!

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

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

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

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.

Golden Moron Award: Buy This Guy a Mirror!

Have you taken class from a professor who was absolutely terrible, wondering how they still had a job? (Or perhaps you’ve worked with one?) I hope not.

Instead of spending his own time cultivating hobbies like a person with a normal emotional range, this Voight-Kampff Test failure made a conscious decision to develop a career judging how other people spend their time and obsessing over other peoples’ outward appearances in his series of bird-cage-liners “Time Use Papers” and “Beauty Research Papers.”

Author of such high quality ivory tower titles as: “An Old Male Economist’s Advice to Young Female Economists”, “Dress for Success: Does Primping Pay?” and “Why Are Professors ‘Poorly Paid’?”, this dodgy geezer thought he would take his ennui to the next level by throwing shade onto an entire country.

Methinks that buffoon needs some schooling.

Who sponsored this study? Why? Did Bernadette Cacca help poop it out? I have so many questions and I want none of them answered. Maybe he got confounded by the beautiful Welsh language because he’s too dense to understand it.

Kindness costs nothing, yet here we are. For hating on an entire country for kicks and giggles, we hereby award Daniel S. Hamermesh the Golden Moron Award!

We’ll even throw in some Craptocoins just for big fun since he needs the money.

Golden Moron Award: Bye, PooTuber!

Languages are cool, xenophobia is not. The MrBoast of Language Youtubers has announced his departure, and not even in an airport! Why, do you ask?

After studying a boatload of languages just enough to impress people — and make self-serving videos featuring his creepy mug bragging — this patron saint of goodbyes had blamed NYC “immigrants” for his move to New Jersey.

It costs nothing to not be prejudiced, yet here he is. Who goes to Jersey on purpose, let alone moves — or vacations there? To…get away from people who speak different languages…while making a language show?

We hope the door did not hit him on the way out.

The Philly suburbs would be great for him. Maybe he can get a job working for Virtua? This replicant would be a perfect fit, a great place for people who flunk the Voight-Kampff test.

For behaving like a complete and utter hypocrite, we award this random Youtuber the Golden Moron Award! We are glad your award-winning mask is crumbling and we can finally see your true self. Now get some better hobbies.

YEET!

Bern Cacca’s Stinky Stickers

Communal narcissist, obnoxious driver and Manteno-based portable-waste operator Bern Cacca went to another Schmucks grocery store hoping to play her favorite drag-race simulator after her out-of-order experience the last time.

Though their Running in the 90s game was also broken, Bern did get to spend her quarters on cleaning out these vending machines instead.

Scumlord Sonya Moran Learns the Rules of Acquisition.

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?”

“It’s our policy. Pay it now or leave.”

“Do you accept Craptocoin?”

“Don’t accept her reservation,” Quark tells his employee.

Sonya flies out the door and across Chicago to find another hotel. 

Sonya walks into the Acne Hotel, upon suggestion of one of the other Poopy Groupies she called on her Smell Phone.

“Hi, I’d like to make a reservation for a one bedroom”

“Great. It’s $99.95 a night.”

“Awesome, here’s my card.”

The clerk swipes Mrs. Moran’s card and prints out her reservation. Sonya thinks about all the tenants she can’t wait to swindle again.

“Great. Before we give you the keys we just need 100 slips of Latinum.”

Sonya pauses and stares.

“Can’t you just accept a couple of candy bars or something?”