Tag: narcs

Revenge is Served

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Clio Bersola spots the temper-tantrums of Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narc-a-doodle Damien Hurlbutt in the “Nice Guys Looking For The Finish Line” Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) themed group on Fakebook, under her alias JG Wayne.

Best friend of Damien’s verbally abused and rightfully estranged ex-wife Lori, Clio messages him and fake-agrees with him over IM on so many points, stringing him along. They become instant friends, soulmates, solely in Damien’s “old-soul” nitwit brain.

Damien swiftly asks Clio out on a date because he is so impressed. Wow, someone like him, the last of his species! Umm…yeah.

They agree to meet up at Ma Barker’s restaurant in Chicago. Little does Damien know what is in store for him.

Damien complains about the entire drive up Route 57, and nearly gets rear-ended getting off 90/94. Clio parks at a friend’s house and takes the train.

The two meet up at Ma Barker’s. Damien is wearing a red feather in the brim of his brand new, black fedora as Clio had instructed.

The place is rather large, decked out in gangster memorabilia, reproduction crime scene evidence, Ma Barker photos and those of her famous outlaw sons.

Clio instantly recognizes Damien — a spitting-image of Squirrely Dan minus the ball-cap — whistling loudly to himself, orange neckbeard aglow.

“There’s my lovely Men’s Rights Activist!”

“M’lady, m’dame!” Damien says to Clio as the two embrace, Damien hugging more tightly than Clio.

The two sit down and chat. Conversations flow rather quickly and Damien rambles on about how he was about to give up on love in a month or two had he not met Clio.

“I was about to tuck my heart away forever, had I not met you. So many women treated me badly, especially my ex-wife Grimace. She is so fat and ugly, eeew. She ate so much fast food and begged me for $50 a day. Fifty dollars! My life is complete now I met you!” Damien gushes to Clio, not even respectful enough to call his former bride by her name.

Clio shudders a bit inside and then gets excited. “The Time is Now” by Moloko plays over the restaurant loudspeakers.

“I have something I would like to ask you, Damien.”

Clio takes Damien’s hand. It is the first time he has been touched since he and his wife divorced. Damien’s grin widens.

“What is it with you so-called ‘Men’s Rights Activists anyway? Don’t you have anything better to do than complain about your privileges?’”

Damien snaps his hand away from Clio.

“Huh-whom-who-why-hwat?” Damien snips, pauses, adds extra “whoooos” and “huhhhs” for melodrama.

An awkward silence passes by as Damien coldly glares into Clio’s eyes. Meanwhile, Clio fills with anticipation, and smiles inside.

“You women are awful. Misandry is the real problem, WOMAN. Men get kicked in the nuts on TV. You people give us a hard time for this fake thing called mansplaining. Men are always the butt of women’s jokes. We are oppressed all the time and your feminism is the cause! You women are horrible! You are a horrible person who will be alone forever! You’re psycho!”

Damien gets up from his seat and goes to the couple next to him.

“See this woman next to me? She is psycho. Stay away from her,” Damien gaslights.

The couple roll their collective eyes and go back to eating.

Damien stomps over to a family across the room.

“See that skinny woman sitting by herself at that table? With the dark brown hair? She is crazy. Stay away from her. I am trying to help and she won’t listen.”

The mother gives Damien the stinkeye and motions to protect her kids should Damien harass them again.

Mr. Hurlbutt huffs, puffs, and sits down by himself with his head planted squarely on the table, hand stroking his neon orange neckbeard. He adjusts his fedora, and tries to slam the red feather down, only for it to fly away.

Clio heads for the kitchen, to speak with her former coworkers.

“I am getting harassed. Can you please call the police?”

“That neckbeard dude throwin’ a fit? We already had some complaints. Hang tight. I got ya back.”

Damien storms toward the kitchen.

“Pardon me, sorry to interrupt your important work. See that woman there? She–”

“Find your own way home, Damien,” the server commands.

Damien refuses to leave and sits in the men’s washroom farting away, wishing he could brag about his poop size to an unsuspecting young lady.

The Chicago Police Department hauls away the unwanted person, Mr. Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt and puts him in the holding tank with a bunch of other smelly, sweaty men.

Clio meets up with her buddy — the former Mrs. Hurlbutt — and they have dinner together, laughing and giggling all night long.

Damien taps away at the cold cell floor, much to the annoyance of his cellmates.

“Socks with sandals?” a fellow inmate complains as he stares at Damien’s feet. “Grrrrr.”

Revenge really is a dish best served cold.

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.

March 15th

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Beware the ides of March.

Beware the butts of narcs.

Don’t let them light their farts.

Narc-a-doodle doo,

I don’t like you.

You don’t like me but you pretend to.

Narc-a-doodle doo,

I don’t like you.

I don’t like you, and don’t intend to.

Damien Wanted To Put the Fun in Dysfunction

~ Jen ~ 4 Comments

“These stupid meds. I hate having to take them. Plus they’re so plop-happy! Plop, plop, plop. If I wanted them on the floor, I’d put them on the floor!” the former Mrs. Hurlbutt said about the medication she took to cope with the stress from her then-husband. Communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt used neagtive humor to devalue his supply Lori whom he used to idealize, as his mask was crumbling.

“That’s so clowny. Why don’t you get a spice rack for your pill bottles, Lori?”

“Damien, you said that about 12 times before. It was not funny the first time.”

“Are you taking your Klownopin?” Damien asked wearing his clown outfit, and honked his bicycle horn for extra moronic effect.

Lori gladly left Champaign and her narcissistic ex-husband, multiplex clerk Damien, famous for writing these Lunacy Letters to mansplain psychology to Lori’s psychologist. 

Damien got fired after several poor reviews from his boss, and moved to Bourbonnais to work at a multiplex owned by CRASS Chief Financial Officer Konrad Teirant.

Youtube Pooping is a Spiritual Experience

~ Jen ~ 3 Comments

Manteno communal narcadoodle, bog witch and entramanure Bern Cacca enjoys watching this poetic video on her phone during her hours of idle time. She enjoys the simple pleasure in life, like taking a massive dump and burning it in her fireplace.

“Live, laugh, poop.” — Bern Cacca

#PoopingForBernadette

“A fart is but the lonely cry of an imprisoned turd”
– Butt-Head

Damien’s Dating Dilemma

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Bourbonnais cinema clerk, love-fraudster and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt prints up a bunch of business cards and leaves them around Kankakee County businesses, hoping to spring a date. He is hoping to meet a new lady since his ex – whom he calls “Grimace” – had divorced him to escape his idealize, devalue and discard campaign.

DAMIEN ULYSSES HURLBUTT

SINGLE NICE GUY

SEEKS M’LADY FOR

FREE MOVIE TICKETS

815-555-FART

Scammers call. Damien answers with great expectations, thinking they are interested in this self-proclaimed “nice guy.”

“Hi M’Lady M’dame” Damien answers.

“Is this Damien….Ummm….Hurlbutt?”

“You got ‘em.”

“Hi. I am calling to report your Social Security card has been disabled.”

“Oh hi puddin’. I see you got my card. I think you are really pretty. Can I see your feet?”

“There is a warrant under your name. We are going to send the cops…”

“Nice guys like me finish last. I almost closed my heart off forever until I met you.”

“Please send me $500 on a Wally Green’s gift card or you will be arrested.”

“You know what? I can will myself out of heart attacks. You ladies are so rude!”

A click and a dial tone are heard.

Prankers call:

“Hello. Is this Damien?”

“Speaking.”

“You just won a lifetime subsciption to Feetsniffers’ Monthly!”

“I did! Oh, wow! Oh boy, oh boy, oh–”

“You moron, it’s a prank…”

The caller hangs up and a disappointed Damien’s smile turns upside down.

Pyramid scheme peddlers call.

“Hey, Babe.”

“Oh heyyyy honey puddin’” Damien replies to the lady caller.

“Umm, hi.”

“Heyyyy. What is a little and dainty lady want with an oaf like me?” Damien drools all over his flip phone.

“I have a great weight loss product that can take you from chump to champ in no time.”

“Come now!”

“Go now!” The lady hangs up on Damien.

Then Doris Krabalsky, the notorious street pyramid schemer calls. Damien hangs up. Doris calls again but Damien blocks her call because he does not want anything she might be selling.

Doris hides her number from caller ID and tries to call Mr. Hurlbutt again.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Damien?”

“Who is this?” Damien asks.

“I really think you are cute. Let’s go out sometime.”

“Wait, who is this?” a nervous Damien queries.

“Doris Krabalsky. My sister Leona called you about the weight loss pills. These babies will change your life, hun! I can meet you under the I-57 interchange at Midnight.”

“That flipping phone!” Damien screams as he slams his phone down, and flips the world the bird.

Pat Splatt’s Viral Video

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

“Fifth time today. Who is this moron?” Kankakee student and barista Ant D. Yu asks his partner.

“Hang up.” Dorian James says to Ant.

“Brandon’s Imbecile Machines. That’s it – I am blocking these fools.”

A knock is heard and Ant checks the peephole. The uninvited guest pounds the doorknocker.

Ant greets the visitor: “Oh, hi Sybil.”

“Hey Ant. Do you have any dog food? I am hungry,” the Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) bill collector inquires.

“No Sybil. I told you before. We do not have a dog. But thanks for stopping by.”

“Okay. I did not know if you guys change your mind.”

“Have a good day Sybil.”

Ant closes the door, a disappointed Sybil Kibble heads back to her McMansion down the street. Her pleas for free dog food have all been met with disappointment. As she walks into one of her three garages, she checks her caller ID:

“BRANDON’S IMBECILE MACHINES

KANKAKEE, IL”

Sybil sees that this entity has called twelve times in the past three days and because of this, she blocks their number from calling again. She then heads inside and munches down on some dry doggie chow.

Manteno singer Gothic Diana Ross, leader of The Midnight Supremes, is busy pulling up her black fishnet stockings when her phone lights up.

“Who is this?” Di thinks to herself and checks her screen.

“Brandon’s Imbecile Machines? Block.”

The Midnight Supremes all cackle in unison.

Brandon Dixon, owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machines, is getting frustrated by the lack of response to the new phone campaign for his lifted truck lot.

Ant Yu gets a call from an unknown number. He is in the habit of screening his calls and lets it go to voicemail. The next day, he checks his messages. Since “Brandon” had asked him to return his call without having given him a reason, Ant deletes the crapage and blocks the time-waster’s number.

Sybil gets a voicemail from Brandon and deletes it. Gothic Diana Ross does as well.

Brandon is again frustrated by the nonexistent return on his low-budget marketing investment for his overcompensated vehicle lot.

After seeing this commercial many times on PooTube, he calls up Kankakee huckster Pat Splatt.

The two team up with Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist Robbie Hurlbutt, to try and spam people all over Kankakee.

Pat Oswald Splatt, or POS for short, develops a Fakebook virus to steal accounts for Brandon. It is disguised as a video featuring a picture of Sybil Kibble eating dog bones. Robbie Hurlbutt had covertly taken it using his mobile phone when he had briefly worked at CRASS.

“Check this out, Robbie and Brandon!”

With a cheesy grin, Pat shows off his newly minted virus, disguised as a video, which he plans on sliding into Fakebook Martplace instant message boxes all over Kankakee County.

“Kankakee bill collector eats dog food for lunch” reads the caption below the fake video that is really a virus.

“Once people click on this pretend video, the virus will send you and I the users’ login credentials. We will start by replying to Fakebook Martplace ads. That way we will find suckers really easily.”

Pat, Robbie and Brandon share evil grins.

“I based the virus off code I used to program a broken 1989 Atari emulator, accidentally broken on purpose. Those were my script kiddie days, back when I used to try and own noobs.”

“You are a noob, Pat.” Robbie snickers.

Pat launches the virus and Robbie gets ready to collect the login credentials so he can pool them into a spreadsheet.

Days go by…nothing.

Pat tests the virus and it is operational.

“Are you sending the virus out, Pat? I am paying you to do this.” Brandon asks.

“I am sending but nobody is a-clickin.”

“How about we step it up and generate a whole bunch a windows?” Brandon asks Pat.

“Good idea.”

Pat modifies the virus code to replicate multiple windows featuring Sybil Kibble enjoying her canine cookies, Sybil stretching at her desk and a close-up of Sybil from behind. The recursive windows end up crashing some computers, however most machines fail to get infected at all; the ancient technology powering the virus gets caught by even the most basic pop-up killer.

Brandon storms in on a sleeping Pat Oswald Splatt, dreaming of opening up his very own click-farm, curled up in his computer chair listening to a Robbie Hurlbutt video on a loop.

“That’s it, I want my money back! I made nothing off your crappy viral marketing campaign!”

“Who-what-um-who is this? Hello?”

“Quit the drama! I want my money back!”

“Oh, hi Brandon.”

“Don’t hi Brandon me. I need my money back and I need it right now!”

“You will get your money back alright. Your bank charge failed because you had no money. You cheap fool!” The smug Pat exclaims at Brandon, falling out his squeaky metal chair.

Brandon laughs at Pat, pointing and mocking.

“Oopsie.” Pat giggles, gets up and chases out Brandon, who is now left to his own devices.

Poor Brandon and all those unsold compensation-mobiles.

Bern Cacca Is The Masked Singer

~ Jen ~ 3 Comments

“Hey there my ultra-cool and spooky neighbor! You have a beautiful voice! I am making masks out of old bed sheets and passing them out. Deeanna, would you like one?” communal narcissist Bern Cacca annoys her neighbour Gothic Diana Ross as she minds her own business doing work outside her Manteno home.

“Get lost.”

“These masks are better than other ones because they’ve been quality tested by me, and washed with Lysol.”

“Yeah…no.”

“Then can you please give me a donation to support my mask project? I wash all the money.”

“Ya know that expression, put your money where your mouth is?”

“I know it very well. I am a pillar of excellence, playing accordion covers of pop tunes to raise money–”

“If ya don’t go now, I will put your mouth straight to my fist.”

“Oh I gotta go baaaad. Time to light more farts to burn portapoopies! Maybe some of my own too…” Bern rambles on as The Boss Gothic Diana Ross is long out of earshot, resting quietly inside her slate Victorian mansion.

Damien Dumped

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt harasses his ex wife Lori on the 10 year anniversary of his lame showoff proposal to her, even though she is long gone from his life. Lori left him because of his love fraud and narcissistic abuse.

He downvotes all her Utube videos even though she blocked him all social media, as a glitch still allows blocked users to downvote. Damien clearly needs a hobby.

Detroit’s Rachel Shelley gets into a huge fight with her lover and fellow narcissist Damien. She is tired of hearing him complain about his ex-wife Lori.

Rachel chucks a bunch of Damien’s hoarded crap into the dumpster while he is out at work.

She leaves him for her side piece, Kankakee heroin addict and loser Leon Peeonne. She has had enough.

Damien downvotes Rachel’s and Leon’s videos on Utube while he is sitting behind the counter at work, thinking nobody is looking. In walks his supervisor, Konrad Teirant, theater owner, who suspends Damien for a week.

Damien comes home in the middle of the night after working the late night shift at the theater to discover all the things he loved more than Rachel — toys, children’s coloring books, $35 ornaments, $75 toys, $600 figures — gone. He jiggles his apartment doorknob repeatedly to check for home invaders, nothing. He calls out for Rachel. No reply.

Damien walks past the remaining boxes in his neckbeard nest, mostly empty — save for a few towels, ratty graphic tees and unused pots and pans — and thinks that Rachel has left with all her belongings. Think again.

Damien heads out to the dumpster outside his apartment and dives in, digging for his lost treasures. He throws a few boxes overboard. Damien continues to dig. Meanwhile a sound is heard in the background:

“Beep…beep…beep…beep…”

The Backside of Bern Cacca

~ Jen ~ 7 Comments

Manteno’s very own communal narcissist Bernadette “Bern” Cacca learned how to impress people in high school by giving classmates rides, starring in plays for charity and volunteering for charity. Did Bernadette care about those people and causes? OF COURSE NOT. She did it all for attention and to clean up her crappy reputation.

Bern’s grades were decent in school, despite her having turned a teacher against an autistic student.

She loved going to award ceremonies, collecting all the “merit” awards while most of the student body wanted to go to sleep.

The self-proclaimed Manteno Wonder, Bernadette tried to use her combat acting skills as a wrestler for a few years upon graduating from high school.

One day, after her career as a wrestler did not work out, Bern had an epiphany. Wanting to impress the entire world — which Bern considered her destiny — she decided to enlist in the United States Army.

Bernadette had high hopes for excelling, becoming an officer and meeting George W. Bush. However, her peers did not like her antics.

During her tour of Iraq, Bernadette got punished for demanding better tasting rations, taking more than three minutes in the shower, and refusing to do physical training because she thought she was too good for it.

Bern was placed on poop-burning dooty, kinda like these guys in Afghanistan:

Bernadette loved burning poopies out in the desert so much, she continued to SNAFU everything she touched, so she could get back on the poopy-burner squad.

Bern went AWOL and was eventually discovered swimming in a bog, luring in unsuspecting people to devour, and got dishonorably discharged.