I Do Not Like Spam

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“I’m With Stupid” reads the graphic tee Leona Krabalsky wears to the Kankakee job fair. She along with her younger sister, Doris, are busy manning their booth.

“I hope we sell truckloads of these here essential snake oils, you oily mama!” Leona slyly says as she slaps her sister on the arm.

“I hope we sell lots of these here business ops too. After all a sucker is born every minute! But don’t tell them that, Bossbabe! Shhhh.” Doris whispers in Leona’s ear.

The day is almost over and the ladies have yet to make a single sale. Tired, hangry and frustrated, Leona grabs her pack of unfiltered smokes and gets ready to head out to burn one. A 40-something gent with long, straggly, dark brown hair and round, blue, plastic glasses approaches the booth. Leona hides her cigarettes away, puts on her cheesiest grin and locks eyes with the only person who approached the booth all day.

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“How may we improve your life today?” Leona says with a huge, fake smile.

“Hi. I am Pat Splatt. Nice to meet you” he says as he tightly shakes Doris’s hand, and clasps his left hand over both hands.

“Our essential oils can change your life.” Doris says to Pat.

“Can they get me la-…dies?” Pat giggles.

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“They sure can!” Doris says with a smile.

“All right!” Pat pumps his fists.

“We have patchouli, try this out, I bet you will love it.” Doris tries to persuade Pat.

“And we can make you rich! Let me tell you about our business opportunity!” Leona chines in.

“And I can make you richer!” Pat exclaims.

“How so?” Leona asks quizzically, finger to her lip.

“I can make sure your oils and opportunities are known by every person with an email address!” Pat says with a smile.

“I tell you what, I will give you that a set of oils in exchange for you marketing our stuff.”

“Deal.” Pat says and the three exchange handshakes.

The next day, Pat goes down to his basement and fires up his email harvester, stealing massive amounts of addresses across the Internet. After loading the addresses, he imports them to his Spam-o-Matic 2000 program.

“I do not like spam. But I do not care. It makes me money and gets me free stuff” Pat says to himself as he clicks the “Send Spam” button.

Over a billion emails spew out Pat’s basement server to unsuspecting people all over the world, advertising Leona and Doris’s unsolicited snake oils and pyramid schemes. Pat kicks back in his dark basement and falls asleep after eating a box of cheese doodles and drinking an entire bottle of pop straight from its two liter bottle.

Meanwhile, Doris and Leona are getting flooded with angry emails and calls.

“Take me off your rotten list!” states one message.

“Stop spamming me! I hate this crap!” writes another.

“Who is this? You’re a moron! There is a special place in Hell for people who send out junk emails!” shouts a third.

Leona and Doris decide they have enough of the thousands of messages and change their contact info.

“That’s a bust. I guess we will have to try telemarketing next,” Leona says to Doris.

“Naaaw, I will go back to selling this stuff on the street like I did before…” Doris snickers and grins.

Sirens are heard in the background and flashing lights are seen. What was that about selling on the street? The world may never know.

Doris Krabalsky Wanna Buy an Oil 2

Lunacy Letter From Damien

Damien Hurlbutt went off the deep end when his then-wife, Lori, stopped tolerating his verbal abuse and left him.

He sent this letter to her psychologist and her psychiatrist. The latter provider called it a “lunacy letter.” The former said she had never seen anything like it in all her years practicing.

Who makes up this stuff?

Oh yeah, people with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).

Lunacy Letter from Damien

Lori (whom Damien called Grimace) healed by listening to this song, drawing silly pictures, and spreading awareness about Moronic Personality Disorder, I mean Narcissistic.

Revenge is Served

Clio Bersola, best friend of Bourbannais bachelor Damien Hurlbutt’s verbally abused ex-wife, spots his posts in the “Nice Guys Looking For The Finish Line” Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) themed group on Fakebook, under her secret account JK Corona. She messages him just to mess with him, and fake-agrees with him over IM on so many points, stringing him along. They become instant friends, in Damien’s mind only.

Damien swiftly asks Clio out on a date because he is so impressed. Wow, someone like him! 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, whistling loudly to himself, orange neckbeard aglow.

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

“M’lady, m’lady!” Damien says to Clio as the two embrace, Damien hugging somewhat tighter 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.

Clio shudders a bit inside and then gets excited. “The Time is Now” by Moloko plays in her head.

“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.

“Why do you feel men should have more rights than women? It is us women who are being oppressed. What is it with you so-called ‘Men’s Rights Activists?’”

Damien snaps his hand away from Clio.

“I was not expecting THAT!” Damien snips.

An awkward silence passes by as Damien coldly glares into Clio’s eyes. Meanwhile, Clio is filled with anticipation.

“You women are awful. 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! I am going to get you for this!”

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

“See this woman next to me? She is an awful person. Stay away from her.”

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 a bad person. Stay away from her.”

Damien huffs, puffs, and sits down by himself with his head planted squarely on the table.

Clio heads for the kitchen, to speak with her godmother, the owner.

“I do not feel safe here. Can you please call the police?”

Damien storms toward the kitchen.

“See that woman there? She is a horrible person. Stay away from her.”

“Find your own way home, Damien.”

Minutes later, the Chicago Police Department hauls away the unwanted person, Mr. Damien Hurlbutt.

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

Revenge really is a dish best served cold.

Sybil Auctions Herself Off

“La di da di daaaaa…” Sybil sings poorly as she logs off the autodialer. She has racked up yet another commission and is in a great mood. “Are you going to help out in the Guys N Gals auction, Sybil?” Clio asks as she hands Ms. Kibble a flyer.

“What’s that about, Clio?” Sybil asks.

“Oh, our Glee Committee came up with it to benefit the Kankakee School District Square Dancing Club. We auction off some of our employees to each other. It is for a great cause. Read the flyer.”

“Hot dog! I’ll be there! Sign me up! Can I go first?” Sybil squeaks.

“We will see. It starts today at 3:30. Employees who volunteer get an hour off,” Clio tells Sybil.

Sybil tosses aside the flyer and pours herself a bowl of dog food for lunch.

A little before 3:30 PM, the CRASS conference room begins to fill. CRASS CEO Mack E. Avelli walks over to the podium and adjusts the microphone.

“Today marks the first annual Guys N Gals auction here at CRASS. Each one of you has an 8.5 by 11 inch piece of card stock with a number printed on one side. When our Accounting Manager, Konrad Teirant calls out a bid, you interested bidders hold up your card. Our first person up for bid is the ever enthusiastic Ms. Sybil Kibble!”

Sybil silently hopes to herself that the ever so suave Dorian wins her.

“Who would like to bid first? Can I get $25?”

The ever so slovenly Dale Davis holds up his card.

Sybil dies a bit inside.

“Can we get $50?”

Mikey Philips from Maintenance holds up his card.

Sybil frowns a bit more.

“Good, we have a couple bids. Let’s get a bidding war going. This is for a great cause. Kankakee Schools, guys. Let’s get $100.00.”

Dale holds up his bid card.

“Great. Can we get “$200?”

Mikey holds up his number.

“How about $400?”

Awkward silence passes for a few seconds.

“$400 going once.”

Sybil gets really nervous, thinking she will have to go home with Mikey. Sybil bites her nails.

“$400 going twice.”

Sybil’s anxiety turns to anger. This totally did not turn out the way she expected. Sybil starts visibly shaking.

“Aaaaand—“

Dorian’s card goes up.

“Great! We have $800.00 now.”

Sybil’s heart beats with excitement. Maybe she will get her date with Dorian at last! Now he has to keep the highest bid!

“$800 going once.”

A smirk begins to form across Dorian’s face.

“$800 going twice.”

Dorian’s smirk widens.

“SOLD!”

“One service worker won by Dorian James! Now Sybil, I am certain you will enjoy doing everything Dorian tells you. Have fun!”

“What? SER-vice? I thought this was a date auction!” Sybil screams.

“This is a service auction, and it is for a great cause, run by the Guys N Gals Glee Club. Now you guys go have fun!” Mr. Avelli tells Sybil.

“I need you to clean my monitor, rearrange my filing system and scrub my fish tank. I am going to keep you busy!” Dorian tells a disappointed Sybil as the two work their way out the door.

New CRASS IT Guy Does Not Give a Crap

It was a beautiful morning for 31 year old Tyrell Fowler of Kankakee. He was about to start his new job with Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), LLC, his first “real” job since graduating college ten years ago. He was happy to finally have his own place so he did not have to listen to his mother complaining about him living in her basement and not having a job. He has a history of getting fired over his hostile attitude and his unwillingness to take direction, especially from women.

Tyrell chewed eight antacid pills, after pouring them into his mouth like a beer. Tyrell intentionally constipates himself every morning because he has an extreme aversion to wiping. He showers after each dump.

“That was one good breakfast burrito!” Tyrell says to himself. He logs off The Red Pill subreddit, gets into his overly lifted, full-ton truck and heads to his first day as a CRASS Information Technology contractor.

“This will be such an easy job,” Tyrell thought to himself, “Man, CRASS must be the easiest place to work in the world. Anyone can get a job there. Even I can.” Tyrell laughs audibly. He pulls into the CRASS parking lot and signs in.

After being trained as the newest CRASS IT guy, Tyrell cannot wait to start installing the company’s new computers.

“Are you Miss Kiblee?” Tyrell asks.

“It’s Kibble.” Sybil sighs.

“Like the dog food?”

“Okay, you are here with my new computer and your phone is playing really loud music. Can you turn it down?” Sybil asks.

“No, I need it to work.” Tyrell says sternly, thinking he is the boss.

“Look around. See what we do here? We talk on the phone all day to collect debts. That is how we bring in money. We need it quiet here.”

Tyrell turns his phone down a few notches.

“Okay you are here with my new computer, did you bring the new printer too?” Sybil asks Tyrell.

“No, that’s not on the work order. You will have to call Purchasing. I am just a contractor,” Tyrell says and begins to install the computer.

Sybil calls Purchasing and verifies that the printer was indeed ordered. Purchasing asks to speak with Tyrell. Tyrell refuses.

“Tyrell, Purchasing wants to speak with you.” Sybil puts her phone on speaker.

Tyrell reluctantly speaks to Purchasing, who confirms that Sybil was correct. However, Tyrell does not have the printer with him. Meanwhile, the CRASS Chief Information Officer (CIO) calls Tyrell.

“How are the installs going?” the CIO asks Tyrell.

“This lady is terribly rude to me. Do I have to continue to the installation process?”

“This man is lying!” Sybil shouts. “He was rude to me!”

“Here, I will put you on speakerphone” Tyrell says slyly and puts his mobile phone on speaker.

“Hello, this is Sybil. I am Team Lead over here in Collections Management, how are you?

“Just fine, what is going on? the CIO asks.

“Our new recruit is being insubordinate here.” Sybil told the CIO.

“No I am not, she is lying!” Tyrell exclaimed, his belly rumbling now.

“Just get back to work,” the CIO commanded Tyrell.

Tyrell pulls out his cell phone and points it at Sybil. “Sybil I am recording you now.”

Sybil gets out her cell phone. “I am recording you too. I do not consent to being recorded. Turn your phone off.”

Tyrell lies and says his phone is off, however Sybil continues to record Tyrell’s verbal diarrhea as well as the light from his turned over cell phone which she can clearly see. “I gotta run. I am scared. You touched me. I fear for my life. You are hostile. Oh crap, where is the bathroom?”

“I did not touch you. Keep making crap up and I will continue to record it.”

“Quick, Sybil, tell me where the men’s room is! It’s an emergency!”

“That’s not my problem,” Sybil says and laughs. “What’s that smell?” Sybil smirks, looks straight into her phone’s viewfinder, and points it back at Tyrell.

“Argggghhghhhhhhhhh! Crrrrrraaaaaaaaappppp!” Tyrell shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Ppppppppphhhhhhhhhhffffffffffttttttttttt!”

“Now that is something to post online,” Sybil says with a smile.

Needless to say, Tyrell was crap out of a job that day.

Damien’s Mail-Order Bride

Damien Hurlbutt decides that it is getting too hard to pick up women in Kankakee County. Despite his most sincere offers of free movie tickets to the multiplex at which he works, all but one offer has been rejected; the lone acceptor has gone with her boyfriend instead of Damien. Damien takes his efforts to the World Wide Web.

“I know what women want” says this self-proclaimed nice guy on his dating profile, under his handle “NiceGuyGoodCatch4UChivalryisDead”.

Quoth his profile, “Women need men like me to hold doors open for them, pull out their chairs, and buy all kinds of gifts for them. I am that man. Men like me are endangered species. Where R U?”

Damien strokes his straggly, scratchy neckbeard, tips his fedora, and says “you know, I have an idea”. Meanwhile his coworkers are all staring at him wondering to whom he is talking.

Damien goes home and opens up his newest copy of Hoard Magazine. It took him almost an hour to unbury it from his pile of action figures, coloring books and dirty briefs. Damien turns to the back section, and reads over an advertisement he was thinking about while on the job:

“TIRED OF LOOKING? OUR WOMEN ARE LOOKING FOR MEN LIKE YOU!

MAIL COMPLETED APPLICATION PLUS $50 FEE TO:

Fedora-Neckbeard M’Ladies By Mail

Box 69

666 Lord Byron Way

Hades, NY 11666

Attn: D. Gray

Damien jumped at the offer and mailed in his application with his payment.

Two weeks later, Damien gets a long, handwritten letter from a 20 year old lady from Vietnam named Ha. “You sound like such a gentleman. I cannot wait to meet you.” She includes a photo. Damien is smitten. Ha is the first lady to show interest in Damien!

The two write back and forth. Ha tells Damien she would spend 27 hours traveling just to meet him. He wants to call her but she has not given him her number. He asks her for it, not afraid to spend money to call someone he can shower with gifts, and hopefully meet and control someday. After all, Damien only cares about himself, and Damien thinks he is the only one deserving of love. He only cares about he, himself and Damien.

A month goes by and no word from Ha.

Damien checks the mail, hoping for a postcard. He has sent her one every day except for Sunday. He gets a letter. Damien growls.

The letter is addressed to Mr. Damien Hurlbutt.

“Dear Mr. Hurlbutt:

This letter is an attempt to collect a debt. Your payment to Fedora-Neckbeard M’Ladies By Mail has been rejected due to insufficient funds. Please pay the below amount immediately. Please keep in mind that movie tickets are not acceptable forms of payment.

Signed,

Ms. Sybil Kibble

Lead Collections Representative”

Sybil Can’t Fly.

It’s that time again.

Sybil is so excited for the annual CRASS leadership training conference in Hoboken, New Jersey, she can almost wet herself. However, she cannot fly. She does not want to fly, actually. It is not that she is afraid to fly; she just WON’T.

Miss Sybil has an aversion to flying. She does not plain like it and will not do it.

“I would rather take the train. That is the way to travel.” Miss Kibble barks to Mack E. Avelli, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) CEO.

“Do what you want, you’re going to do it anyway. Plus it will save the company money” replies Mr. Avelli.

“Oh, I cannot wait! This is going to be so fun!” Sybil bursts out loud, as she runs around the office with great excitement. “I wonder what city I will see first? “Columbus? Toledo? DeMoranville? This is going to be AWE-some!” Sybil brags, while the rest of the office shakes their collective heads, and sighs.

Sybil has been on her train for 14 hours. She has not slept all night due to the woman behind her who was snoring and the toddler who has been wailing for the past hour.

An assistant conductor walks by. “Excuse me, what time will we be to Hoboken?”

“This train does not go to Hoboken. Your ticket says Newark.”

“What time, then?” snaps Sybil.

“We are running five hours behind.”

The train eventually pulls into Newark, after driving backward through a muddy lake, slowing for eight freight trains and stopping for six.

Sybil missed her shindig by two hours and took the lonely train home, and her bragging rights with her.