Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and narc of the self righteous kind Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran does a few “drive-bys” down Kant Street in Manteno, looking for her part-time swamp witch, communal narcadoodle and vuvuzela horn-playing daughter Bernadette Moran Cacca. She had called her smell phone saying she was coming down to discuss some “projects” but did not tell her they were not of the fun nature. Planning to peck at her dirty laundry, creepy dolls and un-waxed facial hair, the changeling repeatedly drives by the Cacca shack. Meanwhile Bernie has been busy flagging down her mom to no avail.
“Bernadette? Bern? Bern Cacca?” Carla calls out to a random person on the street.
“Kristian Swanson, you’re a freaking piece of—“
“No, Bernadette Cacca. I’m her mom. Have you seen her?”
“Look at the sky. Put it on the freaking news for Kristian Swanson!”
“Calm down. I’m just looking for my—“
“I’m not stupid! Look on the news! The clouds are not real. Those were put there by General Freaking Motors! They’re coming for you! They’re coming for me.”
“Alright, alright, alright. Just tell Bernadette that I’m looking for her.”
As they say in Illinois, if you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes. Desperate for attention, Carla circles the neighborhood and comes back five minutes later, pulls up to the same clouded thinker.
“Did you tell Bernadette?”
“No, I’ve been too busy sitting and spinning.”
“What’s your name? I’m Carla. Give her my number.. 815-55–“
“Ashlee Sittinspin. Just look in the sky, Kristian Swanson, he’s the man! Just look at those butterflies…them worms…they’re…in…my…hhhhhhead…”
As the ghostly vortex spins into oblivion, the sky is now clear.
“Maaa! I’m over here!” Bernadette shouts. “Can’t you hear me?”
The main inspiration behind fictional character Damien Hurlbutt has is so self-centered, he thinks this blog is all about him.
Seriously. I hope over time more people learn about communal narcissists and how they insidiously abuse people. Overts and covert narc-a-doodles are bad enough; communals are even sneakier. I would not wish narcissistic abuse on my worst enemy and wish no ill will. I just wish they would all form their own narc colony on a deserted island and leave the rest of us alone.
Or better yet, drop them from planes into an erupting volcano, and vaporize them so they cannot make more narcissists (OK not really, but it would be cool).
I was married to one of these evil souls. Had I known he was the son of Satan, I would not have dated him, moved to Illinois to marry him, leaving behind a job I loved to take one that was less than pleasant. 0/10 would not recommend.
I wish I had been given the omen.
Now divorced, this real-life neckbeard and “men’s rights activist” has told his friends that I draw cartoons of him and write stories about him.
Has he heard of Squirrely Dan?
My ex works as a senior library specialist and loves to read. I would hope that someone like him, whom I would think has a good grasp on literacy would understand that Damien and all the other morons on this blog are fictional characters — as in pretend people, not real ones. DUH.
Apparently my former husband thinks he works in a movie theater, like the random stranger whom I had met in 2004. Just like the fictional Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, this real-life despot had been offering cloned movie tickets in return for a date, to us call-center coworkers taking breaks outside. I did not meet my ex until 2008.
I will never forgive my ex for trying to turn the spouse of my late friend against me in his smear-campaigning. Such a tender-heart, a self-proclaimed “old soul” writes lunacy letters like the drivel below and sends them to his estranged spouse’s medical providers.
Because, umm, a librarian knows more about psychology than an actual mental health provider? yeah…no.
My ex thinks so. Behold part of this lunacy letter he sent to my mental health team:
Projection: A narcissist’s calling card, as is pathological lying. Methinks narcissists have their own code of misconduct, maybe even a manual.
I will never forgive him for telling me he was “a nice guy for not throwing me into oncoming traffic” while we were walking into the hospital. Yeah, a really nice guyNiceGuy™ does that, right?
I will never forgive him for manipulating the divorce judge into letting him take custody of my cat Holly, whom he repeatedly hit (“it’s just a light tap” he gaslit when caught) and put into the shower to “punish.” Who does that to a cat? Has he helped move a body or something? Sadly he took the cat from me…
I will never forgive my ex for idealizing, devaluing me and then attempting to discard me, shortly before I left him. Rumor has it, he still obsesses over me, and makes feeble attempts to smear campaign me using the same DARVO tactics and made-up mental health diagnosis he had used in 2017. I imagine he pushes away what little friends narcissistic supply he has left.. Like his bootlicker friend once said to me, I wish he would “get over it, just move on.”
With narcadoodles, every projection is a confession.
I write and draw MoronicArts stories to cope with having been abused. I feel it helps and I am a lot happier back in New York State, doing my own thing, living with my sweet kitty, creating music, learning to speak other languages and making Youtube videos.
My hope is that my stories help others who have been abused by these monsters cope and process the crap they have been going through and hopefully bring a little joy to them, and myself also. Oh and it s fun to draw silly cartoons of fake events and pretend people doing moronic things to each other..
Do you think you may going through domestic violence or know someone who suffers it? Emotional abuse is still abuse and a form of domestic violence. Please click this link to learn more and to find help in your area: https://www.nomore.org/the-no-more-global-directory/
Your needs are valid, I believe you, and you are not alone. Healing is possible, as hard as it may seem.
Tired of eating corn for his hot and getting yanked from his cot, captured trespasser, communal narcadoodle and neckbeard nincompoop Damien Hurlbutt asks if he can write a letter.
“You can only send inter-departmental mail here.”
“I know, I know, I know, I know…”
“Stop acting like a clown and get back in your cell.”
“Hooo!”
“I don’t know who. You’re the one who asked, fool.”
The guard slams the door, then the world’s largest source of natural gas starts scrawling, before he gets hauled away for his thrice daily flatulence testing. After returning to his cell in the Alternative Fuels Division at Dreamland Resort, Damien finishes his letter to President Turnip (no relation to Jamie Turnip), then gives it to the staff to type up so he can sign it.
The letter is put into inter-office mail and sent forth to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC.
Bored with inventing new recipes for covfefe to barf up all over social media, the president reads the mail with his tiny hands and aging mental acuity. A couple hours later, Donnie reads Damien’s desperate cry for help.
After giggling, Turnip divides up the letter into strips, chucks it into the fireplace along with his other mail and proceeds to fall fast asleep in his chair, dreaming about how to bigly cheat at golf.
What kind of songs do the denizens of the Moroniverse like? Here’s a list. Have fun!
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble misses eating King Kuts dog food.
JoAnn Kibble raps along to this safety song while rearranging her collection of school bus parts.
Robbie Hurlbutt sure thinks he’s number one.
Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt used to jam out to this tune while driving to work at the Teirant Cinema-13, before he got captured trying to storm Area 51.
Wacky inventor and drugstore owner Wally Green doesn’t accept “no” for an answer when he thinks he has found the magnet to his steel.
Konrad Teirant plays a lot of Dirty Games.
Bernadette M. Cacca had loved her Turd Machine Deluxe so much, she went out and bought 19 more of them.
Gothic Diana Ross turns the men upside down with her long, long notes.
Ant D. Yu was having fun spinning this tune at the Manteno Optimal Club until Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies had showed up and made a stink. Word has it he still plays it when she’s not there.
Basic bill-collector babe Sybil Kibble lives/laughs/loves to fill her Kankakee home with the most boring decor.
Is that a lighthouse or are you just happy to see me? Tour her wannabe McMansion to see her nautical crap — err, you could have done that in the past. She got so bored of it all, she gifted gave it to her mother JoAnn who lives in her basement. JoAnn and her squirrels plays rocket-ship with the pointy wooden trinkety things.
And then there is this Santa Elvis she permanently borrowed from her next-door neighbor and best friend PJ Hurlbutt. Rumor has it, her son Robbie Hurlbutt had got it after it fell off the back of a truck.
Sybil keeps it out all year because she is too lazy to put it away.
“Why take down all my Christmas stuff when Imma just gon’ have to done put it up again next year?” — Sybil Katrina Kibble, Kankakee
Hell, Inc. CEO Satan temporarily banishes the daemon — once known as Midwestern slumlord Sonya Mare Smith Moran — to the land of the living, because she refused to stop stalking him in his basement C-Suite. He’s tired of hearing the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture squawking and pecking at his door.
The former president of The Poopy Groupies pays her favorite singer a visit hoping to sing a stinky doo-doo-et, however Bernadette Cacca has once again fallen asleep on the toilet while pooping. Despite her best efforts to make a direct-to-dream connection, Sonya fails to reach her subject because she is too busy farting in her sleep.
Ms. Moran then curses her former tenants who had reported her for false lease violations (cha-cha-cha), using every word in the book, however they all tune her out because the community room television is volume has been turned up to accommodate the hard-of-hearing. Duh.
Making one last ditch to stir up trouble, Sonya-Daemon appears at Sybil Kibble’s house, however she is not home, so Sonya instead cuts off her mother’s internet connection, tapping her toes anticipating a reaction.
“The web has tossed its darned cookies again,” JoAnn Kissane Kibble thinks aloud. “CeeCee, did you throw some nuts into the router again?” JoAnn asks her squirrel-buddy.
After clearing the router of chocolate chips and nuts, she switches her phone from a wi-fi connection to a cellular one, and types on Fakebook: “I can’t get online because the internet is down.” Then she starts crushing candy with her phone.
After Sonya-Daemon has used up her most recent free hall pass to planet Earth, she gets sucked back into the underworld.
“Hey Boss, can you make me 10 feet tall? I wanna be 10 feet tall! I wanna be 10 feet tall, just like I was when I sold you my soul!” the nitwit screams as she repeatedly jumps up and down, like a toddler who lost a kickball.
“I’ve tried startling people, I’ve tried inhabiting their dreams, stealing their cookies, nothing. Nobody even notices me!”
“Have you tried just shutting up?” Satan replies…“Now back to the call center. We need 1000 surveys completed every hour…”
“Woo-hoo!” Sonya un-ironically shrieks as she runs to her new cubicle in Hell, Inc.
Kankakee pharmacy clerk, narcadoodle and Elvis impersonator Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt is surprised to see his ex-girlfriend Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“I dreamt I was living in a real-life Soylent Green. The Pope was the first one to sacrifice himself for Soylent Industries. Instead of going to the Suicide-Centre, he and others slid down a well, with a 50/50 chance of living forever or getting turned into Soylent Green.”
“Groovy! What did the cannibal do after he dumped his girlfriend?”
“I dunno babe, what?”
“He wiped his butt.”
“That’s so funny money honey.”
“I know. I hit rock bottom. You are both beautiful on the outside and the inside. Hell, maybe even your intestines are pretty.”
“No, Robbie — YOU!:
This John is missing his Yoko. I have a feeling that something very special is about to happen, Bernadette.”
“Let’s go back to your place and we’ll make beautiful music together!”
Robbie and Bernadette hold hands, the two narcompoops go bouncing down the street together, a match made in Hades.
“Elvis!” A stranger yells from his car.
“I’m a hunka hunka burning love!”
The pair get together, have some NettFixx and chill.
The next day, Robbie wakes up to the sound of muffled shuffling. Bernadette is bent over, her poopybutt wiggling in the air as she searches through Robbie’s massive hoard of boxes.
“Found ’em!” Bernadette exclaims.
Bernie grabs a couple of record albums, three DVDs and a fedora.
“I got my things back. Gotta run.”
“What? We just got started.”
“And now I’m finishing what you started.”
Bernadette puts the fedora on her head and carries the media in a large sack toward the door.
“You stole these things from me and now I’ve got them back! Hope you find what you’re looking for!”
Bernadette exits Robbie’s Kankakee apartment and drives her poopmobile back to her Manteno home on Kant Street, hugs her half-drunken husband Peppi, then runs upstairs to take a dump.
Kankakee pharmacy clerk, vulnerable narcissist and Elvis impersonator Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt uses a Waluigi board to summon a single woman while hanging out at his mother PJ’s house. Minutes later, someone walks in.
“I forgot my phone, don’t know where I would be without it,” says next-door-neighbor JoAnn Kissane Kibble, mother of PJ’s best friend, 65-year-old Sybil Kibble.
Who would want to hang out with this band of fools?
Unlike the real Midwest, where I had lived for five-and-a-half-years, this fictional version is kind of like the dystopian Little Dark Age we’re living in — but goofier.
Although I must say, I would love to hang out with Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes. Can you blame me?
“Dog bones, water, washrooms” – Sybil Kibble, Bill Collector, Kankakee
”Life, death and everything in-between” – Gothic Diana Ross, Singer and Vet Tech, Manteno
”Showers, fedoras and food that’s not corn…preferably cheeseburgers and fries…M’lady.“ – Damien Hurlbutt, Area 51 test subject (Formerly of Bourbonnais and Champaign
”Elvis records, blue suede shoes and fine women!” – Robbie Hurlbutt, singer and pharmacy clerk, Kankakee
“Poop, poop and more poop” – Bernadette M. Cacca, entramanure, Manteno
Crapstraps, Turd Machines and Mr. Plopsy Canes. I should know, I invented them myself!” – Wally Green, Pharmacy chain owner, Bradley (Formerly of Deerfield)
MoronicArts 
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