Let the gleaming forces of entropy work for you…we mean us of course!
Are you disabled with an incurable brain disease and have trouble getting out to buy your your urgent lifesaving medications? Try Wally Green’s patented new Ghastlighting medication delivery alert program! This crappy idea was inspired by a certain pharmacy chain named after the Parkway in Utica. We might show up with your drugs, we might not and then say we did anyway! If you die, who cares? Call our confidently incorrect pharmacy technicians, we will just groupthink-lie and say you were not at home – like a dog licking its nads – because we can.
Wally asks, why use empathy, honestly and compassion when it’s easier to be a greedy, spineless moron instead?
By the way, ladies, he’s single! 5/3 MAGAts approve this message.
We are doing CONSTRUTION in all our stores to tighten up our aisles so we can overwhelm our shelves with even more useless crap, so we can increase your chances of winning a blow to the head, a stubbed toe or just maybe some sleevies might plop into your cart!
If you’re even (un)luckier, the plop factor could follow you home to knock over your phone, lose your keys or spill your coffee all over the floor!
Coming soon to your local Wally’s: Cat-GPT!
Let your cat walk across the keyboard, and Cat-GPT will invent all kinds of new slop you never knew you wanted! Have your cat enter our competition to invent new nonsense for all our stores to sell. Buy one, get one half off (but never free).
Not valid in Manteno, sorry.
Close your eyes…imagine our new WallyCard offer, now with a 69% UFO! Ask Wally in person for a date and he might lower your rate! Maybe…
Oh what, pray tell do you think he is making? Wally wants to sell these inventions in the Kankakee Wally Green’s pharmacies. Look for them on a corner near you!
GLASSHOLES:
These sunglasses slip off and plop on the floor so you have to buy more! Other features that Wally think will change your life:
These glasses get caught on all your stuff, just to annoy you. Made of the cheapest plastic in Illinois, Glassholes smear constantly despite daily cleaning. Pair them with a face mask, they will be sure to steam up without fail.
Feel the power of Glassholes when they disappear within the bowels of your bag only to reappear when not looking for them.
PLASTIC BOTTLE TABS:
Mandatory for all Wally Greens’ products, they make all products you buy twice as hard to open! Buy one, get one 50 per cent off (but never free).
AUTOINCORRECT:
Now with even more errors, Autoincorrect is now pre-installed in every phone! Embarrass your co-workers! Impress your friends with each new autoincorrection.
HALF-MOON TOILET SEAT:
The half-moon toilet seat is a real game-changer, it only fits half your moon! Wally Green’s uses less plastic and you pay more money. Sit on it incorrectly and you might pinch your thigh! This product is a win-win-win for Wally Green.
Buy this useless crap at your corner Wally Green’s! Apply now for a WallyCard. Everybody is pee-qualified! Get a free date with Mr. Green himself! Craptocoins not accepted.
“Security! Come quick! These bats are crapping all over my cell!” Damien exclaims to guard Becky Konkan.
“Don’t get so worked up, Damien. These are your new friends. Try and get to know them.”
“I’m gonna get rabies!”
“Nope, their testing all came back negative. They’re going to hang around us for awhile.”
“I don’t want them watching me poop…” Damien says as he waves the bats away and they retreat to the ceiling rafters above the cell block, then sits down to pinch a loaf. “Phheeeewwwwww” Damien brags. “Look at the size of that log. Peeew! Peeeew! Peeew!”
Make it rain with N.F.T.s – Newly Formed Turds! Craptocoin mined the old fashioned way! Ask Bern Cacca how.
“Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” Bourbonnais multiplex clerk, fedora-sporting neckbeard and communal narcadoodle, Damien Hurlbutt exclaims when he gets a link to a message bearing the subject “thank you Damien Hurbutt–old soul and tender-heart.” It has arrived from one of his favourite puppeteers on Fakebook, whom he has been stalking, mailing weekly postcards to her home address.
Damien hems and haws, not used to getting the praise to which he feels entitled. He clicks the link, which leads to a “You Are An Idiot” video, complete with Fakebook comments section on the female performer’s page rightfully poking fun at his narcissistic behavior.
Damien rages due to his narcissistic injury, ego deflated to the size of a pea. He throws his computer out the window, hitting an older lady on the head, instantly killing her.
Bored and fearful he will be locked away forever, without a chance for narcissistic supply, Damien hoovers his ex-wife Lori. Ennui gets the best of him: Damien emerges from nothing by false flagging Lori’s social media content, hoping to get her into Fakebook jail. Instead, Damien goes to real jail – Kankakee County jail – as he awaits his trial for manslaughter and stalking.
Damien’s enabler, fellow communal narcadoodle, and fart-enthusiast Bern Cacca posts bail. Damien goes home, assuming he will get the acquittal to which he feels entitled.
Think again.
A bounty hunter is sent out to sniff out Damien; Bern’s transaction failed because she paid in Craptocoin and burned it all…in her fireplace.
“The only thing I like better than mining Craptocoin, is burning it…” Mrs. Cacca says as she cooks her books at the Manteno shack she shares with her husband Peppi.
Damien pursues Bernadette, who is not home, nor at work. Damien heads over to the bog she inhabits, which she uses as a bathtub and and slow-cooker for devouring the living. Unfortunately for fugitive Damien, the sign at Bern’s Bog reads “the bog witch is out.”
Damien gets a “fake news” tip sent to his flip-phone by Pat Splatt that Bern went to Area 51 for a toxic secret flatulence experiment. Keep flames away from butts.
Artist’s rendering of secret experiment room
Damien tries to sneak into Area 51 after taking pictures of the “Photography Prohibited” Area 51 “No Trespassing” sign.
Damien heads toward the once-secret base nicknamed “Dreamland” and gets rightfully arrested by the military police.
The officers, tired of shooting people on sight and patrolling the same remote corner of Nevada, decide to bring Damien in and question him. Damien sits down at a metal table, glances down at the floor, all by his lonesome. Out of seemingly nowhere, a group of five military personnel materialize in the room, all facing the bulbous neckbeard. ”Face to Face” by Daft Punk plays over the public address system, beat-matched into a remix of ”Paris 400” by SebastiAn. Area 51’s DJ really likes French House Music.
“Nice floor tiles you have, M’Lady!” Damien smirks, hoping to impress the leader with his negative humor.
Obviously not impressed, the Area 51 security team haul Mr. Hurlbutt into a solitary cell in the top-secret experimentation wing, where human and extraterrestrial scientists work to develop a “super-soldier” performing experiments like turning humans into giant spiders and installing amplifiers into cyborgs to blast Katy Scary music to scare away terrorists.
Damien makes his one phone call to Pat Splatt, asking where Bernadette had gone.
Why stop at first names when we can talk about the entire moronic moniker manufacturing process?
After doing port-a-jobs, queen of the plastic throne Bernadette Moran Cacca likes to “Bern” the port-a-poopies in her fireplace after lighting her farts to kindle the BMs. Meanwhile her other half (one of them anyway), Peppi Peter Cacca rolls the port-a-pee into his skunkweed to make it smell extra skunky, much to the chagrin of next-door-neighbors Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes.
Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt‘smother PJ loves to brag about the night her Rotten little Robbie/Elvis impersonator and vulnerable narc was conceived…in Gary, Indiana.
“RRGH!” – Robbie Hurlbutt
Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt was straight up daemonic to his ex-wife Lori. Not anticipating consequences, the communal narcadoodle tried to storm Area 51, only to get captured by the Camo Dudettes and brought into the Alternative Fuels Department for daily flatulence testing. He’s the world’s largest source of natural gas…so…DUH!
Walter Augustine Green has been looking for the magnet to his steel, hoping to impress ladies at The Gaslight Bar with his tall tales of grandeur and playing of the nose air-horn since he cannot carry a tune to save his life…though that doesn’t stop him from trying.
Krispy Münchausen tells even taller tales than Wally, punches co-workers when she doesn’t get her way, and teaches locals how to steal lawn ornaments. She had purposely homeschooled her four kids to isolate them socially and keep them from learning important subjects like science and history, replacing them with Flat Earth yarns and antivaxxer poopaganda. One time she SWATted Gothic Diana Ross along with her sisters — then had the audacity to demand an apology from THEM! She brags about her plans to fly to the Moon to “prove to the world that it’s flatter than a pancake,” those unwillingly in her orbit wish she would take a rocket there and never come back.
Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Accounting Chief Konrad “Kon” Teirant is having trouble balancing the assets against the liabilities, even after having cooked the books to a carbonized mess.
Mack E. Avelli
Chief Executive Officer Mack. E. Avelli calls in Konrad to hold a meeting.
“Kon, if we cannot make ourselves look good to our investors, we are going to fail as a company. I don’t need you to be honest about it, I need you to make us some more money. Just get it done.”
“I’ll think up something. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Good,” the fifty-something Mack says to Konrad and starts texting his 22-year-old wife Judithann, who ignores his message because she is too busy flirting with daemons.
It is midnight here in Kankakee.
The fire alarm sounds for the third time this week at the Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments, complete with strobe lights, sirens and a man’s voice repeating the same message over and over again.
As the residents of this sorry apartment building wake up and use the washroom, Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) takes the elevator up to each floor in the tower.
“It is midnight and you know what time that is! Come on, guys, let’s all dance! Didn’t you see that four-page flyer we left on all of your doors telling you to exercise more? We knocked on your doors because we had nothing better to do! Resident deejay Konrad is on the ones and twos!” exclaims property manager, narcadoodle and Vaudeville clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant.
DJ Konrad Teirant picks some records out of his crate, and begins spinning and scratching, rapping over the music.
Resident Tyrell Fowler — out in the hall wondering what the racket is about — explains to Konrad “dude, you cannot scratch 1950s love songs,” and walks back into his unit.
“Let’s get out the glowsticks everybody!” Madeline says as she pulls them from the fire-hose compartment on the wall.
Robbie sings Elvis tunes as he dances away, doing moronic martial arts moves on the in-between.
Robbie Hulrbutt
The MHA troupe packs up their party-gear and heads upstairs to the next floor in the tower.
When the crew are all done waking up their residents, they head downstairs to the office and turn off the alarms. Finally those poor residents can get some sleep.
“Here is your check, Kon. We will write it off as a business expense here at the complex.”
“Great, I will bring it to CRASS tomorrow,” Kon tells his wife Madeline and they head home in Robbie’s clown car. Elvis has left the building.
“Oh good, I got it,” a resident says sitting in her bed, as she reviews the video she recorded on her phone.
Konrad Teirant heads into the CRASS office, strutting along the halls with a turd-eating-grin across his face as he makes his way over to the office of his supervisor, Mack E. Avelli.
“Kon! You have a great smile! You should smile more often.”
Kon hands Mack the knife…errrr…check.
“Oh good! Now you can keep your job!” Mack tells his subordinate Konrad.
Kon says nothing and heads back into his office to cook more books.
Meanwhile, the CRASS phones light up like a Christmas tree. However the increased call volume is not from debtors calling back the CRASS collectors.
“I saw that video on the news, your accounting dude and his buddies woke some poor folks up in the middle of the night hosting some hokey rave party? What were you thinking?”
Beep.
“Hey, this Trisha Cobb, better known as Gothic Diana Ross. You know, from The Midnight Supremes? We saw what you did when we watched the news. That’s not cool.”
Beep.
“Hello, this message is for Mr. Avelli. I am Geoff, an auditor with the firm Deltoid & Tush. We were asked to contact you about your accounting records. We are stopping by in an hour.”
“Kon, how do we cook the books now? Ya better cook them good this time,” Mack shouts to an empty room. Since he was up half the night, Kon took the rest of the day off to go home and now he is fast asleep, sawing a forest.
“In my kingdom, they won’t know how good they’ve got it. Rules are important and I will make sure everybody follows them:
“We will only have one language, English, because I don’t understand any others nor do I care to learn.
All cars will be silver, no exceptions, no decals either.
Everybody will be required to brush their teeth four times a day, use a water pick and report back to me.
Want to see a therapist? Good. All sessions will be recorded and sent to me to make sure you’re not complaining about the supreme leader. It’s MY kingdom, MY RULES.
Everybody will be required to wax the hair off their face. No exceptions.
Only baggy clothes will be worn by everyone.
People will only be allowed to collect practical things and read non-fiction.
We will have three national TV channels, nothing else: HGTV, Fox News and baseball.
Nobody will be allowed to wear underwear or stick their tongues out. In my world–“
“Lady, this is a handicapped spot.”
“I’m only gonna be here for a minute! Calm down!” Carla remarks to the traffic cop out her car window.
“Move your vehicle now or I’m writing you a citation.”
Carla slams her beak on the horn and peels away from the Bradley strip mall, then flies down I-57 hoping to not get caught because in her insecure little bird-brain nothing she does is ever wrong.
Ennui fills the home of the bill collector and and banjo player for The Haggs, Becca Frickfrick.
Since her twin sister Pamela got arrested for leaving her young grandkids alone to go out stealing lawn ornaments, the desire to seek get revenge has boiled over. Instead of, you know, getting a hobby, Becca chooses to bother people instead.
“It’s all them kids fault. They never work, they sit around on their phones and they broke our Frickfrick towers that we made ourselves from their LEGOs! Dang kids don’t respect their elders. Imma gon’ done teach them pert near a lesson!”
“Ma’am, this is a Buckstars.”
Becca seats herself while waiting for her pumpkin spice latte, and starts talking at Wally Green who is busy dumbing down his newest Artificial Stupidity Robot.
“I hear that Gothic Diana Ross has been stealing lawn ornaments. I’ve been doing an investigation. You know what that is right?”
Wally continues tuning out Becca, searching for the perfect computer voice, so it can to answer his pharmacy chain’s calls instead of paying humans to do it.
“Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?”
Desperate for attention, Mrs. Frickfrick takes her index finger to Wally Green and repeatedly pokes him in the back until he looks up.
“Oh hey lady, why don’t you smile more? I’m Wally, and very single by the way. Did you know our family almost inherited Manhattan Island? The pirates stole the deed from—“
“Nevermind.”
“Read it on the internet. Trust me, it’s true!”
Becca walks over the sinks to wash her hands, a wild bog witch Bernadette Cacca appears.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“6pm”
Thanks!
“No, it’s only 4pm,” the self-righteous narcadoodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran says to her daughter Bernadette as she sits down at the table to drink her coffee.
“It’s 6pm, look at my watch.”
“You watch is broke, that’s why you’re always late.”
“Look up there!” Bernadette points to the coffeehouse clock.
In walks a slender blonde woman wearing white-and-purple leggings and a purple-grey shirt.
“Ah, someone new to harass!” Becca thinks to herself.
The woman gets her cake slice and sits in front of Becca, back facing her.
“Hey, did you hear about those missing lawn ornaments, Gothic Diana Ross and her sisters been going round stealing.”
Sybil Kibble turns around.
“Oh hi boss!” Becca sinks back into her seat.
“Why didn’t you come into work today?”
“You have no right to ask me that. Our investigation will be brought forth. You will be in trouble for stealing lawn ornaments. Anybody who stands in the way of what we want to get will be punished.”
”That’s nice.”
“If you want to get right with us, you have to do what we say.”
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Your contract is up this month. Go back to work. This is your final warning.”
Mrs. Frickfrick starts slamming her arms on the coffeehouse tables, slides her feet on the echo-y concrete, pirouhettes her way out the door shouting “I’m not coming baaack! Byyyyeeeeeeeee!”
“This is not an airport, no need to announce your departure,” Sybil Kibble deadpans.
The customers shake their heads and giggle.
A minute later, one of the baristas puts a hot coffee drink up onto the bar.
“Pumpkin Spice for Becca?”
Sybil just rolls her eyes and goes back to her paperwork.
“Would you like to hear the good news about our religion?” asks the elderly gentleman, sporting a “JC is the Man” tee shirt.
“No, would you like to hear the good news about the Flying Spaghetti Monster?” quips Diana.
“If you don’t join our religion, you will not go to paradise when you die.”
“I’ve died and come back three times and I am in the Rush University Journal of Medicine. When people talk about tunnels and light, I know they’re lying.”
Diana slams the door and gets ready to rehearse with Gothic Mary and Gothic Flo.
A knock is heard at the door.
“Go jump into Manteno Lake” yells Diana.
The knocking persists until the person holds down the doorbell.
Furious, Miss Ross heads out to chase her unwanted visitor.
“Oh. I just wanted to tell you I have been doing these gigs to support the Manteno Optimal Club. I sing showtunes and play accordion. I am collecting donations if you want to chip in, since I know you love music, and it’s going to great cause because I love the community so much…” Bernadette rambles, not realizing Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes are slow clapping to insult Bernadette’s lame attempt at asking for money.
“Oh I am so glad you want to help! How much are you going to give?”
Bernadette Cacca walks home and tests the crank on her window-mounted Turd Machine. “Pep, did you forget to oil the turd machine hanging in the living-room window?”
“No, Bern, it’s out of turds.”
“Oh. Where did they go?”
“Little lady, you burned them last night in the fireplace. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I had too much moonshine.”
Diana outside the Cacca homestead
Gothic Diana Ross looks out the arched windows of her home to see if the coast is clear, hoping to dodge any Caccas, and heads outside to board the bus.
Since her turd machine collections are out of turds, Bern devises another way to annoy Diana.
As Diana is just standing there waiting for a bus, Bern starts spamming her with unsolicited, incorrect information.
“Deeanna. This bus is not coming for an hour.”
Diana ignores Bern, enjoying her New Beat mix through her headset.
“Deeanna, it’s raining out. Where’s your umbrella?”
“Do you need to borrow one?” Diana sarcastically replies.
“See, Dee — I can drive you to where you’re going. I love to drive because I am a good person who helps the community.”
Diana continues to enjoy her music.
As Diana sees the bus approach, she takes off her headset so she can communicate with the driver, waving so they can see her.
“You know, Diana, you don’t have to flag the bus down. It will show up anyway,” Bern advertises her unsolicited advice.
Diana boards the bus, pays the fare and sits down in the back. Bern sits a few seats away, since the one next to Diana is already occupied by another passenger.
Diana exits the bus in front of a building near the garage where she dropped off her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest to get repaired, stopping to pause and gather her thoughts.
“That business is closed. Can’t you read the sign?” Bern nags Diana.
Bern Cacca’s turd-eating grin
“Don’t you have a pool to crap in?” the 5’11” Diana says, turns away and makes big strides using her long, slender legs toward the repair shop.
The rotund, 5’4″ Bern gives up as she has run out of ideas, for now.
“What can I do ya fer?” asks the mechanic behind the counter.
“I am her to pick up my ’88 Chrysler Conquest.”
“She’s not done yet. Give ‘er a couple more hours.”
Diana falls asleep in the chair while listening to music on her phone, the playlist changed to heavy metal and experimental noise.
She restfully dreams, drifting off to outer space, not a soul around to ask nosey questions. The beautiful goth queen and the boss of herself snores every so slightly, lightly. As Gothic Diana enjoys her peaceful rest away from her batty neighbors, she is starkly awakened.
“Diana? Diana?”
“Yeah…” a sleepy Miss Ross replies.
“Your car is good as new. She’s all fixed up. You owe us $1991.”
Diana reluctantly swipes her card, and drives onto the highway. It is getting dark on this cold Illinois night.
“Glad to have her back,” Gothic Diana thinks out loud.
Bernadette Cacca pulls up beside Diana in the lane to the left.
“But not her…” Diana also thinks out loud.
“Come on Diana, I’ll race you.”
“Get lost!” Diana exclaims, wishing the pest that is Bernadette Cacca would leave her be.
“Chicken! Bok-bok-bok-bok” the narcissistic Bern eggs on the unwavering Diana.
“Beep! Beep!”
The angered motorist behind Diana driving the white 1980s Toyota is in a hurry. Diana moves ahead.
“Yeahhhh!” an excited Bernadette exclaims as she burns rubber.
Diana and Bern race up and down the highway. Diana drifts as she tries to make her way very far from the trailing Bernadette. All she wants to do is go home.
The two arrive at their Manteno block, Diana first, Bern second.
Parked in Bern Cacca’s driveway is the white 1980s Toyota AE86.
A young man exits the Toyota and asks the approaching drivers.
“Did someone order tofu?”
Bernadette grabs her food and runs upstairs to eat because she cannot wait to poop again. She loves to poop.
An exhausted Diana enters her Gothic Victorian home and hits the silky black pillow atop her wrought-iron bed, falling asleep as soon as she lays down.
MoronicArts 
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