Kankakee Elvis impersonator and useless narcissist Robbie Hurlbutt thinks these drawings will look groovy in his washroom.
“It’s hotter than a boiled owl!” Damien says aloud, as he heads down the stairs to get his mail. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I got my postcards off CBay. I bought over 200 from this guy, one at a time. What a great seller!”
A lady across the way gives Damien the side eye.
Damien logs onto his personal computer, setting atop a wooden folding table. He tries to log onto his alternate Fakebook account, purposely created to stalk his ex-wife Lori, who divorced him because he abused her.
“Oh man, I cannot get on. What is this about getting reported again for violating the terms of service? I did nothing wrong. I am just a nice guy who has no rights. What about us men?” Damien types into the box in response to Fakebook’s “How did we do?” questionnare.
A few minutes pass. “Ding!”
Damien awakes from a deep sleep, all his loud snoring ceases.
Damien jumps up to log onto his computer.
“Hehhhhhhhh…” Damien sighs.
“We have permanently disabled this account due to multiple third-party complaints. Do not attempt to log in again.
— The Fakebook Team.”
“Now this account is crumped. I know! I will just make a new one! That will show them. Hmpf.”
Damien clears his browser’s history, cookies, cache and then reboots his machine. He reloads Fakebook and tries to create a new account under a diffent name so he can continue to harass his ex-wife, because he clearly has nothing better to do with his time.
“We are sorry, Damien. Maybe you should go out sometime and get a life. Do something productive. Get off the internet. We are closing both your accounts due to impersonation.
— The Fakebook Team”
“Those damnedable Fakebook people! They really put poop in my soup! Both my accounts are clunked over! I wish I could zogg over there and give that clump of people a piece of my mind!”
Damien goes into the bathroom, takes a huge crap, does not wipe and heads straight for the shower. He does not believe in wiping. After he gets out, he runs out the bathroom door, leaving a lake of water on the floor in his wake to get a towel.
As Damien dries himself, he shakes off like a dog, getting water all over the living room carpet. He gets an idea. Damien dries his hair and then his manhood with the blowdryer.
Damien gets out his box of 200 postcards and sits down, looking a lot like Homer Simpson in his tighty-whities. He scrawls away into the night.
Weeks go by and Damien wonders why he has not heard back. Damien turns on the television, as he has not been able to log onto Fakebook:
“Breaking news: Alabama lawmakers stalked by a mysterious Bourbannais man. Over 200 postcards containing crude drawings were sent to Alabama politicians opposed to women’s reproductive rights. According to reports, some of the content contained references to so-called ‘MRAs’ or ‘Men’s Rights Activists’, a reactionary group known for their anti-feminist views. Some of the content could not be shown on TV. We will print his address for our viewers’ protection. Back to you.”
Damien gasps. Maybe he should have thought twice about how he has been acting towards other people. Will Damien ever change his ways? Damien gulps down six antacids to purposely constipate himself because he does not like pooping in public.
Sybil decides that she can make some extra dough by running for a local office.
Since she is too cheap to run political commercials, and too lazy to interact with people for the purpose of handing out political palmcards, she decides to hold a rally at the local civic center.
Visions fill Sybil’s mind of a room full of her supporters; huge red, white and blue signs carried by men and women emblazoned with the text “Vote for Sybil” as the crowd chants and claps in sync. As Sybil envisions her supporters lifting her off her feet to carry her around the room, her fantasy bubble is burst to the solo voice “may I ask a question?”
A young man, one of four people in the entire room, looks to the floor and utters “do you know where the bathroom is?”
Sybil points toward the exit sign and out he goes.
Left with three people, an elderly frail woman, and a fragrant transient couple, Sybil realizes it is five minutes past the hour and needs to start her talk.
“Let’s get this party started, huh?”
Crickets chirp during the awkward silence.
“Heheh…yeah. My name is Sybil Kibble and I am running for sixth ward alderman.”
Giggles erupt from the crowd.
“If I can count on your vote, I will make magic happen for the city. I will not only lower taxes, I will get rid of them entirely! Just think of how much money you and I will save, how much more we will have to buy food, pay our bills!”
“Ms. Kibble may I ask a question?” asked a member of the crowd.
“Not yet. If you vote for me, I will make the people so happy! I will…”
“Ms. Kibble?” he pleaded.
“Can I finish my talk?”
“No. How the heck do you plan on plan on paying for city expenses if you eradicate all taxes?”
“I will do a little dance! Spell out my name! And magic coins will fall from the sky…” Sybil bursted with great enthusiasm.
The crowd erupted with laughter.
It is safe to say that Sybil lost the election that year.
The ironic part of the story, is that the alderman seat was volunteer only. No salary was ever offered. I guess we all know what happens when we assume, huh?