Kankakee covert narcissist, Elvis impersonator and wannabe ladies’ man Robbie Hurlbutt is busy staring himself in the mirror and kissing his Gothic Diana Ross posters, only to be interrupted by a call from his mother PJ Hurlbutt.
“Robbie, you need to come over.”
“I’m busy.”
“It is imperative that you come over.”
Robbie drives his clown car over to PJ’s house, and pulls into her driveway.
“Hi Mom. What’s up?”
“I need your help moving stuff in the basement up here. I need to sell some things.”
“Ask your neighbor Sybil to do it,” Robbie demands.
“Why won’t you help your mother? I am living on a fixed income, I need you to call D-Mobile about my bill. Then I need you to wash my underwear and fold it.”
“I don’t have time. Look, Mom, I gotta run.”
PJ goes into a long tangent about her love of Lawrence Welk, her medical problems, and her thoughts on Millennials.
“Alright! I will do the chores! I am in a dark mood, and you’re being cold to me!” Robbie gaslights his mother, playing the victim because he does not wish to help anyone but himself.
PJ watches Lawrence Welk, cranking up the volume to get petty revenge on her even pettier son Robbie.
“Dorian, are you some kind of demon?” Sybil asks the CRASS Art Director, Mr. Dorian Daniel James.
“Um, sure,” Dorian replies out the side of his mouth, as he cares a metric tonne more about his project than the Lead Debt Collector, Sybil Kibble.
“I keep trying to email you, sweetie, about the Annual CRASS ReTreat. However this Mailer-Daemon guy replies instead.”
“Is this to be an empathy test?” a booming, dark haired Chief Executive Officer Mack E. Avelli asks the two bickering.
“I have no empathy and neither does she,” an mildly annoyed Dorian states plainly.
“Good. That is the kind of CRASS people we need. Be sure to attend that retreat in Chicago you guys. No blocking each other, per company policy. We need to increase production and team building.”
The two sigh and part ways, not looking forward to working on their day off.
Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard, and communal narcissist Damien Hurlbutt is busy tapping away at his rattly keyboard atop a plastic box to make it extra rattly, inside his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest. His lone wall decoration, a framed photograph of his brother Robbie singing “Burnin’ Love” in the shower as he washes his black mutton chops, sways on its crooked angle.
Yes I remember you. We were married, maybe you forgot? I am having a problem with my butt. No matter what I do to clean it, my derriere still stinks.
I live in Natick, Mass now.
-Lori
Damien immediately replies to the woman he once called “Grimace” out of pure, narcissistic rage, now changing his tune:
To: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]
From: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]
To:
Friday, September 4, 2020
Subject: Re: Re: broke up with Rachel
Hey honey puddin! I sure miss seeing your beautiful body and brown puppy-dog eyes.
I know Chicago has the best proctologist around, Dr. Keyhoe Keyster. I used to get my high colonics there! Meet me Monday on the train in Chicago and I will drive up to Bourbonnais, with a present for you. It will be a huge surprise!
Lori agrees, to Damien’s selfish delight. He hops aboard his PeeATon bike which his mother PJ regifted him for his August 10th birthday, hoping to lose some weight in his rushed attempt to impress his former wife.
“Today is Monday, September 7th. Are you CRASS people ready to have fun?” a grinning Mack. E. Avelli asks the crowd full of relucant employees.
“I cant’t hear you!” the wannabe MC projects into the microphone atop the podium.
A slow clap emerges.
“Now, that’s the spirit. Today’s retreat is designed to help increase team-building while lowering empathy. We do not care about our debtors, right? The more money you collect, the more you make. Double down on debt for more money for you, and more money for us. Now let’s all gather into teams to form a human pyramid. Sybil, pair up with Dorian Dale with Nando, Tara with Michael…” Mr. Avelli says as he pairs up his bored subordinates.
After a long tired day, Sybil is dying for a dish of dog food and a coffee. She heads over to the Buckstars on LaSalle Street in her white Chrysler LeBaron. As she sits at a table toward the front of the cafe, in walks Damien Hurlbutt, sporting his usual goofy stride.
“Oh boy, I really have to peepee.”
Damien heads toward the all-genders washroom, but is stopped short by a barista.
“You need to wear a mask to come in the cafe.”
“I know, I know, I am just stopping for a minute.” Damien says as he tries to head to the washroom.
“No mask, no service.”
“I know, I know, I know,” Damien replies, refusing to wear a mask.
Three baristas haul out the petulant Damien, kicking and screaming obscenities and narcississtic nonsense:
“9/11 was an inside job! The moon landing was a hoax!”. Sybil and Lori just stand there giggling, sipping on their iced doublehsot espressos.
Yesterday, November 17th, was Wally Green’s store clerk, Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist Robbie Hurlbutt’s birthday.
“Are you hosting anyone for Thanksgiving?”” Wally asked Robbie.
“No, my table is rather small.”
“How about your birthday?”
Robbie spied a discounted flower bouquet and rang it up himself to ensure he got his employee discount, not caring that it was against company policy.
“I bought myself these flowers to put on my tiny table.”
The smallest violin played over the store intercom.
In walked Robbie’s number one crush, Gothic Diana Ross, whom Robbie had a history of relentlessly stalking.
“Diana, it’s my birthday and I want to give YOU these roses if you spend it with me.”
Unimpressed, Diana knocked the bouquet to the floor and walked away.
“Be sure to clean up that mess,” Wally Green tells his subordinate.
“Diana, I spent all that money on you, and you just threw my love away,” Robbie said to try and guilt-trip the singer and leader of the Midnight Supremes.
Kankakee Elvis impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt — who believes he is the reincarnation of Elvis Presley — is number one in his own bathroom. Don’t lock him in.
Damien strokes his orange neckbeard and pulls his blue jeans over his gut hanging out his too-small tee.
Damien’s flip phone plays a distorted ringer from a television theme song he had recorded with his phone.
“Hey Robbie!”
“Hey, hey.” Robbie says in his faux-Elvis tone.
“I’m back.”
“I’m front.” Robbie sarcastically says, using his routine gag.
“Hey Robbie, good timing. These tampon and maxi pad commercials keep interruping my shows. I swear this company knows I am watching and eating.”
“Call them up. I see those ads on those tapes you give me. It is funny because that cartoon comes on every Sunday night, and the show takes place in the capital of Illinois.”
“I think I will complain”. Damien hangs up his phone and goes to his computer. He types this message:
——
From: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [ConnivingPimp@hautemail.con]
To: customerservice@bottomlineprodux.calm
Subject: Stop interrupting my shows!
It has come to my attention that your advertising interrupts my manly programming. You, a maker of feminine products, constantly interrupt me while I eat during my favorite shows. Obviously, you know that the shows you play your ads during are shows for men, yet your products are for women. Stop showing your ads while I eat!
Sincerely,
A manly man
——
The next day, Damien is sitting down, watching reruns of the Dude Show. “Not another tampon ad! I just started eating my mushroom cheeseburgers!”
Damien really likes his cheeseburgers and fries.
He hears a ding on his phone, indicating he has a new email, which he reads:
——
To: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [ConnivingPimp@hautemail.con]
Thank you for signing up for our mailing list! You will receive daily updates telling you all about our feminine product line. Becuase you provided your cell phone number, we will text you daily, too! Thank you for your interest in our company and for signing up!
“Are there squirrels along the boardwalk?” JK asks her daughter, who is busy munching away at her doggy bag.
“Mmmnnnpf” a hungry, occupied Sybil replies in the negative.
“Speaking of squirrels, where are our tickets to the squirrel petting zoo?” JK inquires.
Sybil digs around her black-and-white striped purse, and pulls out the envelope Robbie gave her.
“Coupons? I thought they were comping us. These only give us a dollar off! The admission is $20 a pop! And where are our hotel keys? They said they were getting that, too!”
“Ummmm…” JK’s jaw just hangs.
“I have a plan.”
“Are we still going to the show?”
“Aw yeah, we are going early, in fact.”
6:00 PM rolls around and Sybil has already gotten to the bar with her mom, JK. The two were a bit delayed by their detour to the novelty store.
“Where is the ladies’ room?”
The bartender points in the general direction.
Sybil and JK each take a stall and begin blowing up the inflatable women. Sybil applies makeup, a blonde wig and readers to hers and JK applies a short, gray wig and round glasses to her doll. They walk out the restroom and place their dolls in two seats toward the back of the bar.
Sybil and JK leave the bar, giggling as they exit. They head to a casino where they spend the night.
The Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) Vaudeville act begins. Konrad Teirant tells his awful puns, then his wife, Madeline Topolla-Teirant, the colorful clown, juggles and attempts to balance on a large ball. Robbie Hurlbutt, mediocre Elvis impersonator, sings and dances like the fool he is.
PJ Hurlbutt cheers on her son Robbie, who she thinks is the greatest singer, meanwhile Pat Splatt sits there in his seat texting.
The show ends and Robbie takes a head count.
“We’d like to thank our fans Pat, my Mom PJ, and our buddies Sybil and JK!”
“Encore! Encore! Encore!” the lone fan, PJ, shouts.
“Did you say encore? We aim to please. Robbie is going to serenade a special fan who came all the way from Kankakee, Illinois!” Konrad announces.
Robbie comes down from the stage, toward the back of the bar and begins to sing “Burnin’ Love”.
Robbie is in shock that the “person” to whom he is singing does not react, nor move at all. “She is not a sincere fan.” Robbie says into the microphone after his number.
“Robbie, you moron. That’s a blow-up doll!” Madeline shouts.
Robbie jumps back in sheer embarassment.
“Elvis has now left the building.” Konrad announces.
The Moronic Half-Assets pack up, ready to leave. “That was a bust. I got really flustered up there.” Robbie sighs.
“We did not return much on our investment, did we?” Konrad gripes.
“Time to pack up and leave. If we drive home in our clown car, and make it home without stopping, maybe we can make up for our losses. Time to go!”
Robbie is in the Men’s washroom, wizzing away.
“Robbie, why do you leave the door open? I tell you about that time and time again!” Madeline screams.
A loud slam is heard.
“Rrrrrrrrgh!”
“Robbie, you are not Elvis, and you are not going to die in there.”
The MHA members pack up their stuff, and Robbie follows them into his clown car.
“I wonder what act is up next?” Robbie asks.
“I guess we’ll never know. Step on it Robbie!”
An announcement is barely heard from the purple clownmobile as Robbie pulls away, and rolls up his window, Kankakee-bound:
“Next up, from Manteno, Illinois: Gothic Diana and the Midnight Supremes!”
“Rrrrrrgh—I love her! My dreamy—“
“Shut up and drive, childish little boy,” Madeline commands as the rain pours down and the moon shines down on the Moronic Half Assets.
Poor Thanos. He has been waiting to use the coffeehouse washroom, growing ever angry by the minute since his latte made him have to go. Meanwhile Robbie Hurlbutt takes up space and time scrolling through Tindling looking for a date.
Local yokel and poor Elvis impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt has a huge crush on Gothic Diana Ross, lead singer from the Manteno band The Midnight Supremes.
Robbie stalks Diana on Fakebook and Utube, telling her she is the best diva on earth and she can be the boss of him anytime.
MoronicArts 
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