“What’s that noise? It sounds like a dying cow,” Manteno’s very own bog witch, communal narcadoodle and port-o-dump empress Bernadette Moran Cacca shouts at the voice sabotaging her recital practice:
“You’ve been out there and tried to mix with the animals. Then you meet me. And your whole world changes.”
“You wanna know why?”
“Cuz I’m a liar! Yeah I’m a liar! I’ll tear your mind out. I’ll burn your soul. I’ll turn you into me! I’ll turn you–“
“Just give me one more chance, I will never lie to you again…Hahahahahahah. Sucker!” shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and narcadoodle of the self-righteous kind Carla Moran continues to hiss at her daughter Bernadette, who runs upstairs to her washroom and starts playing accordion show-tunes again.
“I’m very busy burning the poops from last night’s port-a-potty job, raising money for the Manteno Optimal Club this weekend, and devouring unsuspecting gentleman callers next time I go to my swamp.”
“Get him out!” “Get him out!” Carla screams at the baseball game.
“Mom?”
“That didn’t even dawn on me. How about you and I take a little break, have some mother-daughter time, maybe we can do each other’s pedicures?”
“Eeeeew!”
“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice!”
“Stop squawking at me!”
“No-wrong!”
“We always get into fights because you find that one thing about me to complain about.”
“You’re too sensitive, honey.” Carla gaslights.
“I have this awesome piano gig at the Manteno Cantina tonight. Wanna come see me play?”
“I know, I know, I know. So you’re not coming with me?”
“Yeah…no. That’s my final answer.”
“You mommy will miss you.”
“Good. Go have fun! Gotta run, because I got the runs!”
Bernadette hangs up her smell phone and flushes her washroom toilet again.
Carla of course calls Bernadette right back and leaves a voicemail:
“DON’T YOU HANG UP ON ME AGAIN! FINE! I will fly out to Groom Lake without YOU. We have all been wondering where your Aunt Sonya went but I guess you don’t care. When I find her, I will tell her how YOU mistreated me, and how little you’ve cared about her since she left town. You aunt cares an awful lot about you. And I love you an awful lot. Bye honey.”
Bernadette sees that she has one new voicemail from her mother, and immediately deletes it without listening. Then she poops.
Visions of vacationing in the desert by the lake, fill Carla’s grandiose head, devoid of vision. Lighthouses greet the boats passing in the night, scores of grey aliens cheer outside their ships of the space kind and wave at Ms. Moran, as she approaches the gate of the Dreamland ranch.
The next morning, Carla flies out from Indiana and Southwest toward Nevada, taking breaks to circle around with other vultures in the thermals to rest her wings. They land in Dulce, New Mexico helping themselves to a freshly dead cow, taking the back entrance and chowing down on as much carrion as they can after exiting. Within minutes, they fly away to some trees in the next town over to clean off their outstretched wings.
Carla then flies solo up toward Nevada looking for her Groom Lake vacation spot. Confused by the lack of water, beaches and boats, she stops at a diner in Rachel to ask directions.
“Dry Lake? What the heck is that?”
Disappointed by the lack of water in the Nye County surrounding area, Carla flies toward Homey Air Force Base to find her long lost sister Sonya where she was rumored to have last been seen.
Tired of flapping her wings, Carla walks over to the gate. Signs reading “No drones,” “Photograhy Prohibited,” and “Warning: US Military installation. Unauthorized entry strictly forbidden” are plain to see. She struts over to the guard shack and demands to be let in.
“Ma’am, did you read the sign?”
“My sister is locked inside and I need to rescue her.”
“Do you have ID, ma’am?”
“I have no idea where in there she is, no.”
“Do you have a driver’s license? Passport? Military identification?”
“Come here. COME HERE! I need to show you something.”
“If you don’t have proper identification, I will deny you entry.”
“I am Carla Moran. You DO know my sister, Sonya Moran, do you not?”
The camo dude just laughs.
“If you don’t leave the premises, I am going to have to call police.”
“Come here, I need to show you something…” shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran hisses from the atop her daughter Bernadette M. Cacca’s Manteno home where she is busy playing kazoo pop covers as she burns the port-a-potty waste in her washroom.
“I’m busy.” Bernadette begins to play harder/faster/bigger/stronger into her toy instrument.
“Bernadette, I have some projects for you to do!”
“I’m all pooped out.”
The vulture takes flight and makes air donuts around the Caccas’ property.
“I’ll smack some sense into you if you don’t—”
“BOOOM!”
Carla’s extra-long, pointy beak slams into a tree, creating a large crack in its bark, tail-feathers shaking as the creepy craptor wiggles her entire body around trying to break free from her own self-imposed prison.
Slumlord, malignant narcissist and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran squawks and lets loose the gasp of her ego’s death after finding out that the tenants in one of her buildings have organized and formed an association. After all, they’ve got that right, but Sonya does not want them to have it because she’s a moron.
Even though not doing the damage is, you know, cheaper and more effective than damage control, she attempts to ban her tenants’ meeting by arguing and flapping her wings out of retaliation.
Her song and dance fails to make an impression on a single, rightfully-fed up resident. The maladapted personality — whose empathy cells fell out her brain aeons ago — starts casing her tenants across Northern Illinois and Indiana looking for drugs to steal when they are not at home. After all, she has the master key, so why not (so she thinks, anyway).
Sonya gets mixed up along the way, lost in flight across the Midwest and out toward California.
Hoping to get high after watching some Breaking Bad, she makes a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Oops! Not anticipating consequences just like any other run of the mill narcadoodle, Sonya soars into the airspace at Groom Lake and gets shot down.
After captured, the Area 51 folks run experiments on the shapeshifting humanoid vulture known as Sonya Moran. They don’t know what they are dealing with, so they draw blood, run her through an MRI machine and slide a scope through her beak to identify the creepy cryptid. Then she poops.
Sonya gets arrested for FUI (flying under the influence), her blood chock full of all that Adderal she sniffed chasing the dragon up and down. Then she gets thrown into the cage of fellow test subject, neckbeard Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt. Damien gives her the bedroom eyes, a gaze she quickly returns.
“Hello, M’lady, Madame!”
“Oh no, that thing is gonna mate! Quick, yeet her!”
“No wait, this could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for!” the fellow biologist tells her superior, as the two caged crooks enjoy their conjugal visit.
Meanwhile, Area 51 researchers compare Sonya’s DNA results against the cells-interlinked forensic database. “She’s no angel.” It’s the tip of the iceberg, leading authorities to discover Sonya’s secrets and perhaps the literal skeletons in her closet.
Sonya gets put in restraints and through a series of experiments in the Pain Tolerance Department. A technician force-feeds Sonya 50 hotdogs. Then she pukes them up. Next, a team of scientists slowly play Katy Perry music louder and louder, almost to the volume of a chain-restaurant washroom. Lastly, they bring in an exorcist to pay Sonya a visit.
“Self-reflection is hard, but important Sonya. Have you ever, in one moment, considered that YOU are the problem?”
“Grfhdihfowehfwfhwufthouwofghuwgt!!!”
“I cast thee out in the name of Jesus!”
Sonya pukes up more of those darned hotdogs.
Not knowing what to do with their newly discovered cryptid, the biology team put her back in the cell with Damien.
Taking a break from her shift in the boiling lava and bubbling excrement pits, newly damned malignant narcadoodle Sonya Marie Smith Moran decides that it’s time to take a break. She takes the elevator down to the food court and walks into a Buckstars.
The shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and narc-a-doodle walks up to place her order.
”Hi, I’d like an extra large, hot—“
“You can’t order here.”
“OK…where do I order?”
“You’ve been banned and not allowed to come back here.”
“Why? I’ve never even been here.”
“You’ve been banned,” the ogre robotically repeats, tag on her shirt reads “Jovaan.” “You’ve been banned and not allowed to come back here.”
This is not your typical Buckstars café.
“So, do you sell coffee here?”
“You’re being SO RUDE!” cries the customer ahead of her in line, a 40-something haggardly blonde banished to eternal darkness for breaking a man’s heart, harassing her employees and leaving a wave of destruction behind her everywhere she went.
“Who are YOU?”
“I’m someone who thinks you’re being rude. Very rude, lots of rude, you’re so rude rude rude rude–”
“I don’t even know ya lady!”
“I’m someone who thinks you’re being rude. Very rude, lots of rude, full of all the you’re so rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderuderuderude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rudity Rudy rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude–” cries the damned fool who thinks she runs the place, Jamie.
She’s not the first – nor the last – to try and take over Hell.
“You should get waxed more often! Why don’t you wax your chin!” Carla Moran, Manteno narc-a-doodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture demands and gaslights her only daughter, Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“Do you like getting hair ripped straight out its roots, ma?”
“No, but I do it anyway. Shaving makes the hair grow back thicker.”
“Mind your own business!”
Carla turns up the gas on the lighting:
“You might have got that gig you wanted if you waxed! Don’t you care about your appearance?”
“I tell you what, go start a business waxing people for cash and giggles. People will pay a lot of money for that!”
“Go get a real job, do something with yourself Bernadette!”
“No serious, mom, people will pay you even more if you go to their houses and give them a Brazillian at home. Discretion is cool! Call it, ‘Have Wax, Will Travel.’ I can see your cloaca by the way. You might wanna do something about that. I gotta make a pitstop. Smell ya later!”
Bernadette runs for the washroom in the nearby McD’s, because she has the runs, butt of course!
Then Carla poops on a passing car, because she can. Stupid bird.
Opposites attract, smells repel, unless you’re Bernadette and Peppi Cacca.
Bernadette Moran Cacca, Manteno, Illinois’ very own entramanure, communal narc-a-doodle and self-proclaimed “Queen of the Plastic Throne” comes back to the shack which she co-habitates with her drunken husband, Peppi.
Her mouth once wide open enough to catch a fly (or two), now sports a look of contempt after having headed home from the widely-attended Chicago “Hands Off” protest.
“A whole bunch of people walked by, and not one person, not even once, took a single video or picture of ME!”
“That’s that dang liberal protest, right?” Peppi asks.
“Yeah.”
“I told ya to vote for that other guy. Let’s go Brandon!” exclaims the bald, squat, beady-eyed, 70-something geezer, reeking of skunky weed made extra skunky, from rolling in the port-a-pee after he had finished a port-a-job.
“They got plenty of video of other people and their signs, some even made the Chicago news! The national news, too! Why not ME? Ever since Aunt Sonya left, people forget how talented I am, how much I do for the world, how much I poop. I have not gotten a single gig since she flew the coop!”
“She’s just busy I’m sure. Sit down with me, relax, we’ll watch The Wonderful World of Dung together.”
“The original or the remake?”
“The remake is streaming now…”
“Oh I hate the remake!”
Bernadette storms up the stairs, into the best room in the house to sit, poop and play accordion.
Her mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran flies into town, rams into the Cacca home once again.
“Maaa!”
“I did a fly-by earlier and you weren’t home!”
“I was at the protest up in Chicago! Didnt you know? I can’t wait to tell you how much I did for America! It’s really good for my image–”
“Not now honey, family’s coming over.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Nobody told me about it!”
“I did, you just forgot.” Carla gaslights.
“No you didn’t.”
“Okay, okay, okay, drop it. Just get ready. Take YOUR shower!”
Bernadette continues to poop as her mother sets up the uninvited picnic tables and other crap out back. A committee of shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures fly on down to the House of Cacca to party on down, and pee on her lawn.
“My daughter has a beautiful voice!” Carla brags about her daughter to her family who had just flown in from the next town over to enjoy a feast of freshly squashed roadkill. Her cold heart shines bright in the face of company.
“Where’s Sonya?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s awful rude of her not to come down. I kept calling, she never answered. Did she get the presents I sent her?”
“Why do you even bother?”
“Shall I sing for you guys?” Bernadette interrupts. “I just tuned my accordion and vuvuzela horn! How about a tune?”
“Not now. Maybe later. I’ve got something to show you!” Carla’s evil grin begins to creep over her face.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a surprise. Come with us.”
They peck, umm, pack into the van like a band of mad clowns and drive over to the hospital in Kankakee.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“We’re going to the hospital!”
“Did somebody die?”
“No.”
“Get hurt, have a heart attack? I wanna know.”
“No, Bernadette.”
The Morans park their van and then walk down into the basement of the hospital, towards a sign marked “Central Sterile Supply.”
“I’m giving you a tour.”
“Of the hospital basement?”
“Yeah. I used to work here when you were little. Time for you to get a real job!”
Bernadette runs away as fast as she can, screaming, cursing and singing show-tunes.
“They, they—they do vivisection in here!” Bernadette exclaims madly as she busts on out the door.
A few locals shake their collective heads at the sight. Just another day in Kankakee.
The port-a-dump proprietor is eventually rounded up and taken in for an evaluation, just not the occupational kind.
After a few hours, Bernadette’s drug test comes back negative and the nurse sends her home. She calls her husband on her smell-phone and of course he does not answer, so she walks home.
A few Kankakee County residents spot Bernadette walking down the road, point and laugh.
“Don’t make fun of me or I will find you attractive!”
“Say what?”
“We saw you on TV!”
“TV? What?” asks a puzzled Mrs. Cacca.
Bernadette begins to grin a bit, visions of people praising her for holding up social justice signs fill her mind, even though she only does it just to look good on the outside.
“Yeah, you ran out of the hospital screaming like a looney bird! You’re a meme now!”
“I MEME AM WHAT?”
“OMG It’s the meme girl! I want a picture with her!”
Bernadette crawls into a nearby bog and takes a massive dump. It smells like someone died over there, or maybe it was just her ego.
“Hey Sonya, we’re having you for supper! Come with us!” Area 51 Prinicpal Instigator and Pain Tolerance Department Manager Dr. Jen Jenner tells the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and malignant narcadoodle Sonya Marie Smith Moran, who has been pecking back and forth with her cellmate, narc of the communal kind Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt.
“Hot Dawg!”
“No wieners or winners, just you for supper. Sonya, your hair is a rat’s nest. Violation! Clean your cage, there are bird turds everywhere, even in your water dish! Violation!”
“What? MY cage? YOU put me here!”
“Yes, this is your home now and you’re coming with us!”
“Knock it off!” Sonya says to the raptor-captors at Area 51.
“We can smell your bum-waste clear cross the High Desert. Violation! You freeloaders trash this place that your tax dollars pay for! Violation! Cha-cha-cha. Violation! Cha-cha-cha.” the guards scold the Midwestern scumlord and malignant narcissist as they read from the Code of Federal Regulations.
Sonya hisses at the guards surrounding Dr. Jenner, flaps her wings, taking a defensive stand.
“Violation! Haha. Alright, imma carve this turkey!”
The guards rush toward Ms. Moran, with chainsaw in tow, and yank the caged lady from her cell.
“Oh yum. I can’t wait for turkey dinner. I’ve had nothing but corn and corn-derivatives since I got here two years ago,” says her cellmate and fellow narcadoodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, as he rubs his hands together. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh b–“ “I’m a dang vulture, not a turkey, you stupid neckbeard!” Sonya screams as she gets hauled away to a deep, dark crevice hidden within the bowels of the dry lake known as Groom.
Gothic Diana Ross FINALLY discovered how to fend off their annoying neighbor Bernadette’s relatives, narcadoodles and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures Sonya and Carla Moran!
Hopefully Diana and her sisters-in-singing won’t have to flip the bird again, should Carla fly in, or Sonya hatch an escape plan from Area 51.
Manteno portable-waste-recepticle empress, communal narcadoodle and bog witch Bernadette Moran Cacca read this Turkey Day card from her reluctant mother, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran, which she had dropped off during a flyover.
Methinks we know from whom Bernadette learned to polish her turds.
“Ma, you ARE a bird! Cannibal!” Bernadette exclaims from the bog, to her mother who swooped on down later that evening.
Speaking with her mouth full, she tries to chase away her equally dysfunctional mother, in-between bites of yet another unsuspecting male suitor she had nommed for supper. Then she poops.
Happy Thanksgiving from MoronicArts! May your family dinner more fun and not so dysfunctional.
MoronicArts 
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