Doris Krabalsky wants to be a real bossbabe. This snake-oily mama from Kankakee slides emojis and thinly veiled spam into inboxes all over Fakebook, feigning her concern and admiration for the people whom she calls “hun.”
A wild Peppi Cacca in his natural Manteno habitat utters his mating call. “Git, git, git” he cries, hoping to mount an approaching Bernadette. Displaying the power of his fragile male ego, the Peppi channels his inner Pepe LePew and tries to kiss the bog witch Bernadette, who runs like a cheetah, hiding; plotting her revenge.
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble and I had trouble connecting over Zuum, so she went to her local PetMart to buy some dog-food dinner.
Since her favorite — Alpo — was not on sale, she bought this doggie doobie hoping to get high.
Sybil did not get the buzz she wanted after working a long, hard day interrupting strangers’ meals, so she gave it to her ma JoAnn who rents her basement, because JoAnn loves squirrel-watching. What a doozy.
Dale Francis Davis moved to Kankakee, IL from Snowflake, AZ to seek work after his relationship with Juli-Irma went sour.
His two year engagement with his dear poopiehead, and fellow Snowflake, Juli-Irma went downhill rather quickly when Miss Juli figured out dear Dale’s tablet and mobile telephone password, “password.” In a fit of jealous rage, she discovered that he had one contact other than his mother and his buddies from the town saloon, a Sybil Kibble, and blocked her promptly.
She then destroyed both devices by throwing them in the toilet, perplexed why they did not go down the bowl when she flushed.
A few days later, Dale hit the road to interview for his new position as a Collections Representative at Collections Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee, IL. He pulled out his new phone and confirmed the time. Today was the first day of the rest of his life.
Dale thanked Ms. Sybil Kibble for the offer, shook her hand and gladly accepted the job.
CRASS debt collector Dale Davis finally got his economic stimulus check, so he made a big donation to the Illinois State Lottery.
Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Accounting Chief Konrad Teirant is having trouble balancing the assets against the liabilities, even after having cooked the books to a carbonized mess.
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.
It is midnight here in Kankakee.
The fire alarm sounds for the third time this week at the low-income housing complex, 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 bathroom, 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, half-wit and overt narcissist 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.
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 and they head home.
“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 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?”
“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.”
“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.
Manteno communal narcissist and poopy-burner Bernadette Cacca just discovered her new favorite tune. Maybe she will perform it live for charity on accordion.
This is a spam I got for — you guessed it — spam.
Is a spam for spam a metaspam? I have so many questions and I want none of them answered.
Maybe this guy could use their services.
I wonder if they sell generic spam, also?
I will ask Pat Splatt. Maybe.