“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.
Coming soon to the corner of Wally and Green’s! What kinda crap is Kankakee ladies’ man, barfly and wacky inventor Wally Green cooking up now?
Sponsored by WallyMobile
Introducing the new mobile phone plan from Wally Green’s! Exclusive to our stores, WallyMobile offers unlimited talk/text, a super-hard to navigate touch-screen, and plenty of not-so-yummy tracking cookies to slow your phone while consuming your data! Apply today! Be sure to pay for it using your Wally Green’s credit card as we do not accept Craptocoin.
MyDoucheBag
These extra, extra-plopsy bags are made from recycled douche and rusty canoes. With more pockets than you’ll ever need, these bags are specially designed to make sure you lose your stuff! Wally’s patented CrapStraps will be sure to tangle and strangle the wearer. Buy one get one half off (but never free)!
ScrewyLid
Are your tumbler lids too easy to take off and put back on? Try Wally’s new ScrewyLid! Using the same design our adult-proof pill-bottle lids, you will be sure you lose your top! Screw it back on, but ohhh, it’s stuck half-way again. Pick one up at Wally Green’s on the corner nearest you! Three for $7.00! (Must buy three)
Throw-a-Fit Blankets
Do you get frustrated trying to keep your fitted sheets on the bed? Now, throw a fit, every time you try to fit this throw onto your bed, only for it to fling right off. You might as well throw it away.
Imagine a debit card with a 69% introductory UFO on purchases (for complete pricking information and impotent terms and conditions, policing of services, delimiters, modifiers and values, please clink on the lick below) and a 30-second online alien abduction (subject yourself to verification).
Apply now at Wally Green’s for an Area 51 Visa credit card!
“You might never encounter an offer quite close to being this good!” — Wally Green, Founder of Wally Green’s drugstore, inventor of the Turd Machine Deluxe and invader of spaces.
Kankakee bill-collector Sybil Kibble and dog food connoisseur lives, laughs and loves — not necessarily in that order. Do you live first, laugh first, or love first? Do you need a bathroom break before deciding? Maybe you can help solve a mystery.
Want more morons? Keep up on the Moroniverse by signing up using your email or WordPress account.
Narcissists want to buy your time…so they can waste it…over and over without paying.
Gothic Diana Ross is busy minding her own business at her specialist’s waiting room up at Rush University Medical Center in Chicago. A routine follow-up appointment, Miss Ross would rather be home having fun singing with Gothic Flo and Gothic Mary, instead of waiting in a crowded room full of strangers.
An hour passes by and Di still has not been called.
“Hey, I’m Greg Schneissder. Are you from Manteno?”
”Ummm…” Diana rolls her eyes and looks away from the undead Greg,
“I saw one of your shows, you ladies are so beautiful and talented.”
“Pat is one of the coolest guys around! I hang around him and Bernadette Cacca.”
Diana freezes from panic, already nervous awaiting her lab results.
“Don’t. Mention. Bernadette.”
“Oh why? She is the the nicest person around! And so famous! I see her picture in the paper a lot. She’s a celebrity. Wasn’t she on that Human Body Odor Channel show?”
Diana rolls her eyes.
“How can you say anything bad about her?”
“Stop.”
“I am gonna complain. You are harassing me now. Nobody talks bad about Bern Cacca!”
Di looks at the lady across from her.
“I am sure he was just trying to help.”
“Really? Just…no.”
“How do you know?”
“Just leave me the feck alone.”
“I am gonna just leave. I can’t be at this office where people talk badly about other people!” Greg whinges as he storms down the stairs.
“Deeanna?”
“It’s Diana…grrr.”
Diana grabs her patent leather sack and follows the medical office assistant to be roomed.
It begins to rain, the clouds taking a massive whizz all over Northern Illinois. Thankfully Diana merges her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest onto 90/94 safely and avoids rush-hour traffic to head south on I-57 toward her home in Manteno. Mind clear from a clean bill of health, the slender gothic beauty slides into her canopy bed, the silky black sheets comforting her as she drifts off to her internship in Hell.
Two hours later, Diana wakes up in a panic, startled by a moron who thought it would be cute to crawl into her bed.
“You know Diana, your music would sound better if you articulated your words better.”
A stunned Diana looks over.
“You forgot to lock your door, hon.”
“Get the freak outta my house and my bed!” Diana screams at the top of her lungs and chases out the bored poopy-burner and communal narcadoodle, next-door neighbor Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“How dare you talk bad about my beloved Bernadette!” Gregory Albert Schneissder screams at Diana about the crowd-pleaser for whom he created the Fakebook account “BMCacca Fannn.”
Diana slams the slate door to her Victorian Gothic home.
Gregory slithers over to Bernadette and the pair head upstairs to Bern’s bedroom.
“Can you just, like, not fart in front of me?” Greg asks his date Bernadette Cacca during their date netting some flicks while hoping to chill.
“No, honey.”
”You don’t fart on stage at those charity events where you sing and play kazoo requests to raise money for the Manteno Optimal Club and for Ukraine.”
“No need to gas-sleight me!”
“You gaslit me!” Greg retorts.
“No, I mean, I need to fart. Farting is healthy. I will implode if I don’t rip ‘em when I need to.”
The swamp-witch Bernadette lifts her leg and her bum goes boom.
A wild Gothic Diana Ross appears in the foreground.
”Heave-ho! Where are your enablers now? Bwa ha ha ha ha!” The Gothic Boss Miss Ross interjects as she yeets the communal narcadoodle Bern halfway down the staircase, and the Midnight Supremes chuck her bum-licker Greg, spocking the pallino down the stairs.
“You left your front door open…” Diana addresses the undead mess spilled all over the basement floor with a smile.
”What did those stairs do to deserve that punishment?” Gothic Mary jokes as the Midnight Supremes leave in amusement.
A year or so after Bernadette Moran Cacca had wandered her way into the Moroniverse, this other unpredictable Bernadette from nearby Joilet had made her debut on a much more famous and well-loved series: “The Big Leap.” Like Bernadette the kitten, Bernadette from HR is not a moron, nor an entramanure who sings show-tunes on the potty while playing accordion in the Manteno Optimal Club. This Bernadette likes to go where everybody knows your name.
She needs her own spin-off series. Maybe she can take over human resources dooties at Peppi’s Port-a-Potties or become the new president of The Poopy Groupies since Wally Green is getting annoyed.
Kankakee pyramid-scheme peddlers Doris and Leona Krabalsky are tired of standing on street corners and bugging hospital patients by pushing their useless woo oils, moldy-buttery-softlined-leggings and investments you can re-sell to your friends out of their trenchcoats.
“We are getting old and living on a fixed income. Our knees are wobbly, our hair is grey–“
“We are a retail store and not allowed to alter prices,” floor clerk Robbie Hurlbutt replies.
“Wait till you get to our age, sonny. You should respect your elders!”
“OK Karens!”
Not happy with their collective egoes once again deflated, the sinister sisters walk about the store.
“Hey, what’s this? My…wail-eee.”
“Miami?”
“My…my…hey would ya look at this! It might pert near dang work!”
The bumbling bullies read the box:
“Are your sales running flatulent? Get MyW-AI-LY, a degenerative-AI program to automatically poop out marketing schemes to sell anything you want, even a half-eaten sandwich! We don’t care what it is. Pivot, and walk that passive sidestream income over by doing almost nothing. Our state of the art Artificial Imbecilics will match up your target audiences using our potential spyware with the things YOU insist THEY must have! Forget those influencers! They’re too expensive and boring. Designed by none other than that wannabe Kankakee ladies’ man himself, the eye in this sky is Mr. Wally Green. He says this product will change your life, he uses it too! It’s his newest invention — and it’s on sale. Feel the power…of the funneling steamed hams backwashing income straight into the mouths of bossbabes like you! Never ruin your roast again! This product description was artificially genrated by MyW-AI-LY.”
“Why hire humans to sell our leftovers when we can hire Roy Batty to do it instead?” Doris Krablasky asks her sister Leona.
“I dunno, I kinda like that Leon guy better. He reminds me of myself!” The two shysters share a giggle while they plot their evil plans.
“Buy one get one half off, but never free. Why not? One for your computer and one for mine, a matching set. Awwwww, how cute. It even comes with a CrapApp and it matches our decor!”
The octogenerians take their newly found program to their basement and try their best to run the software on their Commodore 64, to no avail.
“Do I type R-U-N and then return?”
“No, it says press any key.”
“Where’s the ANY key?”
The forgetful duo call up their old buddy Pat Splatt.
“Yo, it’s Pat.”
“Hey hun!”
“Yes, lady, what must I do ya fer?”
“I got this program I need you to run.”
“I’m busy finishing up a project”
“I need unfettered access to this program right now so I can start making big bucks.”
“No Whammys?”
“Uhh no, hun.”
“I love money, benjamins are my cuddle buddies. I’ll be right over.”
Mr. Splatt drives the Patmobile over to the small geodesic pyramid-shaped domain shared by the pyramid-plan-peddling sisters, installs it on their Winduhs laptop that they happened to get free after buying a washer-dryer set some time back.
“Just set up the prompts, let the bot do the work, you sit around the clock and collect the bucks — plus my 20 per cent.”
“No, WRONG, Pat you get only 10 per cent.”
“OK, make it 50. I’m giving an offer you can’t refuse.”
The ladies get busy hunting-and-pecking, letting the artificial stupidity carry out their very human shenanigans, which people begin to notice.
SUBJECT: “Open up for your new health insurance benefit!”
“ I can sure use the money” Bernadette Moran Cacca thinks aloud as she reads the subject line while pinching a loaf, then clicks to open the email.
“Weight loss? What the heck? Yeah…no!”
SUBJECT: “Get $5 haircuts with the device Nobody wants you to see! Open now!”
“What on Earth would I do with this vacuum-hose thingamajig? I’m bald!” Barry Reynolds screams at his phone, then slams it down on the hard concrete floor, smashing it to bits.
SUBJECT: “Make beaucoup bucks with this one simple trick! Slots open now!”
“We all have jobs, thank you, miss Krabalsky…” Gothic Diana Ross deadpans in her dark bedroom, decorated with band posters, black hanging beads and the text “IN GOTH WE TRUST.” She dims the lights, then deletes the thinly veiled canned commercial content from her cell.
The Krabalksys hold a meeting.
“I got home as soon as I could. I got done chased by them cops again from underneath the 57 exchange while trying to make a sale. “
“It’s not working.”
“Why are we losing money again? I thought we were supposed to get large gains this time! We cut out the middle-man!”
“Call up that nice boy Pat. He knows what to do.”
Leona picks up her flip-phone, slowly dials the chunky, illuminated numerals.
“This is Patrick Oswald Splatt.”
“Hi hun, we have a problem.”
“Leave a message after the bleep and—“
“Oh, another one of those machines again. I hate machines. They ruin everything! They ruin everything, everything, everything! Back in our days we all shared a phone, the entire block only had one television, and no-one had a computer!”
The sisters take turns pestering Pat. After they spend 30 minutes ringing his phone off its invisible hook, Mr. Splatt picks it up.
“I am in the washroom taking a crap! Can ya call me back?”
“Oh, I’ll only take a minute with this one very simple question.”
“No minutes left, you ran out.”
“Huh?”
“You owe me my consult fee plus additional charges for expediting your non-emergency. Pay up or else!”
Then Pat flushes.
“Hello! Hello! Where are you? Is it snowing in there? What’s that noise? Your TV on the fritz? It’s making this weird beeping sound. Is that ya microwave?” the sisters keep shouting into the void on a recursive loop.
“I think it’s broken. Imma gonna lie down after playing some Solitaire.”
Leona lays down the cards onto her wooden desk and begins to play, while Doris falls fast alseep on her polyester, dusty-rose-patterned sofa, sawing not only wood but an entire forest.
“Attention. Attention. This is a drill. Shelter-in-place now. I repeat, shelter in place now. This is a drill. Shelter in place now” Area 51’s resident alien deejay announces over the intercom.
People run amok. Had they read their emails sent earlier in the week, most of them would have stayed at their workstations instead, per their inboxed instructions, news and alerts.
The chaos wakes up Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, captured test subject living in the Alternative Fuels Division, Flatulence Branch pries loose the door from his cell and wanders over to a control room. He makes a mad dash to the first unlocked computer he can find, credentials still inserted. Then he farts.
After logging onto to his uTube account, neckbeard Damien goes to the channel of his ex-wife Lori, immediately downvoting as many of her videos as he can. You can’t fix stupid. Then the bulbous, bald, bearded bum looks for videos of people sniffing m’lady madame’s feet. Yum!
One of the guards spots the communal narc-a-doodle-doo Damien, quickly dons a safety mask, then hauls him back to his cell. Padlocking his cage, Security adds a deadbolt for additional protection for the workers from the world’s biggest source of natural gas.
The Information Security Team destroys the compromised machine, to protect national security from the leakage both info-wise and anal, then maintenance gets ready to throw the chopped-and-screwed computer parts into the dumpster.
“Aren’t we having fun yet?”
“There’s no room for all this crap, what shall we do?”
“I dunno, remove some of that HAZMAT first.”
“Bingo!”
Maintenance comes back with a dumpster full of hazardous, radioactive Lawd-only-knows-what – plus a few dirty socks throw in for good fun – then chucks it all into Damien’s cage.
“Who-wha-whey-whyyy—“
“These are your new friends, Damien.”
The crew shuts the new 4000 lb gate and walks away happy, knowing they won’t hear, see, nor smell Mr. Hurlbutt anytime soon, except for the poor tech who comes in every morning at 0500 hours…
MoronicArts 
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