Hear this story here!
2. Sonya Moran flew the coop.
4. Wally’s machines go beep and boop.
5. Sybil Kibble loves to eat.
6. Damien Hurtbutt sure loves feet.
7. Shapeshifting vultures hate defeat.
8. Let’s go Brandon to the lifted truck meet.
9. Barry Reynolds plays his tricks.
10. All these nitwits make me sick.
Welcome to the Moroniverse!
Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vultures like Carla and Sonya Moran spend way too much time ruffling feathers and pecking at people. They also poop wherever they want. 0/10 would not pet.
Dead slumlord, malignant narc-a-doodle and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Mare Smith Moran wants out of Hell. “Boss, can I enter the new externship you announced?”
“No, Sonya, we need you to keep filing these intake forms of the newly damned.”
“But boss?”
“Don’t talk back to me. Now get to work!”
Sonya files for another 666 hours until the bell rings. “I wanna ring the bell, I wanna ring the bell, why can’t I ring the bell?” Sonya screams as she throws a childish tantrum because she’s not getting her way, much to the annoyance of Hell’s CEO Satan.
“Sonya, you can do your externship on Earth for up to 12 hours, then you’re to be summoned back to Hell.
“Hot dawg!” Sonya exclaims.
Poof! Sonya immediately manifests her apparition in Kitty Bee’s bedroom.
“Why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t you ask me? Why did you report me to the feds?” Sonya-Daemon says to her former tenant to try and intimidate her. It’s 5:00 AM.
“Be gone in the name of the Light! With this your soul I smite!” Kitty grabs her can of D-Mon-Con and sprays beaucoup sage all over Sonya-Daemon.
“And may it be smote.”
“I’m glad I bought two of these. They were buy one, get one half-off at Wally Green’s. Now with extra sage, nice!”
“Wow, that’s a record!”
“Say what now boss?”
“You lasted two minutes and you’re back to Hell already. Now get to work! I need you to do 13 files a minute. Go now! Byyyeeeeeee.”
Satan disappears to mind another department of Hell.
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.
TO BE CONTINUED
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.
“Go away now! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE! BYE!“ cries the imbecile running the counter, waving her arm with an evil grin on her face.
“Okay, okay, okay, calm down you morons!”
Before Sonya could run to the coffee and donut shop across the hall, someone rather familiar pokes Sonya on the back.
“Mom?”
“Hey darlin’!”
“What brought YOU here?”
“Oh, just raising daughters just like you!”
The two humanoid raptors share an embrace.
“Grandpa’s holding a hot barbecue! We’re having a family reunion. Wanna come down?”
“Maybe. What are they grilling up?”
“I know. But, will they serve coffee?”
Mrs. Moran stands there shaking her head, feathers ruffled. Then she poops.
“Now get out of here, you rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderudeRobloxRubixCube rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderuderuderude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruminating rume rube rude ruderuderudeude ruderude rude rude rude rude rude rude ruderuderude rude ruderude rude rude ruderude rude rude rudity Rood Rudy Randy Rhodes rootin tootin’ rude rude rude rube!” goes the word-salad barfed up all over the coffee-shop floor, by their own barista.
The damned all think they’re hot…umm…stuff.
This is the heavy-heavy bog witch sound…on Pootube.
Not watching the Superbowl? Neither is Bernadette Moran Cacca. Instead, the communal narcadoodle, bog witch and portable washroom empress is hosting a watch party with her Poopy Groupies at the Manteno Optimal Club:
Unfortunately, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, Ferengi-loving landlord, and fan-club president Aunt Sonya won’t be there. She flew the poop coop.
Sucks to be Sonya.
Part 1: https://moronicarts.com/2024/11/24/get-lost-sonya/
Part 2: https://moronicarts.com/2024/12/21/violated/
“What we’re about to do with you, Sonya, is take that farm-to-table approach.” Dr. Jen Jenner explains to her shackled subject, multi-millionaire malignant-narcadoodle landlord, Sonya Marie Smith Moran.
“WAT?” Sonya squawks.
“Restrain that chick!” The good doctor orders the Security Treatment Aides of Area 51.
“Are you sure that thing is safe to eat?” Jen’s assistant Sam asks.
“I’ll call in an expert. I have a buddy of mine on another planet.”
The wall-to-wall screen displays a conference call window.
“Call Quark.” Dr. Jenner dictates into her Communicator unit.
The Ferengi overlord’s face flashes upon the screen. Sonya freezes in fear.
“You’re—you’re—“
“This is the dumbest acquisition you ever made. Where did you get that thing, and why? There is no profit to be made in shape-shifting humanoid turkey vultures! How did your boss sign off on that Purchase Request and Commitment? And why? What was the bona fide need?” Quark explains to the genius Dr. Jen Jenner who speaks 777 languages.
“Quark, you’re my idol! I learned everything I know about business from YOU! Why don’t you speak to ME? Communicate with ME! I love you! Will you marry me?”
The Ferengi leader gives the fluttering feathered fool the evil eye.
“Don’t you speak English? I thought they spoke it on every planet!” the xenophobic turd complains to the foreign friend of the Area known as 51.
“Self-reflection is scary, but necessary.”
“What did he say?” Sonya asks the crew.
“He says he doesn’t like you. Get over it.”
Sonya’s cold, bleak heart fails instantly; the sheer pain of her crush’s rejection sends her beak straight into to the concrete floor, creating a small crack from the impact. Then she poops.
The doors bust open.
“Vitals!”
“Time of death 7:30 AM.”
“Oops, nevermind.”
The technician leaves the room to go wake up someone else.
“We got a stiff! What are we gonna do with this thing?”
“I dunno, get it outta here, bury it somewhere in Indiana.” Dr. Jen Jenner shrugs slightly and moves onto her next task. Life is good.
THE END
Having trouble finding an affordable apartment with a landlord who does not behave like the fictional Ferengi-loving fool Sonya Marie Smith Moran? So am I. Screw Quark.
Shelter is a basic human need. However RealPage begs to differ. Their script-kiddy algorithm enables corporate billionaire mega-lo-landlords who – through their love of money above all else – make rent go up exponentially, like a luser trying to 0wn pWN n00bs.
They also conveniently forgot that they could become suddenly disabled from a stroke, heart attack or natural disaster, because, you know, we are all human and it can happen to ANYONE. Now how would you, Mr. Row-lex and Mrs. McMansion pay YOUR rent?
In the Divided States of Dystopia, we hereby award each and every individual RealPage landlord, owner, and property management company collective Moron of the Year trophies for 2024! Enjoy them, you earned them, now own them. (But you can’t take them with you – or can you?)
Part 1: https://moronicarts.com/2024/11/24/get-lost-sonya/
“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.
TO BE CONTINUED
MoronicArts 
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