Manteno communal narc-a-doodle, entramanure and poopyburner Bernadette “Bern” Moran Cacca had got in Gothic Diana Ross’ face and screamed at her, saying that “she’s sick of her and her spoiled brat personality,” and calling her “stupid, lazy and stuck-up” after eavesdropping on her talking about her job working as a veterinary technician. Apparently, Bernadette fails to comprehend that a vet tech is a freaking nurse for animals, and that it’s not nice to listen in on other people’s conversations. Bern is a moron.
When Di walks away, choosing not to engage, Bern tells her to go tattle to her mother “like she always does.” Yeah…no.
“I just said I wasn’t going to be treated like that,” Diana tells the other Midnight Supremes Gothic Flo and Gothic Mary.
“She said that she hates me and she can destroy me. I just left. And she was drunk. This is a woman who hasn’t even left the country, can’t speak another language, can barely read, yet she throws shade behind the scenes when she’s not kissing the butts of her friend collection. She called me irresponsible for listening to the vet over her. She works at a portapotty company when she is not singing cover tunes for charity, tips and giggles. Why should I listen to her? She’s a volunteer. Not a vet. She thinks she knows everything, and that she’s God’s gift to Manteno.”
Bernadette peels her turdmobile out her driveway, over to the Kankakee Riverview district, hoping to race. After the drivers start heckling Bern, she joins the side-show to heckle the drivers who have rejected her. Bern needs to get better hobbies.
Bern uses her butt-trumpet to shame the drivers she does not like. She feels so proud of every fart with which her cheeks part. The hecklers turned violent, turning over a minivan driven by a woman and her two kids. Police catch on to what Bern and the rest of the sideshow kids are doing, and catch up to the three-ring-circus.
Bern gets arrested and charged. Terrified about her reputation, she makes a phone call to her aunt and promoter Sonya Marie Smith Moran, who does not answer.
“Can I pay in Craptocoin? I just mined them myself, the old fashioned way, from NFTs! Newly Formed Turds,” Bernadette asks the bailiff.
“You’re an idiot, Bernadette.”
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Sonya Moran is standing behind one of the low-income apartment complexes she operates, talking to her sister-in-law and bird of a feather Carla.
“I’m running,” Sonya tells Carla over FaceCall.
“I did not know you could jog.”
“I got another job. I don’t interact with people much there.”
“How many people did you tick off?”
“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to work.”
The Albion, Indiana WallyWorld self-checkout clerk self-rates her store 5/5 stars as Kitty Bee gathers her groceries and receipt. She calls her out on it.
They had stopped doing that awhile back ago and now they are up to their old antics again. Kitty grabs a candy bar, scans it, and pays, saying aloud to the moronic clerk: “I am turning your five into a three as I rate you a one,” making sure to look her in dead in the eye. She then reports the clerk’s ego-inflation to the Manager On Duty.
“I have done my good deed for the day,” Kitty says to herself as she drives home.
“Sure, honey, I’ll bail you out,” Sonya says with a smile in the WallyWorld washroom. Enjoying her new job, the president of The Poopy Groupies savors the idea of enabling crappy behavior. Then she takes a dump.
“Sonya, I need a word with you,” manager Eduardo tells his new employee, as she emerges from the ladies’ room.
“Your behavior is unacceptable.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“I think you know what you did,” Eduardo says, pointing to the self-checkout area. “I don’t need your services here any more. You are dismissed.”
Sonya is frozen in place, shocked by the unexpected news.
Meanwhile, her phone rings rings away, playing kazoo-covers of show-tunes, much to the dismay of all the customers shopping at Sonya’s very busy former place of employment.
“God hates cats and he hates demoncrats!” Sonya screams as she gets yeeted by WallyWorld security, squawking and flapping her wings all the way home.
Bernadette Cacca performs her heart out of her kazoo and accordion covers of songs like “My Butt Goes Boom” and “My Fart Will Go On.” Despite her best efforts, her butt-trumpet solo does not qualify her for a spot on stage at Kankakee County’s Talent Show.
“I had sung a cover of ‘Into The On-Hold Abyss’ at CRASS Idol and got NOs from all three judges after four seconds. I was good,” Sybil Kibble replies to the drama unfolding all over the talent show’s Fakebook page.
Having the voice of an angel and the heart of the devil, Bernadette is jealous that her neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes got a spot, the entramanure and communal narcissist known for her charity piano bar recitals did not. Sucks to be her!
Bernadette calls upon her Poopy Groupies to raise a stink.
Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran works as a sterile supply technician at an Indiana hospital, eating all the gross stuff off the medical equipment before it goes into the autoclave. She flies into her home, missing the roof again, after visiting one of her 10-plus “scadiate” nests around Albion as she says.
“Ana walks by me three times, that’s three times. Not once, not ONCE did she say hi!” Carla gossips to her sister Sonya.
Butthurt because people are not returning her phone calls, the evil shapeshifting humanoid vulture takes to the road to ruffle some feathers, since her wings are tired.
Carla Moran takes Sonya Moran’s parking spot. The residents of Prairieland Country Club Apartments For the Disabled start squawking about it while Carla is out stalking again, saying “That’s Sonya’s spot. She’s the manager. Don’t take it.”
Carla snaps, “Sonya’s gone for the day.”
”If she was here, she would be pretty grumpy at you.”
“I will just be a minute.” Carla takes out her smell phone and texts every person in her log. Five minutes later, nobody replies so she re-sends them. Everything’s an emergency to her, so she speeds off to Illinois like an ambulance rushing to the scene of an accident.
“Take these sacks, help your mother,” Carla says to her daughter Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“I’m not an octopus!”
“Here, let me grab them” Sonya says with a half-smile as she grabs the eight grocery sacks with her massive, pointy beak and sets them inside the Manteno Optimal Club.
Sonya Marie Smith Moran files a $4 million lawsuit in Kankakee County court against the Talent Committee, plots to take over the city and fire the current mayor since she’s still butthurt that she lost the mayoral race in Albion, Indiana. Her goal is to bankrupt the city and ruin the lives and reputations for everyone who wins the talent show. “Winning is everything!” she exclaims after she uploads the paperwork.
Bernadette rehearses on the stage at the banquet hall inside the Optimal Club. People have yet to show, including her mother and aunt out rounding up robins, vultures and cuckoos to watch their wonderful lil bog witch sing at their charity event, hoping to change the mind of the Kankakee County Talent Committee and everyone else who contributes to planning the annual County Fair.
Today, people will not give an inch. On the way to Dr. Eddie Dixon’s office, Sybil Kibble has to stop and get labs drawn, no biggie. She stops and eats her Alpo lunch. Yum!
What is this water on her seat? The floor?
Darnit, that screwy air-tight water bottle she bought from Wally Green’s took a whizz all over her bag, her phone, her masks. “Thanks, Wally!” Sybil exclaims.
After stopping for coffee, the covfefe continues over at Dr. Dixon’s.
Sybil asks receptionist Pris Dixon for a mask, she barks “we don’t give out masks here anymore,” while calling back to Dr. Dixon to try and cancel.
Thankfully a kind stranger gives her an extra one; apparently Pris had never ruined a single mask, ever. I bet she had never spilled water before and assumes other people do it on purpose.
Sybil sits down in the crowded waiting room amongst a group of mostly unmasked patients. Maybe one or two folks actually wore theirs. She sees CRASS co-worker Mikey Dixon get called in, along with Gothic Diana Ross. Eventually she gets called in and is told — guess what — her tests came back normal.
On the way home, it begins to pour. Sirens wail like a banshee. “Man, I wish they would turn the volume down on these fart-machines!” Sybil Kibble thinks out loud.
Sybil pulls over near the Manteno Optimal Club to let the fire engines and cop cars pass. Carla and Sonya Moran had smashed their sedan into a telephone pole out front. Rubberneckers look at the accident and stare, wondering what had happened.
“We flew over here to try and bring groupies Peppi, Greg and JB to YOUR show and look what YOU done!” Carla and Sonya bark at Bernadette, the Manteno Wonder.
“Are these sirens just for me! Aww boys, you shouldn’t have!” Bernadette exclaims with glee at the loud, farty horns and farts along to the noise while shaking her booty as if nobody was watching. She’s not too bright.
Sybil films the whole fracas and laughs, excited to show her mother JoAnn and maybe post to Kankakee social media. Maybe.
A voice sweet as honey, her striking personality leaves you with that bitter aftertaste and you don’t quite know why.
“I’m Bernadette Cacca! It’s my pleasure to play for your The Manteno Optimal Club musical theater sing-along! I will livestream here on my personal page every Tuesday from 7:30-10 and Saturday from 5-7:30 during the 3 week The Manteno Optimal Club hiatus! The Manteno Optimal Club will be back for Season 2 on Oct 12! Follow me for details! And always on Instaspam @BernCacca (except tonight – TOILET ISSUES) Comment with requests!”
Bernadette Moran Cacca wants to open up an arcade in Manteno. No, not a slot-machine room like “Winnie’s;” rather, a video-game arcade. Hoping to sell more Craptocoin, she will only accept her funny money from the gamers.
“Just think, my WONDERFUL customers will HAVE to pay in Craptocoin, mined the old-fashioned way by ME!”
“Git-git-git”
“Oh not now, honey. I have business plans to make.”
Butthurt by his wife’s disinterest in his mating call, Peppi Cacca claps back:
“You know, hon, if we can convince the developers at your favorite strip mall to put in that much-needed crossing signal, we can profit by providing the port-o-johns for the job. Let’s say we write a proposal and submit a bid if they accept.”
“My aunt Sonya will tell YOU about all the things I do for this community! I volunteer my time playing multiple accordion covers of popular show tunes for the Manteno Optimal Club!”
“She is also Optimus Prime.”
“Yeah, and Sonya is running for mayor. She knows the owner of that consumer shopping center. Back in 1991, he saw someone going down the road who owned one.”
“What about that Poopy’s you always wanted to open?”
“Stop causing so much drama, Peppi,” Bernadette gaslights her husband.
Bern goes down and applies for credit at the local loan-shark office and gets approved. According to her ex-lover Damien Hurlbutt, sharks eat poop, so Bernadette is not surprised they approve her credit.
“Scary” Barry Reynolds’ former “President of the Office of Belonging” at the Mathew B Johnson School of Intrepid Arts, Sonya Marie Smith Moran, is running for mayor to complete his failed agenda for the college takeover of Albion, Indiana.
Some of the things Sonya is wanting to do are abolish cats and pitbulls from being allowed in the town limits, open a charter school to be run by the college with city funding and close the nature trails and centers to anyone without a “membership” paid in full with Craptocoin. Bog Witch Bernadette Cacca will collect tolls and eat anyone who refuses to comply. Yum, cannibalism.
She’s planning to do drug raids on houses she’s thinks are drug houses, just for fun. What better to do when you’re bored?
Sonya also wants to abolish the local low income clinic because she’s pro-life. However, she’s running as a Democrat. Since when did common sense matter to a narc-a-doodle, anyway?
Sonya Moran knocks on the doors of all the Albion residents, including the people she’s ticked off most every Saturday at between 1 and 2PM hoping to harass them, since they have blocked her on all social medias and don’t return her letters. She even sends them birthday gifts hoping to con them via guilt into sending her a thank-you card. She really wants hard to win over people who want zero contact.
“You’re prejudiced against the poor, humans, flora and fauna. You don’t even like cats. Who hates cats?” Kitty Bee says as they laugh at the silly moron running for office.
“I have black friends. I’m not racist.”
Kitty rolls her ebony eyes and lets the door hit the wannabe politician on the way out.
“Narcs be startin’ somethin’…and it ain’t no picnic,” the broadcast journalist says to their girlfriend.
“I’m walking away from you now!” Sonya snarks as she walks away from another uninterested voter. “Oh hello. Get out there and vote!” Sonya tells another stranger on the street with her usual forced-smile.
“I was sitting there when the log emerged” Bernadette Cacca details her newly-formed-turds (NFTs) on the phone to her lover JB, the neighborhood turd-burglar, then she hears a knock at the door.
“Hi Manager. My daughter wants to play Running in Manteno, where do we put the quarters?”
“You can get some Craptocurrency from me.”
“What?”
“Our games only take Craptocoin. I will gladly exchange! I just mined some now!” Bern says as she wipes her buttocks.
The father waves his hand in disgust as his daughter giggles, the family walking out the joint.
Kankakee junk-emailer, sociopath and petty criminal Pat Splatt will do anything to make a buck. He is hoping to get rich enough to someday implant a diamond in his forehead.
While leaning against the wall in his chair, scraping the internet for contacts to spam about his payola scheme for content creators, Pat gets a call.
“Hell, Satan speaking.”
“Is this Patrick Oswald Splatt?’
“You’ve got the POS.”
“This is Sonya Moran. I got your email today and want some bots.”
“Hey babe, I can hear the smile in your voice today. I am your moneymaker!”
“Yeah. I want to become the biggest PooTuber on Earth. My name is Sonya Moran. You have heard of my niece Bernadette Cacca right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“She was on the front of the Kankakee Sentinel. You DO live in Kankakee County, right?”
“What can I do ya fer?”
“I am running for office here in Indiana. I want to make a channel where I make videos where I pay my BIGGEST fans just for subscribing and watching. But I don’t people to think I am bribing them. Just like my EXTRAORDINARY niece Bernadette, I want people to SEE the acts of charity I am spending my busy day doing. Why be nice to people if nobody can see it? I do a LOT for this community.”
Pat begins to nod off.
“With your assistance, we can build a botnet to pad my followers, and argue with ANYBODY who disagrees. Hello?”
Snoring is heard.
“Hey babe, I think you’re hot.”
“Oh hey babe. What’s that about getting together?”
“Just seeing if you’re paying attention. I want to hire you to make a network of pretend followers so that real people will also look at me give all that money away, and do good deeds for the community. I am running for mayor here in Albion, Indiana and I intend to win!”
“You sounds like my kind of person!”
Sonya Moran is really on a mission to bully her residents out of her complex at Prairieland Country Club Apartments For the Disabled down by the Albion mills into leaving, because she is a complete and utter troll who has zero empathy. Compassion, what’s that?
Complaints have been pouring into the Department of Housing and Urban Development that she has been issuing lunacy letters falsely accusing her low-income, disabled tenants of violating their leases. How would she feel if she were in their place? I feel confident some of the people would gladly trade their chronic pain and bladder problems with her so they can have better lives. Oh, and she hates cats.
Sonya knocks on her residents’ doors at 9:30 AM to remind them that she is running for office, saying it would be unacceptable to vote for someone else, because she plans to own the housing committee. Must be a thing to live in fear. After all, she is a wussy little narcissist.
Jade Utica is not having any of Sonya’s crap. After getting unwanted knocks on her door, waking her up after a rough night battling her brain disease, she is not about to sit down let the so-called “Do-gooder” bully her into homelessness. After chatting with her neighbors about the junk her landlord left on her door, she finds out she is not alone.
Meanwhile, Sonya’s PooTube channel has been getting thousands of followers and commenters every day, thanks to Pat Splatt.
“I just know I am going to win this election,” Sonya says to her campaign donors at her rally. “If they don’t cry for me, I will give them something to cry about!”
Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies cheer in conformance.
Front: Bern M Cacca, Back: JB the Turd Burglar, Sonya Moran, “Undead” Greg Schneissder, Peppi Cacca
Undead Greg Schneissder gives a speech:
“This is the best thing. I have constantly and continuously been moved and inspired by the inventive, communal ways citizens found during the darkest days of the lockdown to seek out the light, keep connecting.
The thought of two people, across time and place, creating one thing: so beautiful to me, on its own. But to see it come together, in one room, the beautiful moment, both optimistic overture and grand, grand finale. What a lovely symbol of perseverance, of hope fulfilled. What a metaphor. What a tonic. What a reminder. I was unprepared for how moved I would be by this story.
The only thing *not* at all surprising about it? That Sonya Moran was involved. So let me also love on her for a second: in that weird way that all of Albion is all just a small town after all, I walked into a bar this past Friday, where Bern was celebrating a friend’s birthday, surrounded by the beautiful, lovely, joyous people that she seems to attract (birds of a feather and all that), and she gave me THE. BEST. HUG. And a greeting that made me feel like the only person in the world.
A friend of hers asked if I were an actor or singer, and I think I mumbled something like “I wish.” What I should have said, “No, but when I am in the company of Sonya, I am a STAR.”
As people watch Greg’s gushing, comments pour into Sonya’s PooTube channel:
“You need to remove your twitter post about my friend. Especially when you were selfish enough to do what you did and then block her. Because she is the only person who matters! Look at me, I’m a troll who crawled out from under my bridge because I need to get a hobby and I hate myself.. I don’t appreciate the way you treated her.”
The cheers of support from Sonya’s bootlickers are interrupted by some breaking news:
“Kitty Bee reporting live from Albion breaking news. Indiana officials and a spokesperson from the US Department of Housing and Urban Development have accused Albion landlord Sonya Moran of discrimination and harassment. Residents have complained that Mrs. Moran has been accusing them falsely of violating their leases, failing to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act, and even threatening to evict them. We will bring you more news as it develops. Back to you.”
A thump is heard, likely from the bird deflecting against Mrs. Cacca’s Albion, Indiana home. The buzzard has landed.
“Are we going out stalking?” shapeshifting humanoid buzzard Sonya asks her family as she transfigures from vulture into subhuman.
“I need to cut down on my stalking bill,” Carla tells her sister-in-law and bird-of-a-feather, Sonya.
“I’m walking away from you now. This is unacceptable and won’t be tolerated,” Sonya berates Carla and flies off, doing donuts in the sky over a body of water and its surrounding structures.
Sonya eggs a guy on to throw a cat in the river, literally. She had been laying eggs by the water because she was bored and began chucking them, demanding the male stranger go murder the poor animal. Poor kitty was living at the bar on the river, surviving on the food in the trash there and the odd chicken tender or bit of burger the customers were giving him. Seriously, who the heck hates cats, let alone wants them dead?
Sonya’s distinct poopy smell, it lingers, wafting through air after she drops off some more friends at the pool.
A medium-skinned trio stroll along, new to Albion. “It smells like warm milk and trauma.” Gothic Flo deadpans.
Gothic Diana Ross scoops up the fluffy munchkin after having witnessed Mrs. Moran’s histrionic menacing.
“Sonya, the Indiana Attorney General is prosecuting animal abuse cases to the fullest extent of the law so I will be turning you in.”
“It’s just a rotten cat, ya stupid nincompoop!” Sonya screeches, mad because caught. Then she poops.
“Fee Fi Fo Fum. I smell the turds of a big moron!” Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes chant, enjoying their mockery of the apathetic fool who tried connive a kid to murder that adorable little fluffball. Gothic Diana Ross takes the kitten to the vet clinic where she had just interviewed to get him some help. She names him Kevin.
Shapeshiftin’ Sonya flaps her wings in frustration and anger, squawking like a parakeet. Then she flies away.
“Another one of these? What is Sonya on, anyway? There is no cat pee smell outside my door!” the young lady thinks aloud as she grabs the lunacy letter her landlord left on her door. “Why always Friday? I had a long day at work and am too tired for this codswallop. She needs to get a hobby!”
Gothic Diana Ross sees a familiar face.
“It’s Kitty Bee from Kankakee!” Diana cracks a smile and the two exchange some dap.
“Whatcha doin’ in town?”
“We came in because I had an interview.”
“Ah nice. On TV?”
“No. A job interview.”
“Nice. Where?”
“Over at that vet clinic by the college. That…um…self-defense school? What’s a PSI Ball anyway? Those ads blew up our TV!”
“Now I need you to cut off access so people don’t slip and fall! Put one of those plastic things in the way, those ‘wet floor’ signs so that people will bump into it should they try and go pee.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And when you’re done, I need you to set up our new spice-rack.”
“Oh, for our pharmacy? To hang up all our pill bottles, right?”
“You sound more like your brother every day.”
“Did you invent them?”
“No, Robert. They came in all the way from Indiana.”
Robbie begins humming “Indiana Wants Me,” tuning out his boss.
“Boucoup Bogan Spices. These babies have a magic ingredient!”
“Can they make me high?” the drugstore clerk, vulnerable narcissist and Elvis impersonator asks with anticipation, eyes wide as his sideburns long.
“No, not that kind of magic. If you make production, I will let you in on the secret. I hear they are a big hit in Evansville.”
Wally sighs, shakes his head and walks back to his office. Wally opens up his Tindling app and swipes right as much as possible. After a slew of rejections, this wacky inventor and wannabe ladies’ man deals himself a game of solitaire and falls asleep, dreaming up the next buy one, get one half off (but never free) sale.
Albion, Indiana Optimal President Club Carla Moran drools over her shipment of bogan moths from Australia. “These will make great spices for my business “Beaucoup Bogan Spices.”
“This dish is delicious. I have never tasted bean sprouts so yummy. Usually they taste like dirt! These spices are like no other, compliments to the chef! Where did she get that recipe?” CRASS chief cheese Mack E. Avelli asks.
“They’re just regular bean sprouts. Cut them up like regular bean sprouts,” Accounts Receivables Manager Tara Bull says to her superior with a crooked grin.
”I just made these intestine desserts for Halloween. They’re really good. I made them the Dale way,” Dale Davis asks his supervisor and crush, Sybil Kibble.
“I just destroyed a whole bag of dog biscuits, I’m not hungry now. Thanks!”
Mr. Avelli is dying to know who made the bean sprouts with the funky spices. He goes from office to office asking, hoping to find a way to make money off them. Someone owns up.
“Where did you buy these?”
“Wally Green’s,” Operations Chief Mike Philips tells his boss as he continues his FreeCell game.
“How about we do a big ol’ promo?”
“Do what you want. My wife made them.”
“Mike, contact Wally Green and ask that we co-host a talent competition. The winner gets a lifetime supply of this crack and a CRASS tee-shirt. It will make us a look good, and maybe Wally will pay back some of his debt. Get us on TV!”
“Call Dorian. I am too busy.”
Mike goes back to playing his virtual card game.
Mack develops a crossover campaign with Art Director Dorian James and plans to air it live on the local news. They are given the green light to air October 31st.
“It’s Halloween Night and we have a TREAT for you!” barks CRASS Chief cook of books and 1/3 of Vaudeville troupe, Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) Konrad Teirant.
Awkward silence passes.
“Get it, treat?” Konrad says with a falsetto giggle.
The crowd rolls their eyes and boos.
“Oh look a ghost!”
Not feeling the love of the crowd, Konrad moves right along.
We are holding our talent contest, sponsored by Wally Green’s and Beaucoup Bogan Spices! The winner will get a lifetime supply for these unique, and very tasty spices imported from Albion, Indiana. Sonya, what are these made from?”
Sonya attempts to force a big, cheesy smile, juxtaposed against her psychopathic stare.
“Out first act tonight is the Manteno Wonder herself, Bernadette Cacca! Get ready for her kazoo pop covers!”
Bernadette’s biggest fans, The Poopy Groupies, cheer, hoot and holler.
“I do a lot for the community! You guys are AWESOME! Get ready KaCo! Any requests?”
“Can you hum the Menard’s jingle?”
The crowd giggles and Bern carries on with her cover songs and finishes her act rapping about her port-o-dump business along with husband Peppi.
“We are King and Queen of the Throne. Come to Manteno and get your poopy on!”
Thank you Peppi’s Portapotties. Now for our next act, you will really like her, I know I do because she’s my wife! Give it up for Madwoman! I mean Madeline!”
After a slow clap, a large dumpster clearly marked “Peppi’s Portapotties” is rolled onto stage by an unseen pair of stagehands.
The seven-foot clown juggles broken records, scratched CDs and crushed cassettes.
“Hey, those are mine! Robbie Hurlbutt lies from offstage.”
Madeline chucks the busted music collection at the little fibber.
Thank you my love. And now our final act, Mr. Wally Green himself!
“I’m single by the way. Meet me here at the Gaslight Bar during Happy Hour. I will make you happy!”
Laughter fills the room and the airwaves. The bartender smiles.
Wally Green sings “Fart Your Birds”, a parody of Prove Your Love by Fun Factory. Bird tweets, squawks and fart sounds looped into the song can be heard on the playback. Wally sings and blows his air-horn nose:
Fart your birds,
Fart your parakeets
Give me all your budgies,
Point your butt and rip.
Don’t try to hide,
Don’t run from me.
Fart your birds,
Fart your parakeeeeeets!”
The crowd bursts into laughter, and tosses beer bottles at Mr. Green.
EmCee Kon Teirant takes over. “Thank you Wally. That sure was…interesting. The crowd has voted. I think we have a wiener, I mean, winner. The CRASS Winner of the WORST Act goes to, Mr. Wally Green himself! Mack E. Avelli, throw him a CRASS tee-shirt.”
Mack fires away a CRASS shirt out his tee-shirt shooter and directly into Wally’s massive gut.
“Any single ladies wanna meet me at the bar?” Sonya Moran and her favourite niece Bern Cacca run over, arms a-flailing, to give him a hug.
Manteno’s self-proclaimed “giver extraordinaire” who performs accordion covers of pop-tunes to raise money for the photo opportunity, Bernadette Cacca holds a kitschy, Hawaiian-themed shindig to thank her enablers, the Poopy Groupies. She really wants them to know she just loves their continued excellence in bum-kissing and useless-drama creation.
“That’s so bad!” Bernadette says as Peppi leaves the party. “He just came for the food and did not stay. All I do for him! All I do for the world! He just left me here to die alone!”
“He left for the washroom, Bern. I would too if I ate pineapple on pizza,” JB the Turd-Burglar tells his crush, the Manteno Wonder herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca.
JB the neighborhood turd-burglar stole all the crap so she can burn it in her fireplace. What fun.
Aunt Sonya made this beautiful face in honor of Terry Reynolds, the FIRST American. I mean Bernadette. Wait a minute…
Bern recently found out that her paternal grandmother was related to Undead Greg Schneissder (LIKE PRESIDENT TRUMP’S ANCESTORS) so these details add even more beauty to this wonderful day.
And who could forget her husband Peppi Cacca — always by her side (except when horking up prior-night’s moonshine in the washroom).
MoronicArts 
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