Friday, 15 January 2010


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image for Life At The Moorview Institute, Chapter One

Life At The Moorview Institute, Chapter One

A few days ago, one of our inmates posted this little piece on Spending Time At The Moorview Institution. While much of this was true, a big part of it was under-stated. It didn't go deep enough into defining and describing the lunatics in this place.

I guess that I should know as much, or more, about them than anyone else. After all, I've been an inmate here so long that I'm pretty much treated as part of the staff.

So, if you let that first little piece serve as an introduction, I'll make this my first chapter and tell you some more about this place. I guess that I'll start out by giving you a history of our looney bin and how we got to be the source of great satire.

Yeah, satire and irony coming from crazies and lunatics. Boggles the mind, doesn't it?

The official name of this place is something like The Stanley and Doris Moorview Institution and Asylum For the Criminally Insane and Mentally Disturbed. Mostly, we just call it the Moorview Institute.

A rooty toot toot, a rooty toot toot.
We are the loonies at the Institute.

Sorry, but I had to sneak our fight song in there.

A lot of people have read the book "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" by Ken Kesey. A lot more people probably saw the Academy Award winning movie that was adapted from that book. Pretty wild, right?

Our little Asylum makes that place look like a Sunday School class for uptight, constipated, near-sighted spelling bee winning, teacher's pet girls. If Randall P. McMurphy considered himself "The Chief, Bull Goose Looney," then we've got several buildings full of chief, bull goose looneys.

We're also not located in England, as Mark "Grand Sexually Arroused Administrator" Lowton would have you think. In fact, we're located just outside of Springfield, Illinois in a suburb known locally as "just outside of Springfield, Illinois."

I'm sure that everyone remembers or was taught in school that Mary Todd Lincoln went over the edge when her husband Abraham was assassinated and was institutionalized for a time. You should also remember that the pre-Civil War home of the Lincoln's was in Springfield. Put two and two together....and you'd be wrong. The oldest Lincoln son took one look at this place and said "You ain't putting my mother in that nuthouse."

Yes, the Lincoln's chose the asylum down the road. That one, however, is closed now and is a parking lot for a dollar store, so everyone naturally thinks that "we're the place." Nope, we're just the next can of nuts on the same shelf.

We've had our share of Mary Todds over the years. Our current First Lady is a man who also thinks that he's a Naval physician (his moods depend on where he is in his menstrual cycle). So, Victor is sometimes called Dr. Nicolas and sometimes called Mrs. Lincoln. In truth, he's a Canadian barber who got into trouble for strapping down his customers and giving them his special shaves (details to be given in a later chapter).

The guy who wrote that other piece mentioned Mark, and so did I. Mark claims to be English and says that he's also active in the computer industry. Right.

Mark worked for Best Buy before being committed. No, he wasn't part of the geek squad. He was the guy who unloaded the computers off the backs of the delivery truck. Computer industry my ass. Unloading a box with a computer in it makes you a programming expert like touching a Playboy centerfold makes you a gynecologist.

When they first had him committed back in 1999, he came into this place as an angry, frustrated virgin with a permanent case of blue ball. He still is.

He claims to be married, but his spouse is his right hand (which is why he wears matching wedding rings on his left and right ring fingers). Ask to see a family picture, and he'll show you one of him raising a beer (beer mug in right hand, of course). I guess that he and his "wife" are lucky because he never has to worry about her having a headache or being on the rag.

Sorry about that; back to his history....

Mark would go up to people and scream "tell me about vaginas! Tell me about how stupid George Bush is! Tell me about Britney Spears!" Britney was still an eleven year old member of the Mouseketeers then, and hadn't hit puberty yet, so we all knew that he was a sicko.

Anyway, after about a year Mark stopped demanding that people tell him about this stuff and started wanting people to write it down. He'd take these stories that some of the guys in the pervert wing would scribble with their crayons and have one of the secretary's staple them together.

Then, he'd run around and wave this into the air and scream "I edited a magazine, I edited a magazine!" He'd try to get people to buy copies from him when he could con someone into letting him make a bunch on the copier.

(Note: our head of the office staff is this old, bitter woman with an attitude and tits that sag to her knees. I think that Mark did some rug muching or something to get those early copies. More on our lovely Ms. Bitter later on.)

In 2001, he got his big break when they gave several of the inmates/patients/nutjobs (you pick!) access to computers. President Bush donated them as part of his government literacy program when he first went into office. Being from Bush, the word "literacy" wasn't spelled right on the paperwork, but that didn't matter to us.

Mark managed to set up a website with the help of this drooling moron we called "google" (that was the only sound that he could make, but he sure could make a computer sing). The rest is history.

Some of the staff begin to consider it theraputic for Mark to encourage people to write stories about vaginas, sports, breasts, politics, penises, business, turds, sports, affairs, science, fudge packing, technology, bikini waxes, and a myriad of other topics (though mostly the vaginas, breasts, penises, turds, affairs, fudge packing, and bikini waxes). The doctors felt that writing this stuff was helping the people with their sense of reality and with their sexual issues.

I guess you could say that Mark created a Mad magazine for and from the Mad!

Very few of the writers in those days even thought about using their real names. They used names like Sir Charles Cheesecake and Flash Nitrate for several reasons. One was to protect themselves in case the parents of a teenaged girl who'd had pussy stories written about her came in and beat the crap out of them. Another was that some of these guys didn't know their real names (and their paperwork had been lost in the famous fire of '97).

At first, things started out pretty slow. There wasn't much content as there weren't many writers. It caught on for a while and was doing good, as was Mark. His therapy was actually helping and he seemed to be improving. He was even released from the asylum for a few years and turned back out to the real world. Needless to say, he didn't make it.

While he was gone, this guy named Jack (last name either "ass" or "off," you decide) took over running the magazine. He decided that he didn't like the sex, but that the violence was good for him. He also decided to slip into the background and be a kind of Godfather and let his little lapdog run the place.

That's when Helium, the child molestor, ran the magazine.

He'd ban writers if he didn't like the color of their crayons. He'd ban writers if he didn't think they left their bedpans clean enough. He'd ban writers because they wouldn't show him naked pictures of their children.

I wrote for a while with Helium, but decided to quit when he stopped paying us our points (more on that in a minute).

After a brief absence in the real world, Mark was committed again to our little nuthouse corner of the world. I guess he'd fallen off the wagon and slobbered on some debutante or something.

Some say that Mark got mad at his hand for cheating on him with another man. When he came back, his arm was in a cast, but we never did learn the whole truth (and I haven't taken the time to sneak a peek at his file).

Helium tried working for Mark under many names after he got back, but he finally got locked up in a solitary ward because he wouldn't stop masturbating in public (and offering it to everyone as lotion). I knew that they never should have shown "There's Something About Mary" in the common room, but that's a different story.

I also started writing again when Mark got back. It beats pushing my broom up and down the halls all of the time, and it lets me get time on the computers to write, to play a little solitaire, and to decide which Hollywood starlet has the nicest rack.

Anyway, Mark's been back for a few years and the success of his little on-line magazine has been growing. There have now been more than 50,000 stories written here. Only five percent of those are any good, of course, but there have still been over 50,000.

He's got a big stable of writers in several parts of the hospital. Over in the perverts wing, he's got guys cranking out stories every day about every woman in acting or music or fashion or sport's; they tell us all about their vaginas and underwear and style of beaver shaving. Over in the high and mighty ward, we've got all the guys who think that they are presidents and kings and generals who have to spout out all of their political crap. In the body fluids ward (where you have to keep people from eating their own feces), we've got people writing turd stories all day long. We get very few women writing from the ladies wards, but we do get a lot of guys who think that they are women (more on them in another chapter).

None of us get paid any money for the stuff that we write. We get "points" that we can exchange within the little Asylum concession stand for sodas, cigarettes, candy, and toiletries. There is, of course, a black market for points among the inmates. You can get a blowjob, get your wife beaten up, get naked pictures of Miley Cyrus (don't buy these because they're fakes: Colonel Juan draws them in crayon), or just about anything else that you might want in here.

Anyway, that's a little about the history of the place. maybe in the next chapter, I can tell you more about some of the writers or the staffers or give you a tour of the grounds or something.

I'll decide later. Right now, I need to go sweep the "D" wing. Someone in there is having a birthday and I'm gonna get me a piece of cake before they run out! (If I gotta sweep the crumbs later, I'd better get to eat me some now).

Go to Chapter Two

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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