There was this show “Daria” that aired on MTV in the 90s. This was back when MTV played real music videos, and my punk rock ethos was met with shows that equally inspired us and compelled us to keep viewing.

But there is actually an episode of “Daria” that you never heard of where she shoots herself in the head. MTV execs were reported so “disgusted” by the episode that they immediately pulled it from syndication and demanded MTV play some Jackass reruns on repeat to cover up the situation because angry reports of teen suicide attempts increased after the airing.

CREEPYPASTA-_Daria-_The_Lost_Episode

CREEPYPASTA- Daria- The Lost Episode

Well… no teens actually committed suicide as far as I know, but as someone who worked for MTV in the 90s, I can tell you one thing… nobody was happy about what aired or what dark secrets “music television” contained.

Now before I continue, I think you should know something. I was fired from MTV, abruptly, and tersely, and received a threatening letter warning me never to mention the episode. Thankfully I have since found other employment, so the MBA-holding knob-twiddlers at “Music Televison” can suck a fat one, and I’m not talking about strawberry milkshakes. I’m talking about semen filled cocks. I almost want them to suck on semen-filled horse cocks, but I know those sick fucks would enjoy it too much, with most of the MTV higher-ups having equine-related horse fetishes.

Anyway, I stole the tape in the late 90s just as they were moving the VHS tapes in an armored truck to an unnamed location to be burned and/or liquidated when MTV decided to stop playing music videos.

I decided to watch it last week, and boy let me tell you: this shit. Is fucked.

The show about a rambunctious teenage high school girl and her preppy sister entertained me, I related a lot to Daria’s apathy, and she mostly symbolized 90s and how much we didn’t care back then. Milennials today don’t understand that we genuinely didn’t care, but this show “got it” and it “got us.” Generation X. Pepsi and Funyuns. Taco bell and mountain dew: the truth trifecta.

The episode starts as normal, with Splendora’s” “You’re standing on my neck” providing a rocking and rambunctious intro that got us pumped to see what hijinks the Morgendorrfeerss’ would get into this fucking week. But Daria… looked disheveled. She seemed cold, distant and not at all like herself. I started to get scared. Daria’s face was all cracked up and I think she may have been on drugs. The show was meant to be an anti-drug PSA…but this was nothing like your typical “your brain on drugs” PSA.

No, no. This was uh… Well, daria was watching tv. I mean that’s what your typical apathetic rambunctious teen does, but… Daria was watching sick sad world. “On tonight’s sick sad world!” the announcer said, and I was ready for a funny joke, but instead the announcer said “Jet fuel?! Melting steel beams? Impossible!” The camera cut to live footage of a 747 crashing into the twin towers. While this was pre-September 11th, I was still concerned about what the announcer was talking about.

As far as I know, this was the only time live footage of the twin towers was ever shown on Daria.

But then it happened. The animation was always bad, and low budget, but here it was a bit more “realistic” so to speak.

Well… what Daria said next really, truly disturbed me.

“I don’t think what was in dad’s chili con queso Is sitting well with me. Ugh…” Oh no. Oh my god no. The show only aired for 70 episodes, but the established canon never seemed to reference these sorts of things. I went and adjusted the VHS player knobs, adjusting the tilt, vertice and tumble to determine whether Daria’s speech impediment was a result of poor audio quality or some interference from an outer device defect in the Video Home System player. The morphemes and phonemes seemed a little odd.

“If beta had won, we’d all have slit throats full of flowers.” Typical gothic daria.  She was listening to a Linkin Park LP on full blast in a walkmen, an old-style MP3 player. She kept grabbing her stomach and I was worried something was wrong with Daria…

The next scene cuts to Daria at school, Daria’s friend Jane Lane was there. Except she had bloodshot eyes and her emo haircut was sharp as a cheese knife. What Daria said next concerned me. “More waffles dad? I found an extra set of butter. Besides, if you had mild food poisoning, you’d have a very bad stomach ache right now. Except daria was in history class, and this made no sense. “Ms. Morgendorrferr, I asked you who sailed the world in 1712?” It was her teacher, Anthony DeMartino. “Sorry I was sleeping, your class is boring and you’re a boring. I’m really bored. Fuck you.” I never heard Daria say “Fuck” before, but now she looked really weird.

You see Anthony deMartino writer her a clinic pass and she shuffles off to the clinic, where she appears to be dying. You see blood pouring out of her nose and she looks like she’s really sick. You hear a gurgling, what was this? This wasn’t the daria I knew- the punk rock gother who took no how-dat-is from “the man.” This was- this was garbage!

I started to get pissed off, but then I got a little frightened.

Daria’s family… they were covered in blood! And they had spaghetti strands and human eyeballs all over the house. “Who left these spaghetti strands and human eyeballs all over the house!” It was Daria’s father, Jake Morgendorrfer. “AHHH!” he started to scream. What the fuck- what the fuck?! “AHHH!” Daria screamed, and then AHH! The rest of the family, and friends, Daria, Quinn, Sister Quinn, Helen Morgendoerrfer, and even Charles “Upchuck” Dorfenheimer. “We shpouldn’t have eaten that chili cheese con queso-“ *gasp*. Suddenly I shuddered.

The entire family….

The entire family…

Oh no!? The entire family, shot violent diarrhea out of their assholes and exploded into pile of shit and blood confetti. You see the father’s asscheeks literally explode as his asscheeks burst with a violent diarrhea milkshake of terror.

I ran, shaking and screaming and crying, with my pants down because I had been on the toilet watching from the other room, to shut the VHS off. I slammed my finger into the button, knocking the VHS tape over and breaking it. I pulled the VHS tape out and looked at the cover… my god. This wasn’t Daria! It was “Diarrhea.” Now it all made sense, the deep metaphors made sense. Diarrhea pulled out a gun and shot herself in the head.

Anyway you probably don’t believe me but a few howsends later a SWAT team kicked down my door and invaded my house, throwing an incendiary grenade into my bathtub and destroying all of my potted ferns and Macauly Culkin paraphanalia. “Where’s the tape?” They yelled. “Where’s the fucking tape?” I told them I didn’t have it. I didn’t have the tape. I…misplaced it. After being cuffed and interrogated for 23 hours, they released me and I went home and ventured to watch again. Thankfully, they failed to look in the most obvious place at all: The very VHS tape player I had been watching the program in!

Oh, oh, clever me. Clever me.

What about my feelings? What about my rights? I just wanted to watch daria, back in the 90s when life was chillax and we all wore black and neon glow-in-the-dark spandex sweater shoes. We were shrek and our favorite movie was Pluto Nash, this was before 9/11 and shitty 7 second videos of fat kids dancing eating marmalade pie, we were cool/chill/pill back then. We didn’t worry about your shitty Twitter followers and crybaby personal issues. Nobody complained about being marginalized, we watched Marge Simpson and ate margarine.

We were real.

Isn’t that what Daria was all about?

I didn’t know about all this “secret society of masons” or “secret underground tunnels of luciferian shit worshippers 9/11.”

I put the VHS back in, because it was a gripping episode and I had to see the end. Yes, the van outside my window was probably the FBI and yes, the diarrhea, blood, spaghetti strings and explitives frightened me, but it was Sunday Funday, I had just quit my shit job at shitelodean studios and I had a shitty vhs tape to watch.

I popped it in and continued in the exact position I had stopped watching at earlier. All of the shit in their body had formed a grotesque shit monster, it lives in the tunnels under your feet. The daria corpses, the dead bodies got up, bloody skeletons and all and began to start worshipping the blood moon in the background.

They began to dance. They danced the dance of life. Their eyes were hollow, their faces deflated, they had no souls and they were covered in shit, but this was still the best thing MTV had aired in over a decade.

A weird narration started. The shit monster started talking. “This is just a reminder that all the shit the flows down the toilets and into the sewers and in the lakes and streams, and all the shit in the air and all the shit that comes out of your mouth, the shit that gives birth to flowers and the shit that is in your very body right now is all alive and well. Everything… is shit in fact. The whole of society is just a shit manufacturing plant, the U.S. government is a network of toilets and one day soon the whole world will be covered in shit. In the year 2098, the oceans will be overflowing like shit-filled outhouses while expired cadaverss and population overflow kill off 99.9% of the living as the world’s toilets overflow with the world’s newest energy source, currency, family friendly game of tag and national football league pass time: human waste, diarrhea: shit. Everything. Is shit.”

And then the tape exploded. The cops broke down my door, and they stepped on my fucking neck. The cops. Stepped on my neck. And that’s exactly what I said, as I realized they weren’t cops. They weren’t cops at all. Nothing you see is real. Do not allow the eye to fool the mind. The pupil is a weak-kneed subject of hate. The truth is everywhere: in garbage cans. it’s in every rotting jackolentern, every discarded fly-covered tuna sandwich, every bubbling shit-stained septic tank and every bad dream come true. That’s what I told him, that’s what I told the officer. Officer dipshit and his magic band, with his fairy wand a-wavin’ and his two inch cock a-flailin’, telling me how to manufacture my tribunal brain, telling me what the whosit and whatsit and the authority with the authority finger, point and waving and ranting with his jizz-covered finger, waving his magic wand of bullshit, crawling around in the sewersshit following the pied piper of shit into the shit ocean. George fucking Jetson and his “super fuck face” mario friends. All the dead people. We’re all a bunch of dead people. This is a fucked world and you have a fucked life and you live in the town of fuck, where you work for your fuck muffins and fuck pudding with your fuck wages, and fuck your fuck wife in her fuck car with your fuck fuck fuck. We’re all normal. Everybody’s normal. This is all completely normal. That’s exactly what I told him. That’s what I told the man with the white coat, that’s what I told inspect-her-gadget. With her padded cells and her lemon gumdrop lies, their fistfuck smiles and their tiny throbbing two inch cocks that are glued to their fat, flabby fat fuck celluloid manthighs. That’s exactly what I said about my neck. That’s exactly what I told them about my neck. My neck…

You’re standing on my neck.

The end.

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