Written by Potroast McKenzie, in remembrance of William Howard Taft's shattered bathtub (Schz).

I must admit, I’ve watched all the VHS tape “lost episodes.” Of the hundreds of creepy, missing episode, I’ve seen em all. Now I know what you’re thinking- how did you see them? I worked at multiple studios from 1990-2019, and in my time as a rotating intern I got my hands on so much weird television it would scare the dicks off a preop transvestite. Now listen here bucko, because I’ve got a warning for you: they’re all real. I’ve seen ‘em all. I haven’t lost my mind- the mind lost me. Here…hear me out. You see, back when we were kids we were obsessed with Lost Episode VHS tapes, you know, what was shaggy and Scooby doo doing last week? Spiders and leprechauns? I even saw the Seinfeld one that predicted 9/11. I saw them all.

But there’s one episode I refused to watch, until recently: the lost episode of Duck Dynasty. You see, I am a huge fan of duck dynasten. It’s my favorite show, so the idea that there would be a lost, missing episode, shocked, and horrified me. And what shocked and horrified me more was the notion that my friend claims George Jetson, the popular cartoon sitcom character, was somehow in the scenes, even though he is a 2D drawn animation, and physically murders the cast.

The show starts as normal. That older gentleman talks about how he spent the last twenty years trying to suck his own cock. This was disturbing. He went into highly graphic details about his autofellatio attempts, and then talked about he murders ducks to deal with the inferiority of being a failure. Failing at life? Kill a duck. He explains that’s why Nintendo of America invented the game duck hunt, to let future serial killers and angry suicidal mail men blow off steam to ensure they become productive, working class members of society. 

“DUCK!” he screams. “Where?” It was that other redneck, you know, the one with the beard. After a moment, you see a rock hit him in the head and smack his cranium, you hear an audible thud and he falls over, crying. Blood is pouring from the hole in his head, and army ants begin quickly dining on his blood. “No.” The other redneck says. “I meant duck, as in crouch.” But he didn’t crouch, and the rock hit him square in the head. He quickly dies and squirrels begin feeding on his balls. 
…They were eating his nutsack. I get it, squirrels eat nuts, but these were testicles. “I’m gonna shoot that asshole.” The other redneck says. They were all rednecks, “That asshole…who threw a rock at your head. Popular TV show personality George Jetson, the raygun extraordinare.”

But it wasn’t a ray gun. He points his gun at a random man on a hiking trail and shoots him square in the head. The man falls over, heaving, as the one duck dynasty guy starts using a duck call. He keeps blowing and blowing on the duck call, and many ducks appear and cover up the corpse. He makes a quick getaway as the hiker starts crying, as birds, millions of ducks (ducks are birds) begin eating, and feasting on the flesh of the screaming hiker. 

“All in a day’s work.” The one duck dynasty guy gets into his ford Tacoma, but he accidentally pushes too hard on the pedal going uphill, and the car crashes, and he, his new wife and kids after the divorce are immediately killed in the explosion. 
George Jetson throws a rock at the car. What in god’s name? He was part human, part CG, part cartoon, but…real. 

I picked up my television and threw it on the floor. I didn’t want to watch this VHS anymore. I wanted to go home, but I was already home, so the only thing I could do was shut the tape off.

But the tape wouldn’t shut off…the tape wouldn’t shut off…at all. It just kept playing. I pressed and pressed the button until the cartilage in my finger became numb and painful, with visible blisters from all the stop button pressing. The VHS tape player must have been broken. 

So I did what any man would do. I picked up a delicious, ice cold crash bandicoot slurpee, and I poured it into the delicate Video Home System Player framework. It squealed, but the tape kept playing. A man, in his mid forties, unzipping his pants, and dangling his ballsack over a burning motor vehicle

This was disturbing. 

I tried cutting the wire leading to the wall, but it kept playing. I took out a .42 calibur magnum revolver and shot, and shot the screen, trying to get this fucking tape to shut off. Still it played, the accursed film, the disheveled film, played and played.
What George Jetson said next shocked me to the core of my being and I’ll never forget it until probably in a few years in the future. “I… “ He paused. “When we started out it was just fun and games, you had your creepy stories, your package of funyuns and your good times. But then things changed. The copy cats, and you know who you are, started killing independent dave the useless. Do you feel happy now? Sucking the pennies out of little Jane and Eric’s lunch money piggy bank? Do you enjoy it? Do you enjoy knowing you’re a fucking second rate replica, or a simulacrum, if you’ve gone to community college? That everything you’ve done in your shitty life is the diet mr. pibb of human existence, that your very being is an off market generic, something that copies just enough to not be a copy, or is a copy, do you enjoy that? Do you enjoy waking up every day knowing that you’re a poor duplicate? Like someone scanning his asshole on a copy machine- that’s you, friend, oh dear friend. You’re a scanned asshole on a copy machine.” What the hell was George Jetson talking about. This was a comedy show for the family. 

I tried smashing the tv but it wouldn’t break, it cracked, and George Jetson screamed, while various ducks and squirrels danced in the pale moonlight. 

What did all this mean?

And then George Jetson began to sing.

“Well it seems to be you’re on a role
Your life is meaningful, you have a lot of goals, 
But then you start listening to those creepy pasta moles
And you come to the realization…
You thought these stories were real,
But it’s been six years
You got trolled! You believed in the VHS horror stories
But you’d have been better off watching the lost episode of maury
You got trolled! None of this shit is actual
You’re an idiot for thinking it’s factual
You got trolled! You believed in the lies, friendo
Now your feelings are Caliendo
That’s Spanish for hot, because you’re enraged
This doesn’t even rhyme, fuck you
You. Got. Trolled.”

George Jetson’s eyes became blood shot, his nutsack enlarged due to a cancerous growth and exploded, but the fire from the automobile crash earlier grew and killed all of the animals in the forest. 
It’s the twist we’ve all been waiting for. “I…have…” He started to cry. “I have…testicular cancer.” That explained all the strange behavior, including the murders. 

I tried leaving my house but my mailman kept forcing me back in the door. “Why don’t you watch your VHS tapes?” The mailman said. He looked quite a bit like the man from the Duck Dynasty VHS. Admittedly, I never watched the show, but I have seen ducks before, and I know the definition of dynasty, so I get the basic idea. Like me, I have a VHS dynasty, I’m the Peter Pan of lost episode television. Not that shitty green elf. The high quality peanut butter brand, which I used to glue shut the door to stop the mailman.
“Here’s your package.” He smiled. The package was clearly over his crotch, and I knew it was George Jetson. If I opened the package it would’ve probably been his nutsack. The mailman had bloodshot eyes, razor sharp teeth and told me he sat on the left hand of the luciferian goat god in the pansexual 2001. You’re in a hell, and you’re gonna die in a hell with the rest of them.

I kicked the package and he screamed. “My nutsack!” He screamed. “Delicious, hot roasted nuts from minnessoata, and you kicked them!” 
A man walked in, screamed, and fell on the floor, heaving and dying. He had half human, half beak. His beak had razor sharp teeth, and feathers were growing out of his human flesh. A baby duck squeezed out of his asshole. He had birthed a baby duck, that died, out of his asshole. 

This was disturbing.

“Father, I love you.” A voice whispered. It was the lost episode prophecy. The lost episode was about the dynasty of ducks, but that was ruined with the car accident, so the secret genetic testing experiments of the elite resulted In instantaneous, painful death and freezer burn. I just wanted to watch duck density. I just wanted to watch.

I had ruffled the feathers of these higher up ducks, that’s for sure. These ducks have hierarchies, and the highest level ducks resemble humans, because they kill the families, eat the brains, climb into the back of the skull, and that’s why rednecks have mullets. To hide the skull door, with a hinge, and tiny USB doorbell. And this is all real, you can google it. 

George Jetson drove me to suicide. I picked up the television that would not be destroyed through normal means, and brought it into the bathroom. I filled a tub of water and climbed in, and threw the tv in, committing suicide. Beautiful, beautiful suicide. No more lost episodes. I. AM. DONE. And it’s all your fault really. You did this to me. You killed me, or the idea of me, there’s nothing left. You’ve raped the land of its last green plant and salted the earth to ensure nothing would ever grow again.

It didn’t kill me though, that’s the hard part. I’m trapped in a hellish cycle of my own misfortune, a fate worse than death. Bob saget walked in with a birthday cake, a lost episode VHS tape. The other lost episode characters were there as well. Pretty much any character you can imagine was there. I’ve been having the reunion sequences every fifteen minutes lately. The doctor said it’s just a normal part of working for the Nielsen ratings company. “You can never leave us!” They smiled. Stabbing, attacking me, and then giving me a slice of cake, that was oozing red jam that was probably human blood. 

It’s true. I never told you this, but, I signed a blood pact with the devil, and he agreed if I did his bidding by talking about these VHS tapes, he would spare me, but sparing me just meant an eternity. I have to tell you something- my name’s not even dave. The “schizima” guy I talk about? He’s not real. I made him up, he says all the things I could never say. He does all the things I could never do. And he’s dead. I strangled him a few weeks ago. And as for that delicious fruit punch, George J. bought gallons, and I mean human blood. Delicious, human blood.

You can go on with your life, live it be happy, I’m trapped forever here, in this infinite loop of bad televisions, shows I’ve never watched. There’s nothing left to watch. You’re not gonna help me are you? I know you want. You are in a better position, your life is better, I’m still here. We’re still here. The collective. We love you, you have a beautiful soul, and piercing, blue-green eyes. You’re an angel. And we want you to join us.

The duck man walked in. He had the voice of George Costanza. “I’M THE DUCK MAN!” He stabbed a fork in his crotch.

Oh no not again.

Please help me.

I’ve been screaming for help for years and you completely ignored me.  Me, a skeleton among men. My bones are string, my heart is wood, and all I ever wanted was to entertain you. Please believe me, this is the real me. Duck Dynasty, collective suicide, fruit punch,  and broken dreams. I just wanna watch Dick Dynasty. I just wanna see the ducks…

Donald duck walked in, and started shitting on my couch, he had red eyes, and he was shitting on my couch.
It was the lost episode of the little rascals. 

Those rascals. I picked up myself and threw it out the window. You can pick yourself up,. Never tried it? 
Oh fuck. Fuck me.

It was the lost episode of Family Ties. They had all hung themselves. A deep metaphor for a noose. I tried to shut it off, but the tv screen was my existence. 

“DUCKS!” the bearded man yelled. 

A flock of ducks enveloped my existence. Daffy, George jetson, my other friend ducks, nibbling, eating me to a skeleton. They weren’t ducks…they were… ducks with the heads of the Bush family legacy. Jeb Bush… bespectacled, with a human head and a goose body, dining on corn feed laying on the lawn by the dick destiny squad. I’m not crazy, ok. All of this happened. You don’t fuckin’ know anything about me, punko.

Tomorrow I had to go to work, for I, am employed yes, but also. A skeleton. Employees screamed in horror, as I filled out the application, the officers shot at me, breaking my bones. I fell on the floor, screaming, my jaw falling out, my flaming skull covered in ducks.

I HAVE TO WATCH THE LOST EPISODE OF DUCK DINOSAUR! I yelled, I, Dave, as the ducks picked up my bones and carried them away, killing me. I was already dead. We love you, and we miss you, and we wish you were here, wherever here being, in Fido’s Fuckstone’s dog house, buried in the Simpsons background, at the bottom of the Neptunian sea, free. Away from all of this, this stuff. This meaningless noise, is that all you want to be? You’ve cannibalized all that’s good, all that’s meaningful, all that’s righteous, and now we’re stuck. Stuck with dick dental sores. I never even wanted this fame, this power, I just made a YouTube channel to review retro games, drink soda pop and chat about the men kicking balls on TV. I wanted to enjoy the fine life of bloodshot eyes without Visine and hot soda leprechauns. But now…

I don’t even have cable. I lied to you. I lied…to all of us. I have to go now, the Ventrillions of Quadrant seven are preparing the hot foot bath for the ancient water fowl antidae, this dork destiny is written in all of us, friend. 
Or maybe you’re just a fuckin’ asshole. 

The end.

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