The Piggsburg Pigs! Lost Episode
This is a fictional joke story written by DaveTheUseless. Don't take it seriously, fellas.
Do you remember a show called the Piggsburg Pigs? I sure do. And I wish I didn't. It isn't just because it was a bad show. Which it was. It's because it... well, there was one particular episode that ruined my life and I imagine if I had an afterlife, it would have ruined that too. Leaving me both without a reason to live and without a reason to die.
The Piggsburg Pigs television variety hour starred a trio of pigs named Pigly, Porthead, and Pigglietta, as they solved grade school mysteries about such child-friendly topics as ballot stuffing for class president, and why it's good to have your cats neutered and spayed. As for me, I have ADHD, so I don't remember much beyond that. My understanding is that my mom ate so many fruit loops when she was pregnant with me that it caused me to have a loopy brain, in terms of cognitive memory function and dental floss. One day I was home sick from school with gonorrhea and my mom let me eat unpopped popcorn kernels and put on a VHS tape of the Piggsburg Pigs. Since my older brother Quagmire was out riding my electric scooter to FEMA camp, I knew that I could finally watch one of my favorite kids shows without him taunting me or hitting me so hard that I couldn't breathe. So I had my mom pop the tape in and leave my room immediately so that I could have privacy.
The usual theme song played. Or, at least I think it was. "We're fucking pigs, we're fucking pigs. Not pigfuckers, I mean we are pigs. The wolves want to eat us, and that's O.K. We'll spray 'em with our spittle and infest 'em with AIDS. We're pigs, we're pigs, we're fucking pigs. Pigs that fucking will fuck you up pigs. Fuck you." The first scene of the episode then played. It was the pig family's pet duck, Quackers. He was talking to himself as usual because he suffered from psychosis, which was a common theme on the show. You usually couldn't make him out, other than that he had the same voice as Donald Duck (barring the fact that you can make out what Donald Duck actually says in the Disney shorts. Or at least I can because I'm from Donald Duck's native Portugala and can speak his native language). So, somehow Quackers was talking to himself without getting sued by Disney somehow, and what he was actually saying was... rather sinister. To the untrained ear they just heard cartoon duck sounds, quacks, and the microwave going off so that mom could deliver me my favorite sicktime snackfood, vasoline on toast. The door bell rang in real life and on the cartoon and I couldn't discern the difference, so I kept watching the program as I favor fantasy over real life and I don't want my brother to hit me please help.
Quackers answered the door. He's the duck and the pet and the run-on gag is that he keeps getting hurt, which is pretty fucked up because that's animal abuse. Seriously what the fuck. It was the FBI. But not just any regular FBI. They were anthropomorphic wolves. As a furry and a YouTube creepypasta narrator I jizzed all over my pants and kept anxiously watching the tape. "Freeze! FBI!", they exclaimed, though they weren't carrying guns. They were carrying... oh no.
They were carrying pieces of the pig family corpses! Portly's snout, Pighead's wriggly tail, and Buster's curly bunny ears were all deep fried and covered in delicious lard batter presumably made from the dead animal people themselves. Quackers let out a duck scream and ran for the stairs, but he was immediately interrupted by the impatient lupine officer. "Now, wait a minute.", he stated. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait a minute." There was a pause. Then he held out his paws. It was a pun. It wasn't funny.
I turned off the tape and played with myself for a little bit. Life was patently pointless, and there were much better ways to use my time. I could play ping-pong with my imaginary friends, prank call the local Jehovah's Witnesses and tell them I'm gay, or even go skydiving into a real live horse's ass. On second thought, all of that sounded horrible. I put the tape back on. This time, the pigs and wolves were no longer on screen.
It was... ah... wait for it. What the fuck. The fuck is this? It was Dudley Do-Right. ... I didn't order a Dudley Do-Right tape. Or my mom didn't rent that from the local Blockbuster for me, whatever. Something about this wasn't right. Do right, Dudley.
"As a Canadian Mountie, we sometimes have to face that with great power comes great responsibility.", Dudley Do-Right offered to me as expert adult advice to me, the audience. He drank an entire bottle of Aunt Jemima's maple syrup and let out a massive belch. Also, his eyes turned red. I assumed he had a maple syrup allergy. "Check out the powerful feature of my new carpet."
For fuck's sake, it was the corpses of the cartoon wolves. And to add insult to injury, he stuffed an apple up the wolven asshole of one of them while I watched and didn't know how to react because I felt some confusing impulses that probably suggest a lot about why I'm still single. "What if all of life was just a dream, dear Clamchowder Jenkins III?". Weird. How did Dudley Do-Right know my birth name, even though I had legally changed it to Crispix Adams. "The fact of the matter is, that would be lovely. After all, in order to live, other creature have to die. No matter how good of a person you claim to be, or try to be, you will always be a failure in the eyes of an almighty source of goodness, yes?". What the fuck was he getting at. Out of nowhere he picked up a pipe and smoked it, and blew out a smoke signal. It read: 'S.O.S.'. "Now back to your regularly scheduled program."
I guess you might say "maybe your mom recorded over your tape because she secretly hates you", but naw, that's not scientifically possible. The tape was stuck in the player and I tried to scoop it out but all I did was scratch up my fingernails. Eh. I went back to bed and went to sleep.
When I woke up... I screamed in h-o-r-r-o-r-i-t-y-s-w-x-z. A chill ran down my spine, and not just from my gonorrhea fever. They were gone. My mom. My imaginary father and older brother. They were gone. And they took my e-scooter, too. Even more notably, the fridge was empty so I had nothing to eat. I checked under the floorboards for a secret message, but there was nothing. I sat alone and cried. Then I realized I had to go because they took the walls while I was asleep, and all of my neighbors could see my slobber-covered body and the static-showing television, assumedly because the VHS tape had ended quite some time ago while Mr. sandman was bringing me no dreams. I put on my spider-man underwear and prepared to face a new day. I'd have to go to a new school in all likelihood. I forgot what grade I was in, but adults know better than I do. Or do they. After all, Mr. Dudley Do-Right...
A moment later, I was a grown man in my 60s driving a taxi cab down the streets of a city that had seen better days. I took a sip of my martini, sighed, coughed, wheezed, and stared into the backseat.
The carcass of a deer that must have been dead for several weeks stared back at me.
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