The Looney Tunes Show: Dilly Dilly STDaffy (Lost Episode)

Dilly Dilly! Science may never explain the origins of it. On
second thought, sorry, that was a stupid statement. f***ing ringing in my ears.
Seabiscuit. Dilly Dilly has appeared in Bud Light television commercials all
across the globe, culminating in a set of Super Bowl specialty ads customized
for fans of both teams. The phrase caught on ASAP, like flies to festive,
delicious honey, but you know this already: there's no way that you don't.
Everyone in your family has said the phrase time and time again, by now. Your
mother, your father, your cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents. It's a regular
ol' 'full house' of the stuff. 'Dilly Dilly', indeed...
As for me, I live in a dumpster. It isn't optimal, but it has a lid and the trash
man knows--s***, I mean trash PERSON, sorry--knows that I'm in there, so he
doesn't compact me or crush me alive or anything. Kind of a nice guy. One
night, while I was using a discarded ugly Randolph the Christmas Reindeer
sweater as a warmer... I realized something. A DVD? ... No, never mind, it was
just a coaster. Oh well. Disgruntled and disheveled, I went back to sleep.
Five hours later (don't ask me how--I read the sun for time), I was awoken by
the force of blunt object. I rummaged through the pockets of my thrift store
cardigan, ripped out my trustworthy Buddy Holly glasses, and, in stylish
perusal... I noticed it then and there. Size 69, puce-and-blue, marmalade
smears, Fat Albert is a real man and he's buried alive in Grant's tomb. The
naming label of the VHS tape said it all: "The Looney Tunes Show Episode
1990deadinside: Dilly Dilly STDaffy'.
Okay, at this point, I know what you're thinking: good groundhogs thrive in
shallow holes. I brushed the rat feces off the VHS tape, ruminated about my
ex-wife Bernice, and shoved the thing into a well-sewn cardigan pocket. I
didn't entirely know why, given that, as a homeless person, there wasn't much I
could do with a VHS tape. VHS tapes aren't edible, and furthermore: I didn't
even own a frigging VCR! Perhaps I could pawn the tape for food, I thought. Use
it to purchase a steak dinner. Maybe even see a show. "The only show
you'll be seeing is untimely death, Erdrick.", the voice inside my head
threatened me. O, cruel fate! I gave my inner voice the finger and hopped,
skipped, and jumped my way to the local Walmart, optimistic and drunken off of
Bud Light. Dilly Dilly!
"Sir, you're homeless. f*** off before I call the cops", the
potchmarked teenage usher cracked in a prepubescent voice. Knowing when I've
been defeated, I turned around to depart until... until he saw it. In my
pocket. "Nice cardigan.", the usher/greeter, Cobain, remarked.
"I'll trade access to the store to you for it." Well, hot diggity
dog! I ravenously tore the garment straight off my flesh, revealing that I was
wearing nothing underneath. "Uh, never mind.", Mr. Cobain asserted in
envy of my killer physique. "I'll just take the tape." Realizing a
good deal when I sense one, being a retired car salesman and former Calvinist
pastor, I tossed the tape to the man, refused to put my clothes back on, and
merrily dabbed my way through the store. After stealing a pint of delicious
Sam's Club pistachio and tide pod ice cream, I... I saw something that would
change my life forever. So... horrible. So horrifying. So... sad.
Kurdt was dead. Highly realistic blood, guts, sinew, and skull littered the
floor, as well as a discarded shotgun, pile of towels, and a note. "What.
The f***.", I muttered to myself in awe. I didn't know how to read, so I
picked up the note and had a customer service representative in home and garden
decor read it off to me. "Don't watch the tape, Boddah.", he muttered
under his breath. He stretched out his hand for a tip, but I spat a wad of
Sam's Club toffee nut and okrah chewing gum, instead. "f*** you,
Dolan.", I heard him mumble as I backed away, laughing to myself... and
tripped. Over a VHS tape. That tape ...
Well, all I can really say is that I have a law degree from
Trump University (mail-order--diploma received with a cardboard cutout of DJT
munching on a taco bowl), and I was raging mad and ready to sue! I walked up to
the Walmart manager, but he was too busy pouring sawdust on the corpse.
Apparently that's how you clean up a dead body. Kind of strange, but whatever.
I wiped the blood off the Looney Tunes tape with a ply of Sam's Club brand
toilet paper, and ruminated over the message from the departed. Why did he want
the tape so badly to begin with? And what could have possibly been on the tape
that was so bad that he would take his own wife, I mean cause his wife to
murder him, I mean take his own life? Now, I don't know what you'd do in this
situation, but for me, it was as easy as 1-2-3, and I ain't into 'new math'. I
jammed the VHS tape back into my cardigan pocket, broke into the employee break
room, and... well, this was odd. Unusual. Unkempt. There was an employee
training video playing on screen, but I couldn't quite get myself to turn it
off. A pale greenish, baby puke pyramid with a giant eye perused right into my
soul, while I felt... strangely at home.
"Ah, s***, sorry.", the manager--who was nametag revealed to be Mr.
Sam 'Club' Walton himself--volunteered, pulling the plug on the VCR. Hypnosis
was a mild inconvenience for sure, but as he did apologize, I let him know that
it was O.K., and invited him to some moldy jujyfruit that I kept in my back
pocket. No longer under the ravenous clutches of Walmart brand mind control, I
threw in the Looney Tunes tape, hit play, and smiled a wide, toothy grin,
anticipating the slapstick antics of the anthropomorphic Warner Bros.
characters that I grew up with back in the 1950s.
Now, if you've ever watched a Merry Melodies cartoon, you'd know that
there's this 'dndndn dn-dn-dn-dn-dn, dn dn dn dnnnnn' tune that they tend to
play as an intro, with the Warner Bros. WB logo presented as a zooming out
shield of arms. But what I saw... was not the classic Looney Tunes theme song.
It wasn't the classic Looney Tunes theme song at all. The characters...
Listen, I don't know if you've ever heard of the Lou Reed & Metallica
'LuLu' project, but it was a really wily thing. Lou Reed was a rock and roll
elderstatesman who read poetry about himself as a female hooker over
Metallica's trademark Black Sabbath heavy metal riffs, and the album was a huge
hit in America, Canada, and Southern Madagascar. But I've gotta tell ya,
that... ... that kind of music sounds more than a little strange when it's
coming out of the mouth of Dr. Wile E. Coyote.
"A bird! A bird! I've been chasing a bird!
But how can they say that the bird is the word?
I'll flip you the bird, and tell you to f*** off.
There's a message in my alpha-bits, and it says 'f*** your mom'
Well I've done it, I'm dead, call me Oedipus Rex
I'm done chasing bird meat, I'd rather eat lead
I know that sounds drastic but riddle me this
f*** s*** ass piss dick f*** s***--"
What the... cursing? In a children's cartoon? I've lived for a pretty long time
in my life, but cussing in a children's cartoon was foreign to me. The cartoon
camera or whatever you call it zoomed in to the tip of Wile E. Coyote's nose,
which was smeared in some sort of white powdery substance, before zooming in on
his bulging, bloodshot eyes... and, finally, jagged, dark green, razorblade
coyote teeth.
I let out a scream, but in a Walmart employee stockroom, no one can hear you
scream. With no other choice but to continue watching the tape, I did just
that.
As it turns out, 'The Looney Tunes Show' does star the legendary Warner Bros.
mascot Bugs B. Bunny, and the eponymous Daffy D. Duck, but the manner in which
they're presented is... strange. In this cartoon, they're roommates, and go
through Seinfeld-style sitcom moments together. The tape began with clips of
what I could only assume were past episodes.
As per usual, the meat of the episode began with Bugs,
historically the Looney Tunes' central protagonist, as a stand-up comedian. He
stepped up to the microphone, in front of an unseen audience, while they
awaited his stand-up routine. Bugs let out a cough, and... well, he rolled his
eyes as if he was dead. The audience burst out in laughter for some reason,
while I took a bite of a kellogg's corn pop breakfast cereal bar that I stole
from a disregarded aisle earlier.
Unfortunately, what I saw next wasn't in good taste, either.
"What's the big deal with smelly v******?", Bugs
started. "I mean, really." Sounds of crickets chirping played, while
I stared at the screen agape, chunks of half-eaten corn pop dangling out of my
mouth. "Okay. Fine. Tough audience. Alright, docs: I've got the comedy
store prescription for you." Bugs took out... a sawed-off shotgun?
"As y'all motherfuckers know, I'm a cartoon character and can't die from a
shotgun blast." Bugs paused. He grinned a widened, toothful grin that made
me yelp in terror. Normal people didn't smile like that. "I'm going to
need...", his pupils gyrated, symbolizing motion, as if he was looking
through the audience. "A volunteer." Within seconds, a fat, bald,
big-nosed douchebag wearing a trademark fedora (his favorite) came up to the
stage. As a fan of the golden era Warner Bros. motion picture cartoons, I
immediately recognized him as the backwoods hunter Elmer Fudd. "That'll
do, Doc." Bugs Bunny handed Mr. Fudd the gun, and Elmer did that thing
with his eyebrows that perverted gentiles do when they're going to commit
adultery. Difference was: Elmer was about to feed his bloodlust.
Now, believe me, disbelieve me, whatever, but Elmer Fudd
straight up... he straight up fucking shot Bugs Bunny right in his fucking
furry rabbit face. Bugs Bunny's head exploded while chunks of various
photo-realistic rabbit-man extremities flew into the cartoon camera and I let
out a shrill shriek of terrifying horror. This was not, COULD not, be a real
episode of the Looney Tunes! Greatly disturbed and hoping to go on my 'personal
15' so that I could use the bathroom, I called in the manager to complain.
"I pulled the plug on the VCR, you fucking idiot." Great: a
non-sequitur. Good for nothing Scrooge...
I flipped him the finger, quit my job, and put my cardigan
back on. I was deeply and profoundly offended by the tape and Mr. Walton's
misbehavior, and figured that my business was best taken elsewhere. I went to
the bathroom (in aisle) and swiped a few toothbrushes and a vat of singing
toothpaste before picking up a chair from the furniture department and walking
out with it. As the greeter was dead--if you've been following along like a
good boy, you'd know that, but who the fuck knows with you--no one cared about
the stolen goods, and the metal detector had been removed so that they could
dispose of the body without risking the thing going off from a gold tooth or
something. I picked up a pint of expired milk from the defectives bin and
chugged before tossing the thing all over the floor and picking up the big, red
corded phone that they use for requests and complaints from impatient
customers. "Clean up on Aisle 7!", I joked before belching and
hanging up, spitting milk all over the telephone receiver. I wiped my mouth
with a Sam's Choice towel before heading out through the back door.
The walk back 'home' was mostly pleasant. A
sunglasses-wearing teenaged boy on a skateboard told me to go fuck a chair, but
as that wasn't very clever, I shrugged and kept on carrying the thing en route
to my special, weshle little dumpster. When I finally made it back to my
'house' I planted the thing on the sidewalk, pulled my back, and realized, in
horror, that I left the tape back at the Walmart employee stockroom. What if
someone else saw the tape and was deluded into an untimely, self-imposed
death!?
Good thing I care about nobody else but myself.
I let out a chuckle. "Guess I'm gonna solve the world's
population problem.", I grimaced, grabbing the top of my dumpster and
chucking myself in. Now, when I do this, I normally land softly on some trash
bags, banana peels, or used feminine hygiene products, but this time, something
firm and strangely warm was...
Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no, no... No. No. No. It... it wasn't just any strange,
firm, warm thing that was situated under me. It was a body. A dead body. A
corpse. With... sawdust sprinkled on top of it. I flew open the dumpster top
for light and, to my shock, horror, and bewilderment... Cobain! The headless,
bloodied, freshly sawdusted corpse of Cobain was lying in my dumpstrous home
like the horse's head from Godfather Part 32! But what could this all mean? ...
Was there time to wonder what this could all mean? People would think that I
murdered Kurt Cobain! I let out a gasp, bit my lip, rubbed my lip after
realizing that I left a mark, and picked up Cobain's corpse and tossed it right
out of the dumpster. A right-foot pinky toe fell out and rolled off the
sidewalk and into the street like a lonesome chicken finger, but who gives a
s***? Well, apparently, the neighbors did, because I heard a scream. In my
disheveled calamity, I had forgotten to realize that putting the body out there
in public would make it seem more likely that I myself was the killer!
Unwilling to wait for the pigs (cops are pigs) to arrive, arrest me, and try me
for murder, I jumped out of the dumpster, accidentally stepping on KC's hobo
jacket. I heard a crunch, which made me realize... he may have had something
worthwhile in his pocket. Even though I had eaten pilfered Walmart goods
earlier, I was self-diagnosed diabetic, so I was hungry again and hoping that
the dead man was carrying with him some delicious Fritos corn chips--and,
hopefully, a can of sprite would be nearby.
But no. Upon my investigation, it was... .... I know you won't believe me, and
that's O.K. because you probably think 2 + 2 = 5, but there it was. The Looney
Tunes Show VHS tape! The foot crunching had only taken off an outer piece that
wouldn't keep it from still fitting into a VCR. Someone had jammed the Looney
Tunes VHS tape in the greeter's jacket. But... why?
Blue and red lights flashed, while a morbidly obese woman (I judged people by
their weight, so sue me Mr. Phoenix Wright) pointed her finger at me from a
fourth-story apartment window and shouted 'There he is, officer! There he is!
He murdered the American icon, Tom!'. I managed to hold back a holler, which
would have drawn extra unwarranted attention to my person, and made a sprint
down an alleyway, hopping over a picketfence, and into a long neglected
junkyard. An also morbidly obese, chocolate-skinned kid called me over.
"Hey, hey, hey!", he screamed. "Try this on! They'll never catch
you! They'll think you're a whole other person!". Exhausted and delirious
from my fifteen seconds of fast-paced running, I threw on the curly, red haired
wig. This changed my perception of overweight people, so I thanked the young
man and proffered him a single glob of singing toothpaste as a reward.
Even with my clever disguise, I knew that I had to stay out of sight and out of
mind. Perusing the junkyard for abandoned cars to hide in, I discovered a
raggedy, rusted-looking, wood-boarded shack--with one open window. Clutching my
wig so as not to return to my old self, I hopped in before looking, expecting
nothing but dry air, disheveled mice, and asbestos. Instead... there was a
desk. And a Zenith, boob-tube style, golden years era television. And a VCR. I
stared back and forth at the VCR and the Looney Tunes tape like Laurence and
Hardy or Abbot and Costanza or some other silent era comedy act. This had to
have been destiny. And I was destiny's child. Fittingly, I decided that my new
red-haired-person name would be Beyoncus (male version of Beyonce). Beyoncus
slammed the tape into the VCR, hit the play button, and braced for the remainder
of the show.
You know how people tend to think about how their life
hasn't always been easy? That's me, I guess, but at the same time, I know that
many have it worse. What I do in times of excessive stress is eat, or perhaps
play with my balls, but now felt like neither the time nor place for either
one. Now, the next scene to meet my eyes was... an oddball, to say the least.
The dwarf-heighted redneck cowboy character with a deep southern accent,
Yosemite Sam, was sitting on one of those doctor office table bed things that
they put a thin, papery sheet on top of. "Give it tah mah straight,
Doc...", Sam asked, sorrow in his eyes. "What ah gots is..."
"Epidymitis.", the doctor responded. "It's when your balls get
so twisted that there's torsion. It's amazing that your pain level is only a 7
out of 10. In extreme cases, they need to remove at least one of your
balls." "Well ain't that just shootin' jack rabbits.", Yosemite
responded before...
Okay. f*** this. I don't want to even say it. It's disgusting. It's disturbing.
It makes me wish that I never learned what a cartoon was. But it happened, and
I'm not gonna lie. Yosemite Sam shot himself in the balls. With his gun.
Crimson red liquid squirted out of Yosemite Sam's testicular region while I
gaped at the screen in horror. This was disgusting. I know I said it before,
but really. f*** this s***. It might be funny if you're a woman and don't know
what it's like to have aching balls, but this is horrible. I rammed my hand
into the VCR's tape slot, and was ready to yank the sucker out until I saw...
something that I simply was not ready for.
The next scene. The Tasmanian Devil was at the grocery store checkout line. Taz
looked around confused, and agitated that 12 people were in front of him.
"BEH!!!?!?", Taz alerted. "I guess we'll just have to wait our
turn, son.", his down-to-earth father suggested. "FRIZZLE FRIZ A
FREK!?", Taz blurted out, like a disruptive child with a terrible
disorder. "No reason to get feisty, son. We just gotta wait." Taz
looked... displeased. He tapped his finger on the candy rack of the checkout
aisle. Then he spat on the ground. Then... even his normally mild-mannered
father got pissed. "You need to keep your manners, son.", Taz Dad
asserted through gritted teeth. The scene changed to Taz lying in bed,
overhearing his mother and father talk smack about him. "I think our son's
r-worded.", Taz's mother suggests. "Oh, nonsense, dear. He's just got
some growin' up to do. He'll catch up with the other boys, someday." The look
on Taz's face, while he clenches his bedsheet and thinks the situation over, is
heartbreaking. It isn't that he looks sad, or that he's about to cry. It's
just... firm. Palefaced. You could tell that Taz didn't know how to handle the
criticism from his maternal and paternal parental units. Taz stayed up all
night, clenched his stuffed dinosaur with his eyes open, as darkness turned to
dawn turned to time-for-school. The scene changed to Taz in the principal's
office, with his parents called in, while his teacher showed them various
doodles he had been drawing during science class. The teacher and a noose, the
teacher and an explosion, the teacher and a pencil jammed between her teeth
while a beaver chews on her and eats her alive... you know the drill. Taz gets
expelled, while his mother and father cry.
I could never have been ready for the scene that followed. Not in 100 million
billion gazillion years. Taz was at church, wolfing down all of the communion
wafers and drinking all of the wine AND grape juice before belching. "That's
it! OUT OUT OUT!!!", the preacher yelled, tossing the Tasmanian Devil out
on his furry ass. That was a strange scene for a children's cartoon, but what
made matters worse... listen, I feel bad for telling you this, but get ready.
Be prepared. Because... because...
Taz came back. With a tank. And a grenade. Guns. Ammo. A missile. And he
spun...
... and he spun. Inside the church. And as he spun... the
force. Like a tornado. Like a hurricane. He killed... he killed. Arms flying.
Legs in the air. He killed all of those poor, innocent people. And then he took
out his assault rifle, and he... he shot the preacher in the face. Blood, guts,
bone, sinew, skull pieces, and pieces of pages from the Joseph Smith
translation Bible. This was... this was too much. I let out an angry scream and
aroused police sirens within seconds, but I didn't care. They could come and
get me for all I cared. But who they should have been really arresting... who
they really should have been arresting was whoever made this horrible, horrible
Looney Tunes lost episode VHS tape.
The scene changed one more time. It was a stage, with
various podiums. Daffy Duck, Lola Bunny, Speedy Gonzales, the gophers,
Sylvester Cat, Tweety Bird, Foghorn Leghorn, Pepe LePew, Petunia Pig, the
Roadrunner. They're all there. All of them. And they're all...
... running for President? "But first.", Speedy
begins, "Leet's deespel with thees feection that Beaky Buzzard doesn't
know what hee's doeeng. He knows..." "There's that mesmerized
40-second Hollywood speech again!", Sylvester asserts, while his
supporters applaud. The fuck was this? "Well, I...", Pepe begins.
"Shut the fuck up", Daffy responds. "I'll annul your delegates
and deport you back where you were born, Frenchie." ... The fuck. Was.
This? "Well, ah say, ah say!", Foghorn interjects. "Protectin'
2nd Amendment rights is a Constitutional requirement of a Senator! And as a
Senator of mah native state of--"
Suddenly, there was an audible gun shot. Heard. Then
multiple, audible, gun shots. Heard. Then... some really shitty stillshot
animation. But not just animation. Claymation. All of the characters turned
into clay. Red clay. Blood red clay. That melted. Into puddles. Of clay.
All of the Looney Tunes... all of the Looney Tunes were
dead.
I got it now. I finally got it now. At first, I thought it
was all an editorial on the decay in the quality of the Looney Tunes brand in
an attempt to reach today's kids, but no. Well, yes, it was about reaching
today's kids, but it wasn't about a sharp decline in quality that involves
looney tunes as comedians or babies or basketball players. It was about change.
It was about changing the law. Enforcing new laws. These animators... these
animators were out to save the world. A pitiful world. Our world. And if
Hollywood had any power, any sway at all... they could do it quickly. At a
young age. They could mold young minds. They could save lives.
My eyes were widened like saucers. The tape hit static, as
it was at an end. I ejected it. Grabbed it. I jumped out the window, getting
cut up and bloodied and bruised from the nails of the splintered wooden boards.
But I just didn't care anymore. Tape firmly in hand, I ran, and I ran.
Empowered by the spirit of the Looney Tunes' sociopolitical prowess, I
supernaturally held my stamina and made it past my dumpster, over the greeter
corpse, javelined my middle-aged body over my stolen chair... and eventually, I
was back at Walmart.
I rang the counter bell. "I demand service!", I
screamed. The lady cashier stared at me like I was fucking nuts before offering
me a cigarette, which I declined for conscientious as well
as health-related reasons. Finally... he came back. Mr. Walton, with a balled
up fist and angry brow. And he was... he was pissed. "I see that you stole
my tape.", he began. "Now hand it back to me before I conveniently
lock it in a vault that no one can ever open, while you narrate your story to
handfuls or dozens of jewel-eyed miscreants on the Internet, none of whom will
ever believe you!" He expected me to fight back with words, but all I had
was an object. The Looney Tunes VHS tape. Channeling my inner John Rocker, I
fastballed it right into Mr. Walton's skull.
Sam Walton exploded. His innards rained on me like
Nickelodeon slime, but I didn't care. I had saved the world from gun violence.
That was the most important thing.
Or so it was to me. In all honesty, the police arrived
shortly afterward, since the cashier phoned the cops, probably concerned about
losing her job due to her boss being popped like a balloon by a VHS tape, or
some s***. The officers cuffed me, though curiously enough, they took me to a
white, padded room instead of the downtown precincts. They didn't even ask me
much of any questions. Some tall, muscular guy wrapped me in a jacket that I
had no idea how to get out of, and they tossed me in the can. From what I
gather, gun violence is still a thing, and nothing has changed, despite all of
my hard work and manslaughter...
I hope this letter finds you. I wrote it with my own blood, biting into my own
flesh to produce a medium to write with, using pieces of jacket as paper. My
carrier pigeon anxiously awaits her cargo. Washington, D.C., I understand that
you're slow to change, and that when new faces get voted in, they're quick to
change spots and become just like who's already been in there. But please...
drain the swamp. Change the laws. Before it's all too late. Before the children
have no more beloved cartoon characters to grow up on. And every musical icon
shoots himself in the head.
In the meanwhile, I suppose I'm just a man, alone, with his thoughts. And a
curly, red wig. But no amount of television-based commercialization could
change my own personality and way of life, I can tell you that much. Not even
with all of the f***ed up s*** I've seen and lived through.
What I'd do for a Bud Light, right now...
Dilly dilly.
The end.
Category:Trollpasta
Category:Lost Episodes
Category:Memes
Category:Pages with grammar that doesn't suck
Category:YT Readings
Category:MOTHER OF FUCK THIS PAGE IS LONG LIKE MY PAINIS