Mr. Peabody and Sherman (Lost Episode)

Hello! I'm Mr. Peabody. And this here is my boy, Sherman. Oh, that's right. You can't see him, because you're only listening to this.
Well, listen up, my jewel-eyed miscreant amigo. I have a spine-tingling tale to narrate your everly unsuspecting way. Or... unsuspecting until now, because I just told you it's coming.
You know what? Shut up. Fuck you. I'm a talking dog with a PhD from Harvard Law. I operate a candy shop in downtown Newark, New Jersey, and I'm a board-certified doctor, lawyer, and Indian chief. Dig it? ... Well, I do. 'Cause I'm a fuckin' dog. Woof. Woof. Oh, who let the dogs out?
Now, normally I stay in my office, where I study and prepare for my future time-travelling adventures, but lately I've been feeling an instance of what you humans call cabin fever. Having long ago solved my own personal financial situation for life, I stopped knowing what 'the struggle' was. I tried running the pimping business to pass the time, but beefing over turf is for cows, and I'm not much of a taco salesman.
I'd recently returned from my trip to Paris to convince Napoleon that no one would ever take a man named 'Bonaparte' seriously. I sighed in disheveled discontent, laying down by my office desk because I had felt like I had conquered it all. I went back to 4004 BC and witnessed the Creation of the world. I convinced the Japanese that Pearl Harbor was just an innocuous offshore pearl harboring facility. I went back to the stone ages, patented the wheel, and invented rock and roll music before the primitives attempted to stone me to death for being too hep for the kids of the day. There was nothing left. Or so I had thought.
Look—or, I mean, listen... listen up, what I'm about to tell you is pop secret. Shit. I meant top secret, I've got popcorn on the brain. Literally. I duct-taped a pan carton of Jiffy Pop to my brain and duct tape isn't microwavable, so now I'm dead.
But... I still have time left to warn you about 'the struggle'. The real 'struggle'. I had my boy, Sherman... 'Oh hey, Mr. Peabody!'... shut the fuck up... dial in our time travel destination in the Wayback Machine. April 20th, 1969. 7PM. John Lennon was recording at Studio 3, EMI Studios, Abbey Road. I had to warn him that he was going to inspire Oasis, but it was too late. He was already recording a vocal take for the sludgy cult rock sensation "I Want You (She's So Heavy)", along to the spacy bass rock guitar.
I tried tapping on the glass, but it was to no avail. The glass was soundproof. He couldn't hear me... and if he could, he would have had a heart attack from seeing me, because I was a talking fucking dog.
So, Sherman was mingling with the drummer while I considered taking a few minutes and checking if the future Mr. Ono had finished his melodic wailing. I decided to follow this course, but as it turns out, I'm a diabetic, so I walked off to the studio cafeteria to purchase a hot dog and an Orange Slush soda.
But... what I saw behind the cafeteria counter... well, let me tell ya. It sent a shiver down my spine, and that's a very bad thing for dogs. Listen: I'm sure you've heard about creepy lunch ladies, but this one took the cake, and she was serving cake. Chocolate conspiracy cake. But what really stopped me in my canine tracks was not choice of cuisine.
The Abbey Road Studios cafeteria lunch lady... who had undoubtedly served The Beatles...
Was a beetle. Realizing that I had never heard of a bug lady person, I thought back to my studies on the taxonomy of adults. Nothing. Nothing. Not a thing. What I was witnessing was even more disturbing when I considered that I was time-traveling in the British 1960s in an open environment cafeteria. How could this be—oh, then the cafeteria lady removed her disguise. Cheap, plastic bug legs. Well, that made sense.
Having worked up an appetite from the false alarm, I ordered a ham sandwich and laughed at myself for my careless bigotry and assumption. However, that wasn't even the worst part. In fact, it was far from the worst part. The very worst part of all was the fact that I was laughing, and while I was laughing, I choked on a big slice of salted pig flesh.
I was choking. And no one was noticing, or cared. I tried administering the Heimlich maneuver to myself, and I only ended up pelvis thrusting like Elvis Presley. And it was too late. Elvis had been discovered well over 10 years prior. Also, I was dead. Highly realistic canine gore flew everywhere while they rushed me to the hospital. But I was dead far from before arrival.
At this point, you may be wondering how I know all of this and how I'm telling you all of this right now. In the event that you are, maybe you should try shutting the fuck up for a moment so that I can tell you.
As I'm sure you know from my millions upon zillions of amazing misadventures, I am a time traveler. Now, you may not think that time travel is real, but I assure you that it's every bit as real as your involuntary virginity. All you have to do is [information redacted by the government], and you can build your very own Wayback Machine out of household supplies.
But as for me, it was much too late. The very first moment that I had ever time-travelled...
So, here's what happens when you die. You die, and what that really means depends on how you lived your life. In my case, I was a time traveler, and that's actually a really unethical profession when you think about it, because it enables you to change the universe from being what it was originally intended to be. The thing is, there's no greater punishment for a time traveler than to use time as a means or mechanism of misleading the traveler into thinking that his eternal destiny is something different than it was meant to be.
Approximately 576 minutes later after my death-by-ham-sandwich, I found myself floating up to the mortuary ceiling. I was disconnecting from my body. After assuming that I was never going to separate from it. In a lickety-split blink of an eye, I went soaring through the clouded sky and into frosty cold outer space. Stars and galaxies shined and shimmered with lustuous beauty, while I flew into the sun and burnt to a crisp.
And as it turns out, hell is indeed real, and it's not Atlantic City, New Jersey. Hell is in the sun. A massive, slowly decaying body of heat, gas, and Jiffy Pop, my ashen corpse popped into a waiting room chair while I was instructed to await my final judgment. To be determined by the dark prince, himself...
Curious and alarmed by my blindingly burning surroundings, I made notice of my fellow awaitees. Socrates, Joan of Arc, Hitler, Napoleon Dynamite... nothing terribly out of the ordinary, though I had no idea that Napoleon Dynamite was dead. Also, John Lennon was there, wearing a Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds t-shirt.
But I was so sick of flying... and this was hell. I was in hell. I wanted out. My genius instincts kicked in, and I rummaged through every desk, couch cushion, and potted plant for [redacted by the government], realizing that my only chance of getting out of this wretched inferno was to build a Wayback Machine replica.
And I was there. One more item. One more common, everyday, household item, and then all I needed was to do was assemble... assemble it like I just purchased a dining room table from an IKEA retail outlet. But then...
'Oh, I'm sorry... your number's up', asserted a woman secretary, who apparently was a 6th grade math teacher in her Earthly life. I hate to admit it, but at that point, as much of a highly esteemed Ivy League gentleman as I am... I was scared. Yet... my Skull and Bones training taught me that there was nothing to be afraid of. I had spent a whole weekend in a casket without food, lied to the Westboro Baptist Church and told them that I was gay, and had been urinated upon by several future Supreme Court justices... while pinching multiple pieces of cantaloupe between my buttcheeks. Clearly, life had provided me with inadequate enough training to endure a face-to-face meeting with Beezlebub himself.
So... escorted by Miss Euclidea or whatever the fuck her name was—if women people even have names—I twisted open the doorknob to reveal...
Oh, my sweet cheese and crackers...
I never expected...
"Sherman!!!", I exclaimed. "How could it be? All this time? You're..."
"The Devil!?", my brushed-up hair ginger buddy sidekick smirked. "Oh, Mr. Peabody... even you couldn't have deduced... in all of your training? And so many years... you had call me your 'pet boy', as if I was a fucking dog. You made me wear a collar, and visit a veterinarian as if he was a human doctor. You even...".
"I kept you sheltered and fed!", I shouted in defense, pounding Sherman-Satan's desk with my canine fist. "You fed me Alpo, three times a day!", he shrieked like a little bitch. "But I suppose I have nothing to complain about... after all, I've been spying on you." "Ehr!?!?"
He stared, piercingly, with bloodshot eyes, as if thrusting freshly sharpened javelins into my soft-jellied soul. "At divine request..." "The fuck?", I muttered under my breath. "BEHOLD!!!", Satan screamed, so loud that I was surprised that I could hear it and not just dogs, but then again I kind-of-sort-of am a dog, technically.
A hologram projection was broadcasted onto Satan's office wall, while I observed.
It was the Garden of Eden! Adam and Eve, and the apple, and the Serpent! The difference was that, this time, the woman never took the apple. "Now do you see!?!?", Satan squealed. "If I had not planted the ersatz bug lady and made you choke on that ham sandwich, our time travelling adventures never would have ceased! Man would have become as the gods!!!", Satan exclaimed. "And don't think that I didn't just notice your little... charade, in the waiting room!", Satan's spiky tail curled in the air like a cat's. And I don't like cats.
"Even in the afterlife, you're dangerous, Mr. Peabody. And there's only one fix for this...", Satan hurled his pitchfork, as it spun and spun... hastening to my throat. I was helpless. I was powerless. I was going to die a third, and final time.
Outside of the playground of Barack H. Obama Elementary School in inner-city Chicago, a non-profit student named Winston rose to his feet. "What a terrible nightmare!", the well-intentioned young man muttered to himself. "I wonder what even came over me? I... I must have exhausted myself from working so hard. The children must be worried sick about me.
Winston brushed the dirt off his t-shirt and jeans. He was supposed to be helping the 6th grade math teacher, Miss Euclidea, calm the kids down for their division with exponents exam. He put his hand to the pole that held the basketball net and backboard, and took approximately 12 steps... and tripped. And fell. Over a VHS tape, of all things...
Some child must have discarded it there, earlier that day. Winston examined the VHS tape's label sticker. It read:
'Mr. Peabody and Sherman in: Hell Comes the Sun'...
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Category:Satire
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Category:Lost Episodes
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