Step By Step: A Lost Episode

Hey, bitch. Yeah, you. Do my laundry. Whore. What's that? You wanna lick my lollipop? Welcome to the candy store. I'll give ya dinner and a movie. Or rather, a story via VHS tape format, ya bootlickin' little cat girl. Get yer claws out. Kitty can scratch. Thank goodness it's Friday.
Does anyone remember Step by Step? I bet you don't, because you don't remember anything beyond your urges for others to satisfy your basic needs. Stop and think about it. Your mother and father spent two years shoving food in your mouth and wiping your ass and teaching you right from wrong before Does anyone remember Step by Step? It was a 1980s television sitcom starring the infamous Patrick Duffy, who died in the final episode falling down the steps. It was planned all along. Hence the show's title.
As for me, I work for the government. I'm a Secret Service agent. I carry around the nuclear football. You'd never guess the password, so don't bother, you're just going to piss me off. Inside of it I keep a red rubber dildo and a super soaker that I delude the terrorists into believing is a real gun. Also inside of the suitcase is a VHS tape. The Lost Episode of Step by Step, which is actually a bit deceiving, for it was never truly lost. We, I, the government, confiscated it, because the people simply were not ready yet. And neither are you, but I'm bored and lonely and it's Friday night. Thank goodness it's...
I'd play it for you but you probably don't own a VHS player because you're poor. Here's what happens. You turn the thing on and the little butterpop jingle starts a jiffy-poppin' like a squaredancing turtle. "Step by Step, day by day, you inserted the VHS, now you're gonna pay." But pay with what? That's the real question. It was the 90s, so the dollar was still a popular currency. The intro played as normal, except when the family is riding the rollercoaster: the rollercoaster flies off the rails, explodes, and presumably, they all died. Presumably. This caused a continuity error because the show continues as normal afterwards, so I'm guessing it's just one of those mysteries that science will never solve. You can calculate the circumference of the ferris wheel using pi.
The episode began with middle-aged chest hair television father Patrick Duffy walking in from work drunk. The audience clapped, though from the muffled mouth noises I'm guessing they were gagged. "It sure was a long day at the orifice I mean office!". Hah haha. Well, it was true that the program aired on ABC's Anybody But Clinton Thank God It's Friday variety hour, so this was more or less a typical episode of Step by Step.
Every week, Patrick Duffy would try to fuck his wife, but he would get his dick stuck in a Chinese finger trap that they used as a sex toy. Fact of the matter is, the show's title was a deep and powerful metaphor for how Patrick Duffy lost his penis from being stepped on repeatedly with steel boots. "Boner, get in here!", Patrick Duffy screamed, hitting himself in the dick area repeatedly. The audience laughed, and then they sighed. Then they 'awwwed'. I guess that was the appropriate response.
Now, I know you're not going to believe me, but something really strange happened. Boner popped out. Not a boner, mind you, but Boner. Patrick Murphy's son. His head. Was. Ah.
His head was where his 'head' would be. You know.
In his pants.
Patrick Duffy unzipped his pants and Boner popped out. He just kind of... fell out, onto the floor, covered in some sort of sticky substance. I'm guessing it was melted wax. I could kind of smell it from the VCR, but it may have just been paint melting and dripping off my apartment walls.
"Thank you for birthing me, father.", Boner stated in a thick German accent. He was wearing a green Robin Hood cap with a feather protruding from the tippy point. He was fat, about 4 foot tall, and smiling. *deep exhaling* I understand that you might think you remember the show and that's not the character but Duffy called for Boner and there was no room for comments from the peanut gallery. I got up and made some popcorn, ignoring that my pet cat Tennessee Tuxedo had knocked over a candle and started a first-degree housefire (apartmentfire shut the fuck up). I was hungry and if you look over Abraham Maslow's hierarchy of needs, hunger comes first.
I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, disheveled. As a Caucasian man who secretly wishes he was a girl, I had a lot of Nutella, but right now only the crunchy crunch of Orville Reddenbacher could satisfy. I reached for a bag and forgot to remove the wrapping, plopping it into the microwave and tapping the keys in anger to 3 minutes and 14 seconds.
Now, I hate to let you in on this, but I belched and I farted and I nearly obscured the sound of something that would have saved my life. I was stuck in a reverie about the time I unzipped my own pants and inseminated my high school sweetheart, Isabelle. Just kidding, I was an involuntary virgin. I was once married, though. A married stepfather.
I frantically pried open the microwave door with my fingers and an expired credit card. The popcorn was only halfway popped, but I couldn't think about it anymore. About her. And him. I tore off the heated plastic with my canine incisors and poured the popcorn into a plastic bag, dragging my body and broken dreams back onto the couch cushion and pressing play again, briefly forgetting that I never turned the tape off or paused it to begin with.
"And now for a word for our sponsor!". Patrick Duffy was holding a 12 ounce can of Duffy Beer as the program changed over to an in-progress infomercial for Looney Tunes VHS tapes.
"You know, my father would have liked this.", Chuck Jones Jr. said with a big smile. He pointed to a 14-karat watch with Bugs Bunny's face on it. "14 carrots! A ha hahahaha!". I wanted to kill myself, but before I could get my gun the program returned to normal. Normal is a relative thing, though, 'cause, ah... Patrick Duffy. The Duffy. That, ah, Duffy. He was, uhm...
Wait a minute. Patrick Duffy. The Duffmeister. Duffy. He suddenly... he suddenly had the beak of daffy duck. What the fuck, duck! This wasn't Patrick Duffy! That was Patrick Daffy! And that wasn't even his name on the show!
His wife screamed at the cartoon beak and threw her shoe at him. "You're despicable!", he asserted. Boner nodded his head in frenetic agreement in hopes of his step father's approval. I screamed in a moment of genius. You know, when you think about it, a stepfather is just a cuck, anyway. Yes, Patrick Daffy duck was a cuck and so was I. Patrick Covfefe Duck.
Anyway, this episode was fucking awful so I got off my ass and turned it off by pressing the power button. Just kidding, I yanked the coax cables and electrocuted myself. Highly realistic gore, blood, and tiny pieces of bone flew everywhere, and also my hairpiece was fried ashen.
Once I regained my composure I did the only thing I could do. I went into my bedroom, and reached for the good book. The book that came with the VHS tape. A little black book that had gotten dusty from years of not being cracked open. I wheezed in the dust and blew so that I could read the title. It was in size 45 Times New Roman blue italicized subscript. "Step by Step: How to Commit a Terroristic Attack". Yes, that's right, thanks for asking, you bitch: it was the Anarchist Cookbook by Patrick Duffy, more or less, if he even knew how to cook. A step by step of plans and procedures. One step after another.
"Step 1: You need to have a cat." Well, duh. "Step 2: Lots and lots of Nutella." Mmm hmm. "Step 3: Rub Nutella on the feline underbelly." It had now become fairly obvious what I had to do. I had to catch my cat. I knew what I would do: I would leave a trail of popcorn kernels that led up to the TV, and suck him inside forever.
But some things in life don't go according to plan. I shrieked in horror! The cat was out of the bag! Yes, that's right. Tennessee Tuxedo—had already eaten all of my popcorn!
I went to grab my pussy but I tripped and fell and banged my head. A crimson stain squirted out and got into the VHS player so I ran over to the fucker and tried to yank the tape out. Unfortunately it reminded me of the intercourse I never had so I kept pulling it back and forth and forth and back groaning and like a pulley and a fulcrum the sheer pressure of the physical action knocked me backwards, through my sliding patio door and I flew off the side railing to a 12-story death.
"You know, it didn't have to end this way.", Tennessee Tuxedo purred, a vixen. "You could have loved him as your own son, despite not being biologically yours."
"Fuck you cat". Tennessee Tuxedo agreed that that was kind of a dick move and he rewound time using his magic cat powers that he learned from the book, rubbing Nutella over his own body and purring in miscreotic pleasure. Well, that's about it for my story. I'm guessing you'd like to know what I'm up to now. I quit my government job. Turned out that the code to the nuclear football was Duffy. I'm in a wheelchair now. Tennessee thought it'd be funny if he never fixed my legs. I guess I deserved it. After all, it's time that I learned to depend on others. I sold the VHS at a yard sale and started a new life as a Professor of Physics at the University of Cambridge. I teach classes in Step by Step. Basketweaving, and how to microwave popcorn.
60 years passed and I was about to retire when I heard a tapping at my chamber door. My office door. "Yes—who is it?", Tennessee Tuxedo, now a very old cat, meowed. A man in a trench coat stepped out of the shadows and through my chamber door. He was smoking a cancer stick (that's slang for cigarette), which is illegal on campus grounds. "Please put out your smokes.", Tennessee Tuxedo growled. I let out a shrill scream of horrifying pain when he put it out on my bald head. (My hair never grew back from the cokes cable incident.)
"We know you have our tape, Quailman." "Officer Quailman to you", I barked back, knowing when I was being threatened. I should have known better than to double cross the yankee government. "I kindly request that you give it back, and follow our instructions step...
by step."
Well, I'll be darned. I'm no one to give in to terroristic threats. I grabbed onto my sword cane and prepared for battle. "Oh, so you're going to kill me.", he responded in a cigarette voice. "Very well. But before you do..." He pulled off his trench coat, and I... I yelled. Like an old yeller. Like a dog. Oh my... oh my god. Oh my gah. Oh my gah. Oh my god.
It was. It was...
"I AM SCUZZLEBUTT! LORD OF THE MOUNTAINS! BEHOLD MY PATRICK DUFFY LEG!" The truth was real. Patrick Duffy was real. He had no legs, but he was real. And Scuzzlebutt had a leg, and it was Patrick Duffy. I figured that now was a good time to let him know that I had sold the tape at a yard sale, but it was too late. Scuzzlebutt grabbed my wheelchair and pushed me through the Cambridge campus halls at the speed of the lightning. No one stopped to notice or cared about the dog-like mountain creature with the anthropomorphic leg.
We went on like this for fifteen miles. I won't bullshit, it was a lot of fun, other than the fact that I was going to die. I had no sense of direction because Patrick Duffy Leg blinded me with a blindfold, but I knew what was up. The smell of burnt wax, and campers toasting buttered popcorn.
I opened my eyes to the sight of my soon-to-be-demise. Springfield Gorge.
Patrick Duffy slid me a skateboard. "Cowabunga, dude", he chortled.
"You won't get to make it better, the second time around.", Scuzzlebutt butted in. Fat fuck.
You know, it's a funny thing, when you know you're about to die. You get an opportunity to smell the roses and breathe in the air one last time. I was pretty pissed that I was a paraplegic, though. "Come on, kid. Take a swim." ... The fuck, Duffy. There was no water around.
"You know, Patrick. I think I get it now...". Yes. Yes, that's it. The twinkle in my eye. The unkempt curly beard from decades of wandering homeless wisdom. I had finally learned it all. The secret of life.
"Step by step? Wheel by wheel. Life is simply a wheel within a wheel, and we are the riders of the horses, on the carousel. It might seem like all of 'life'—that is, the facets of life that we enjoy and acknowledge as our own—are an opiate for the masses, with ABC television programs, snack food, talking cats, the Michelin man, but what is life really without the things that truly matter? Family. Even if they were not produced from your own loins, and even if it wasn't the first time you had family. A wife, an adopted son who skips school to unironically blast Saturday morning cartoon theme songs on his earbuds and order you to carry him raspberry pop tarts and grape soda... even that is the power of sheer joy. See this gorge in front of us, Patrick? When we get divorced, or otherwise lose a loved one, it is like we took the plunge into the abyss. But we can pull ourselves out of it, with a little help from our friends. You know? There's reason to be, to believe, to stand up and walk. Golly GEE, man! I bet that if I just really thought about it, really willed it, believed it in my heart, I could get up and walk and—"
"Alright, fuck this." While Patrick Duffy was distracted, Scuzzlebutt smacked me in the back of the head with the skateboard, and I fell out of the wheelchair plummeting to my death. A finalizing crack was overheard by doves, pigeons, squirrels, and a displaced sea otter who was ever so far from home.
"Hey, Satan.", I sneered. "How's about another episode of Step by Step?".
"Thank goodness it's Friday", the devil nodded.
"Every day is Fry-day in Hell."
The end.
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