“You’ve done it again, George!” my boss yelled excitedly. I had just written my magnum opus, a 126 page creepypasta involving the Jetsons. I worked part time as a writer for cartoon network. I was known as a buffer in the industry. A story might need additional fart jokes, or to remove a subtle reference to the September 11th attacks on the world trade center. When my boss needed little things like that fixed, they gave my phone a dial.
Before I continue with my story, you should know that my name is George Jetson. I have no relation to the character from the popular Hannah Barbara franchise. My father was a cobbler of shoes, and my mother invented the little things at the end of shoelaces that help you thread them. This strange coincidence has plagued my life. It almost led me to suicide once, a long time ago. Imagine all of those bullies, who insulted me, for my fucking name. “Hey George, where’s your space ship?” and “Hey George, nice treadmill, jerkass. Go run with your dog, fuckface. Fuck you, you cancerous asshole from the year 69.” I loathed those boys. This is about the lost episode of the Flinstones, though.
Anyway, I was sipping a delicious pink lemonade from a fruity straw when my boss told me that my newest story had made the present of Cartoon Network burst into tears because it was so beautiful. What a lot of people don’t know about Cartoon Network is that most scripts are written by interns to save precious dollars from Jane and Eric’s lunch money piggy bank. Pricks. When stories are rejected, the scripts get chopped up and forced through the Google Adsense machine known as youtube. Countless nerds narrate the leftover pieces of the stories, some are animated, some aren’t, and we get what you all traditionally call “Creepypasta.” Well, let me tell you something, there’s nothing creepy about it. More like sheepypasta, because the people who read this shit are sheep. Ba’a’a’a’. That’s my sheep imitation. Compliment it.
Listen up my bizzle. I had been rooting around in the cartoon network archives when I noticed one of the old news sets was missing from the tape reel and located in a set of binaries hex coded to match the surplus of 2001. Well call me a hotdog and slap a bun on me, it was a fucking Flinstones VHS. Not just any, though. It showed the Flinstones: Fred, Wilma and baby Pebbles. But then beneath them was the dirt, and a long expanse of earth showing countless fossilized skeletons. Not dinosaur skeletons, mind you. Human skeletons. The kind that people have. I felt a shiver up my spine as I looked at the skeletons. They looked familiar…
I stole the VHS tape from the back office and quickly drove home in my brand new Miata with hot pink trimming. I could’ve been fired for this. I felt like a pool boy stealing melons from a mansion patio on a hot summer day. I simply had to view this VHS. I’ve been talking a lot, so let’s put the VHS tape in now and watch the video.
I put the VHS tape into the VHS player, rewinded it because whoever last watched it wasn’t so kind, and pressed play. My heart skipped a beat when I saw what appeared onscreen. It was the normal Flinstones intro, but the quarry was filled with skeletons piled high as the eye can see. A weird eye symbol was etched to Fred’s right hand. “YABA DABA-“ I expected him to say “doo” but instead, he said “Stab you”. So the whole line was “YABA DABA stab youuuuu” Fred was shown holding a knife. Instead of jumping into his car after sliding down the brontosaurus, he was shown stabbing mister slate. He slowly undressed the dead body and began to dry hump it. It horrified me to find out that Fred had been naked underneath that orange outfit for all these ears. His little penis flapped in the wind as he threw the dead body into the quarry and jumped into his “car.” He starts to drive, but becomes frustrated because he’s using his bare feet to push the incredibly heavy stone column wheels. He eventually stubs his toe on a small rock and slams his head on the front of the car. Fred starts to cry and the intro music stops playing. The car’s “airbag” explodes and it’s revealed to be a dead sloth that flies out and slams into Fred’s face before shattering his jaw and breaking into pieces.
Fred continues to cry, and it sounds like the real voice actor’s tears. A wooly mammoth with a red cross on its side shows up. I guess it was supposed to be an ambulance, but instead of helping the situation it attacks Fred and destroys the stone aged automobile. It stomps on Fred’s head while he continues to cry and beg for mercy. The camera just sort of sits there while the wooly mammoth kills fred.
The scene immediately cuts to Wilma sitting at home, alone. You just see her pick up the phone and start crying while she listens on the other end. I felt a deep sadness watching this part. You could tell that Fred really died in this episode and that he wouldn’t be coming back. As I continued watching, it turns out Fred killed Mr. Slate because he was embezzling funds from the quarry. It didn’t explain why he had sex with the corpse, though. Strange…it turns out the quarry had discovered early traces of fossil fuel.
The final scene was the most disturbing. You see a pterodactyl fly into the window of baby Pebbles and steal her. You see the pterodactyl feed the crying baby pebbles to a set of hungry baby pterodactyls that quickly gobble her up. There is a lot of highly realistic gore and the sound of a baby crying before its throat is snapped into two pieces.
I felt like I was going to be sick. I had been eating a bowl of Fruity Pebbles to commemorate this occasion, but I was forced to vomit them up in distaste. All over my Persian rug that I purchased at bed, bath and beyond. The rug was ruined by this television viewing experience. With heavy disappointment, the sounds audio increased tenfold and I heard someone yelling “BARNEY, MY PEBBLES. BARNEY, MY PEBBLES. BARNEY, MY PEBBLES.” Over and over again. It was really hurting my eardrums. I heard a loud pop and abruptly lost hearing in my left ear. I hit stop on the VHS tape player but it continued to play.
The next day I put on a suit and tie and got ready for work. It was a bowtie, as I often wear bowties on my most festive work day. I wore it on take your daughter to work day because I didn’t want to seem like the only employee who didn’t have a daughter. I still couldn’t hear out of my left ear.
Something strange was going on, and I know that you are wondering what it is, so keep listening because even though the VHS tape is over, there’s still a lot more left to my horrific tale. I decided to go to the doctor and get my ear checked out. I walked into the office and tried signing in, but my pen would no longer write for some reason. I instead used their pen, and signed my name. George J. The sassy black receptionist laughed at me. I told her that I wasn’t the real George Jetson, that the real George Jetson died in a fire years ago, and I had to see the doctor.
The doctor couldn’t diagnose my lack of hearing. He used a magnifying glass to observe. “You have an obstruction, son.” He said. “I can’t quite see what it- what?” He said. I felt increasingly nervous as his tube probed my earlobe. “My god.” He said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
I began to sweat, shake and shiver as he felt around the obstruction in my ear. What was it? What was it? What in god’s name was it? He slid a pair of tweezers into my ear and slowly, slowly, pulled it out as I felt the anticipation inside me growing.
“My god.” He exclaimed. “It’s a flintstone vitamin!” I looked at it. Indeed, it was a Flintstone vitamin. The tiny purple barney vitamin smiled at me. It was a sinister smile, I’ll tell you that much. “Don’t mind if I do.” The doctor smiled, and slowly put the vitamin in his mouth. He chewed it slowly and smiled at me.
I immediately left the office without paying. Something was going on here. As I drove down the interstate, my car broke down. Now, normally, I wouldn’t worry, but it seemed like someone had intentionally popped my tires. All four of the tires were flattened. Was someone following me? I looked to my left, out into the field. It was a mechanic’s shop. I put my car into neutral and pushed it into the mechanic’s shop.
Inside…was a man who looked exactly like Fred Flinstone, except Hispanic. I know what you’re thinking- how could a Hispanic Fred Flinstone run a mechanic’s shop just outside of Little Havana? Well, he had an orange cavesuit on and I could also see the outline of his genitalia, proving he had no underwear on. Same hair, same blue tie, same lack of pants. Even the nose and grizzled mug were the same. IN fact, if you look at the original drawing of Fred Flintstone, he has all the features of a Hispanic man. It’s almost as though they recolored him to look white. Almost.
“I no Fre flisto” he said to me, though I hadn’t accused him of anything. “I wa Halloween parte- I got kicked ouch had to work as mechanic no blowjobs” he smiled at me. I looked at the nametag on the desk. Fidel Flinstone was his name. “I fix you carh” he smiled. I handed him a hundred pesos and he took out a small grill and began to make some enchiladas. I ate them as it was about the time when I would have taken my lunch break. They were decent, though admittedly they tasted like typical mechanic enchiladas. He also gave me a cup of tea.
As Fred returned my car, I felt a shiver creep up my spine. He had ripped out the entirety of the car’s floor and the engine was missing. He had replaced the wheels with heavy stones and removed the brakes and any ability for the car to turn. Someone, and I’m not sure if it was him, had taken a dump in the backseat. Upon closer inspection, it was him.
“Car is fix!” he smiled. “taco daba doo!” he yelled. He had destroyed my car. I was fuming with anger. This wasn’t just any car. This was a miata, the king of automobiles. I walked straight into that office and collected my pesos. I grabbed him by the orange leopardskin collar and pulled him close to my face, which was fuming. My eyes were bulging with rage, the vessels were about to pop! “LISTEN HERE FIDEL FUCKSTONE!” I pulled him closer to me. “Shh.” He whispered. He looked up at the corner of the roof where a surveillance camera was. “They’re watching us.” He no longer had a spanish accent. He now sounded like normal Fred Flinstone.
“I’m not actually Hispanic.” He stated firmly. “This is just women’s mascara I’ve rubbed all over my naked body.” I looked down under his shirt to see he was telling the truth. Everything except his ballsack was covered in makeup. “They murdered Bam Bam, and buried him in your yard.” He said. He was probably lying. I mean the Flinstones was a cartoon. “I know you think it’s a cartoon.” He said. “But have you ever seen a cartoon do this?!” I waited for a few minutes. Nothing happened. “Exactly.” He winked at me, and then began to roll some hand made tortillas. He prepared me some fresh Mexican pizza and politely sent me on my way somehow stealing my shoes. As I left the mechanic’s office/Mexican pizza kitchen, I heard the sound of a shotgun and a loud thud.
I tried driving my car, but I found it nearly impossible. First off, he had taken my shoes, so my feet quickly became bloody and calloused as I tried to push the stone wheels with my legs. Second, the back wheels weren’t even on rims, so I was actually pushing two wheels and dragging two other half ton rocks in front of me. I struggled painfully to drive my car. The moment I got onto the highway I realized the predicament I was in. Cars sped by at a hundred miles an hour. My GPS wouldn’t work. I stepped on a nail and it drove up between my toenail and shattered the toenail which split into two pieces. A semi truck slammed into the back of me and I went flying into oncoming traffic, or I would have if not for the airbag. A softshell tortoise exploded out of the airbag, hitting me in the face and breaking my jaw.
I woke up in the hospital, as I often wake up in the hospital. But this time it was different. It turns out the Mexican cuisine fred gave me was poisoned. The doctor came in. It was my primary care doctor. He was holding a bottle of flintstones chewables and smiling at me. “We- we couldn’t reconstruct your face.” He said. I asked him why not. “Some things are just too beautiful for this world, George.” He said. “Some things are just too beautiful…for this world.” And then he left. My nose felt…longer. My face more…scaly. I picked up the vanity mirror next to the bed. My head, my fucking head…
I ripped the IV out of my veins and stumbled out into the hospital hallway. Children screamed at me. I had the head of dinosaur. The doctor had reconstructed my fucking head to resemble that of a dinosaur. I could barely see anything. I stumbled down the hall, got into my miata and pushed it six miles home. I stumbled into the front door to find that it was locked. Someone had taken my keys. I picked up my phone and called the landlord. “Sorry, George. I only rent homes to people. As far as I’m concerned, dinosaurs aren’t people.” I immediately ended this racist phone call and stumbled down the alley behind my house. I went into the back yard. I picked up the shovel. It was time to see if Fred was telling the truth. I felt myself getting nauseous as I started to dig. People in the street screamed and called me a freak. I tried crying, but as it turns out, dinosaurs can’t cry. Dinosaurs can feel a deep sadness, but they cannot cry. I continued to dig as the rain water washed out the backyard completely. I was horrified when I finally hit something hard. I pulled it up. Just as George said. I pulled out a tiny skeleton holding an ancient club. It’s amazing that this hand been buried in my backyard for six million years.
The dead skeleton smiled at me. Or maybe that was my imagination. The jaw fell open, revealing a tiny piece of paper. I opened it up. It said “How do you ask a dinosaur out to lunch?” What the hell did that mean. I was fucking tired of these mind games. It was time to put an end to this. I pushed my miata 46 miles in the pouring rain while dragging the baby skeleton behind me. I stormed into the mechanic’s office and threw the skeleton on his desk. “I no was this.” The Hispanic fred flinstone stared at me, eyes glassy. “You no car this skeleton.” He pushed the skeleton off the desk. I could hear the surveillance camera moving behind me. “I shook the skeleton at George, angrily, my bloodshot dinosaur nostrils flaring.” He offered me more pizza, and I threw it on the floor angrily. “How do you ask a dinosaur out for lunch!?” I yelled, waving the skeleton in front of his fucking face. “HOW DO YOU ASK A DINOSAUR OUT FOR LUNCH!?” I shook the skeleton until it started to break apart in my hands. Fidel Flintstone smiled at me.
I fell to my knees as the police kicked the door of the mechanic’s office open, firing at me as I fell downward with a thud. They handcuffed me and threw me into the back of their van.
The trial was the worst part. The witnesses examined and cross examined me. I told them that a Hispanic fred flintstone forced me to dig the skeleton up, but no one believed me. “Your honor.” They said. Evidently that skeleton was the corpse of a Spanish immigrant. A midget, or little person, if you will. “What about the stick!” I yelled, citing that as my only evidence. “That was bam bam’s stick.” The doctor walked in again. “That’s a traditional Spanish Pinata stick. They use it to hit piñatas and break them apart to claim the delicious candy treasures inside.” He wasn’t even a witness.
I was sentenced to life in prison without a chance for parole. It wasn’t so bad, I guess. After about a month, I got a visitor. Well, it was Fred Flintstone. Of course it was. He smiled at me from the other side of the glass. “This all just begs the question.” He smiled at me. “How do you ask a dinosaur out for lunch?” He put on a monocle and took out a tiny tea cup. “Tea, rex?” he sipped it. He sipped it, he sipped it, and sipped it some more. “TEA, REX?” he yelled. “TEA REX. GET IT. BECAUSE YOU HAVE A FUCKING DINOSAUR HEAD.” He ripped off the leopard print Halloween costume and danced naked down the street. “YABBA DABBA DOO!” he yelled, laughing maniacally. Laughing, laughing, and laughing. At me.