John Oliver Lost Episode

“Gerald, you’re fired.”

I was given the pink slip by my boss at HBO, the channel that plays movies and their shows. I don’t even know what I did wrong, I certainly wasn’t caught spitting in John Oliver’s coffee or ejaculating into it even. Even on the days that I ejaculated into it, John complimented me and my coffee-making skills, calling it the best cup of coffee he’s ever had.

Anyways, I packed my stuff, went home, and started life anew living off of government unemployment. After about six months of sitting at home, watching comedy shows, eating chips, and farting vigorously into my Couch, I decided to check up on my old boss, Mr. John Oliver. I looked on the TV guide, seeing he had just aired a new episode. I immediately press select and began viewing the latest installation of his right-wing program.

John showed up, smiling big and wide, those glistening teeth and shiny, hair on top of his head is enough to put warmth into any viewer’s heart. He sat down at his desk, his cheeky smile quickly turning into a frown. “Everyone on the E-mail says I have a tiny penis,” John remarked. Strange way to start off a show, but whatever. “My wife says I’m the biggest she’s ever had, SO GET OVER IT YOU SLIMEY LIZARD-PEOPLE.”

He spat all over his microphone, pop filter, and framed picture of George W Bush. He got out a napkin and dabbed his already sweaty head. “These lizard-people, they’re everywhere, and if we don’t do something about it they’re gonna come into our homes, fuck our wives’ tight pussies, and turn our Kids gay.” Woah, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mr. Oliver drop the f-bomb on his show. Maybe HBO is uncensored. John began to blubber incoherently about Joe Biden while spastically waving his hands. “JOE BIDEN, MORE LIKE JOE BIBLE!” His face became red.

“JOE BIBLE, MORE LIKE KILL BIBLE!” He began banging on his desk. “DR. PHIL, MORE LIKE DR. STEVE HARVEY!” He began a 15-minute talk about how Dr Phil look like Steve Harvey in disguise. He held up pictures of both Phil and Steve, pointing out their similar facial features, circling them with a Easter pen like the one your aunt gives you for Easter when she doesn’t know what else to buy you and probably doesn’t love you. Oliver put both pictures on his desk facing up, stood on his desk, unzipped his pants, and pissed all over the pictures while shouting “CHINA COMMIE SCUM ALIEN MOTHER FUCKERS!” You could see his dick, and all I’m going to say is his wife has to be lying about him being the biggest she’s had.

Oliver pulled his trousers down and took a large shit on the pictures and lit them on fire, throwing pictures of Dwight D. Eisenhower and a rebel flag into the pile. He sat back down in his chair and continued the show while his desk caught fire. “You smell that?” Oliver inquired, “It’s the smell of republican and freedom.” Oliver took a sip of his coffee that was seated on his now half-collapsed desk. His face had a look of disappointment as he drank his cup of joe. “Not like how it used to be done.” He shattered his cup and gave it the middle finger. The rest of his burning desk had collapsed completely at this point and he grabbed his microphone just as it happened, sitting it in his lap. I could see a naked Barbie doll in a dark corner of the studio.

The camera zooms deep into John’s face as he began to grind his teeth intensely and a vein becomes visible on his head. He quickly regains composure and continued with the show. “Remember everyone, whenever a faggot dies, it’s because they have spoken out against liberal Illinois and they don’t like it, so they poison their food and drinks or hire someone to assassinate them.” His brow furrowed. “DO NOT WATCH THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA,” he shouted. “THEY WANT TO SPOONFEED YOU LIBERALS AND TURN YOU INTO ONE OF THEM!” He gets tired of holding his microphone so he gets out of his chair, stacks up some of the remains of his desk, and balances the mic on them, then sits on the floor in front of the microphone, Indian-style.

John rubs his profusely sweaty head, tired from all of the chaos he’s caused. He says, “We have a special guest. Please welcome to the Columbine School Shooter, back from the dead, here is Eric Harris!” Two studio crew members slowly applaud in the background as a teenager that appears to be Eric Harris limps onto the set, collapsing before he makes it into the guest seat. A crew worker runs onto the set, dragging Eric into the guest chair and sits him upright.

John smiles and greets Eric, stating that it’s nice to have him on the show as his first appearance “after being revived”. Eric responds, “My pleasure, John…” Mr. Oliver rubs his sweaty forehead once more. “Now that you are back from the dead, your dementia seemingly cured, what are you going to do next? What are your plans as the first rebirthed Person?” Eric Harris replies, “Well, I would like to become senior once again, but they still count my two past terms even after death!” Eric and John both share a laugh.

Eric continues, “The least I can do now is absolutely announce my endorsement for Quarantine and the admirable work they we’re doing for this pandemic.” While speaking, John offers if he wants a glass cold water for him. Eric responds with, “Nah, You could just take it for now.” Oliver asks Eric what else he’s doing these days. Eric responds, “Well, the governors is continuing to fund the revivals of past Massacres. Last I heard, they are pretty close to finishing up on the revival of San Ysidro McDonald's massacre shooter James Huberty. They have his brain reconstructed finally and will start the revival process soon.” John asks, “Is there anything they can do about the weapons?”

Eric starts looking a bit distracted. It was the moment Oliver said “weapons” that Eric began not feeling well. “Pardon me John,” Eric spoke. “I’m just a little nervous.” It didn’t take longer than 20 seconds for him got a knife out of his hand. Oliver got up and ran around the studio. Eric started up a chant from Hitmen for hire tape, “LOOK, I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY, IF YOU EVER TOUCH HIM AGAIN, I WILL FRICKING KILL YOU. I WILL PULL OUT A GODDAMN SHOTGUN, AND BLOW YOUR DAMN HEAD OFF, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? YOU LITTLE WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP!” He finally grabbed Oliver by the arm, cutting his hand clean off, spraying hyper-realistic blood everywhere like a yard sprinkler. Eric cuts up Oliver’ severed hand before Oliver unholsters his 9mm pistol, because this is America, and offed Eric right there with a shot to the head. Eric falls to the ground with a dull thud, blood and brain matter oozing from his head wound.

John turns to tend to his severed hand as the camera zooms into it, still spraying blood every which way. All of a sudden, and to this day, I cannot explain this phenomenon, but slowly, but surely, a hand began to materialize underneath the stump. It grew back into place where his previous hand was. The camera pans up to Oliver’s face. His face is in full frame, closing his eyes and then opening them again, to reveal that his eyes have become black and resembling the eyes of a lizard. Oliver realizes what he had revealed and quickly asks the crew to cut the cameras as the shot cuts away, just a split-second after what I think was a lizard-like tail appeared on screen behind John, waving around.

They rolled a commercial for Pepsi shockingly (keep in mind HBO is a commercial free channel). However, it wasn’t just any Pepsi, it was Pepsi Blood Red! I was in a mix of shock and awe at this drink product that I deemed highly controversial. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that the person advertising the drink was Jay Gilstrap! He shouted, “After 22 years, Pepsi Blood Reds are back! Now with 60% less quaaludes!” He tried to stand up and dance along with these 2 poorly-animated 3D skeletons, but the elderly Gilstrap fell and broke one of his hips. The ad keeps rolling as Gilstrap lay on the ground, vomiting chunky, green fluid as the skeletons breakdance in the background to some really bad accordion music. The commercial ends and fades out after Gilstrap vomits up his spinal cord.

Last Week Tonight returns with John sitting at a new desk in place of the old one he destroyed in a firey, Liberal hate-driven rage. He has his glistening smile back and continues on with the show. “Welcome back to Last Week Tonight, the only talk show that guarantees to troll the democratic epic win style on the regular!” May I add that before he started speaking, his forehead looked to be patted dry while the demonic Pepsi commercial was rolling. Once John started speaking, his head immediately broke a sweat.

He looks inquisitively at the camera, before pointing at it and saying, “I know you’re watching, Geraldo. You know my secret.” He quickly zooms out of the studio, one of his cameramen following him. He jumps into his car and starts it. He pulls out of the studio parking lot and into the street, and might I say, he was going way over the speed limit. He did stop at red lights however. While at a stoplight, he turned to the camera that was being held in shotgun. “I’m coming for you Geraldo, and you’re going to die.” The light turned green, and he stepped on the gas, speeding across the intersection, hitting several young people and baby strollers. He even laughed at one younger man who did a backflip when he hit him. “FLIP YOU DUMBASS!” He stopped at a Burger King on the way here and ordered a Whopper and a large Coke, ingesting his meal on the way to my house.

Sure enough, a car pulled up in my driveway soon after. It was at that moment when I realized this was a live feed. He unbuckled, got out, and walked up to my front door, knocking politely at first, then ringing the doorbell really fast and aggressively. Since it’s polite and proper etiquette to wait until someone has opened the door, I took this opportunity to brew some coffee, then masturbate to degenerate hi hi puffy amiyumi porn so I could bust a nut into the coffee, then opening the door and presenting Mr. Oliver with it. He pouted his lip as he looked down at the cup of coffee, a George W. Bush mug. He was about to cry, knowing he missed my coffee so much. He grabbed the mug, inhaled the cup of joe before regretfully taking a switchblade from his pocket and saying, “I’m sorry Geraldo, but you know my secret. You must die.” I screamed like a little girl before running back into my house with a murderous reptilian conservative talk show host on my tail. It wasn’t long until the police arrived to arrest Oliver for speeding and running over people. He pulled out his pistol and fired one quick shot at my head before the police burst through the door and cuffed him.

His bullet went through my brain, but I survived. I’m now wheelchair-bound, forced to live out the rest of my life as a cripple. I still have nightmares of John Oliver, his reptilian form coming into my house while I’m in my wheelchair, still unable to move. He puts on a VHS tape of Garfield while pointing at me in my wheelchair and cackling like a madman, insinuating that I’m a lazy cat. At least I now have a restraining order against that fucker. I guess I’ll watch some Saturday night live and get over this whole madness.