Thursday, May 23, 2013
If I ever become a famous movie star, I'm going to change my name to something cool, like "Breen Crudflop." So if you ever see a movie sometime in the future with Breen Crudflop in it, that'll be me. Unless, of course, someone steals my cool movie star name before I get a chance to use it, in which case you'll only be seeing a Breen Crudflop impersonator. So if you ever see someone like Morgan Freeman or Robert DeNiro in a movie, but they're billed as "Breen Crudflop", it means they have stolen my cool movie star name.
If I ever become a famous pornstar, then I will change my name to something mildly suggestive yet tasteful, such as Pecker McGoo or Weenis von Testicles. You have to be really careful in choosing a pornstar name because if you eventually cross over into mainstream films, you don't want your pornstar name to be an embarrassment. Traci Lords managed this because her name sounds okay as a regular movie star name. But more obvious porn names such as Busty Funbags, Lotta Gash, Wang Chung, Peter O'Toole, or even Horatio Goatblower might prove awkward if you're auditioning for a part in the next Merchant Ivory production.
That's why I would go with something appropriate enough for porn yet neutral enough to fit right into the mainstream. I can see it now: "Pecker McGoo IS James Bond 007." Or perhaps: "Merchant Ivory presents a Kenneth Branaugh film, LAST SUNSET AT HILLCREST MANOR, starring Anthony Hopkins, Helen Mirren, and introducing Weenis von Testicles as 'Lord Mountbatten.'" Whew--now that's practically dripping all over the place with class. Eat your heart out, Hugh Grant!
You may be saying to yourself: "Huh?" But believe me, the right name is hugely important to us future movie legends. That's why I have several other backup names just in case somebody like Brad Pitt or Jude Law steals "Breen Crudflop" out from under me. Names that sound cool and sexy, yet distinguished, and befitting my lofty status as a great actor. Names like:
Smelford C. Melnflebber
F. Murray Frankenstein
Norcroft "Slappy" Butts
Vincent M. Roosternuts
As you can see, any one of these names adorning a marquee would have frantic ticket buyers stampeding into movie theaters faster than a herd of cheese-crazed bagel thieves. Of course, my leading lady would have to have an equally impressive movie star name, so I would insist that she change it before being allowed to share billing with me. In anticipation of this, I have taken the liberty of creating beautiful new movie star names for some current actresses for when they're lucky enough to co-star with me in one of my upcoming movies. For example:
Winona Ryder's horrible-sounding name will be changed to "Arnetta Wilfrink."
The bland "Angelina Jolie" will blossom into the exotic "Schmelda von Goines."
Dame Judi Dench's new, even more distinguished name will be "Dame Alfredine Squirtypants."
Meryl Streep will enjoy a surefire career boost as "Fritzi Ogreton."
The downright offensive-sounding "Hilary Duff" will upgrade to the sassy "Nutragena Fugnertz."
Perennial favorite Barbra Streisand will bask in renewed glory as "Rushetta McLimbaugh."
Jennifer Lopez will charm audiences all over again with the name "Jubilina Porkstuffer", which can be shortened to the hiphop street name "J-Pork", or "Porky From the Block."
And Halle Berry's star will shine even brighter than ever when she becomes "Lady Ms. Maxine Alligator-Intestines."
I know all of this wonderfulness seems too much to hope for, but even now I'm starting to make my dreams come true by taking a mail-order correspondence course from The Vin Diesel Academy of Fine Acting and Indoor Plumbing. Just last week I sent in my final exam video, in which I enacted Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights" in its entirety while installing a beige, low-rise, one-piece porcelain power toilet with an elongated base and dual flush capacity (known as "The Turdinator"), and Vin himself awarded me with a solid B-minus and a special "Buttcrack of the Month" notarized certificate. He also said that, with my skills, I should soon be "flush" with offers! I'm assuming he meant, like, from Hollywood!
Monday, May 20, 2013
As much as I love Mexican food, I will never eat at Los Frijoles again. "Los frijoles", for those of you who aren't bilingual like me, means "the beans" in Spanish. Well, that place certainly is "the beans"! Here's what happened...
My brother came by the other day and took me out to eat, which is great because I love to eat out for free. We both love Mexican food--or "Tex-Mex", to be more specific--so we decided to try the new place, Los Frijoles, that just opened up in the building that used to be Pizza Inn before it went out of business. Why did Pizza Inn go out of business? Beats the hell out of me. I mean it's pizza, for Pete's sake.
Anyway, it was all nice and festive-looking inside, but something seemed off. I don't know what it was. Just a kind of vague feeling. We were shown to a table by a Mexican guy named Vince. He was a heavy-set individual with dark, curly hair and a scar down his left cheek. "You want I should bring youse summa doze, ehh, chips and crap?" he asked in a thick voice.
"Yes, please," I answered politely. Vince grunted in acknowledgement, and then did something I found quite unexpected. Instead of walking away, he flew upward like a big helium balloon and disappeared through a rectangular aperture in the ceiling. It slid closed as soon as his feet had cleared it.
I looked at my brother to see if he'd noticed this, but he was busy scanning the menu. I shrugged and cautiously attributed it to my excitement over being in a new restaurant. Before I could say anything, Vince suddenly reappeared at my side with a tray containing a basket of crispy tortilla chips and a bowl of hot sauce.
"You want I should put deez in your stomach for you?" he asked. I didn't know what he was talking about, so I merely mumbled something neutral. Vince took this as a "yes" and then a blank look came over his face. The chips and hot sauce slowly disappeared from their containers. At the same time, I could feel something in my stomach, as though I'd just eaten. When the chips and hot sauce were gone, Vince flew upward like a helium balloon again and disappeared through the ceiling. This time, the action was accompanied by the sound of a slide whistle.
I looked at my brother to see if he'd noticed any of this, and to my surprise he was still gazing at the menu. "Is your menu a magic TV set?" he said at last. "A magic TV set with exactly what you want to see more than anything in the whole world on it? Mine is." He flipped it around excitedly so that I could see, too. I leaned forward and squinted. It was just a menu with food and beverage selections printed on it.
"I don't see any--"
"I want to be in it," he said wistfully, returning his rapt attention to the menu.
Vince popped in from out of nowhere again, startling me. He was holding a tray heaped with two deluxe Mexican dinners, side dishes, and drinks. "Here is your food," he announced.
"But, we didn't order--"
"You want I should put dis in your stomach for you?" Vince asked in a dull monotone. The blank look began to settle over his face again.
"No!" I said hastily. "I want to eat my food, not just have it magically appear in my stomach!"
With a slow nod, Vince put what appeared to be a Civil War-era cavalry bugle to his lips and blew a resoundingly off-key note that made me grit my teeth. Suddenly, the food all turned into squirrels, chipmunks, and beavers. They hopped down off the tray and onto the table, skittering around excitedly before taking their proper places and turning into plates of food and glasses of drinks again. One of the beavers ran around the table for a few extra moments, stopped, sang the "Los Frijoles" radio jingle, and turned into a complimentary platter of beef nachos.
"Let's get out of here," I said urgently to my brother.
"No," he said, his eyes fixed on the menu. "I want to stay here forever...and ever...and ever."
"What about you?" Vince asked me in his usual monotone. "Do you want to stay here forever and ever and ever?"
"I certainly don't," I said resolutely. "I want to leave right now and never, ever come back."
With this, Vince flew upward through the ceiling again--for the last time, as it turned out. I never saw him again. The food and drinks turned back into squirrels, chipmunks, and beavers, and ran away. The chips and hot sauce that were in my stomach disappeared and I was hungry again. I looked over at my brother and he was regarding his menu with a disappointed look.
"Hey, my menu isn't a magic TV set anymore. Did we eat?"
"Yes, it was very good," I lied. "Let's go."
Needless to say, I didn't leave a tip. Nor did I wait for a bill, since the food had all turned into small forest animals and run away. As I passed the front counter, I saw a paunchy, middle-aged guy whom I assumed to be the manager standing next to it.
"What the heck's the deal with that Vince guy?" I asked.
The manager regarded me with shock, his eyes wide as saucers. "Vince?" he said incredulously, his voice quavering with fear. "VINCE? Why, the last time someone named VINCE worked here was...A HUNDRED YEARS AGO!!!"
"This place hasn't been here a hundred years," I said.
"Yeah well, it sounds scary and stuff," he shrugged. "Actually, Vince is my wife's nephew. If I don't let him work here, she withholds her sexual favors from me."
I kicked him in the balls. "Withhold that, asshole," I said, grabbing not one but two free after-dinner mints on my way out.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
I have never eaten a Hawaiian pizza, but I hate them anyway. The very thought of a pizza with pineapple chunks on it makes me want to barf all over Arianna Huffington's head just so I can hear her scream "VAT FOR YOU DOO DAT!!! VAT VAT VAAAAT!!!" and "FOR VHY ISS YOU TROW OP ONTO MEIN HEAD!!! VAAAAA!!!" Every time I hear Arianna Huffington talk, I keep expecting Eb to saunter in and ask "What's for supper, Mrs. Douglas?" Eb would probably like Hawaiian pizza, too, or at least Hawaiian hotscakes, but I'm not so sure he'd still like it if I barfed one all over his head.
A surefire indication of how horrible Hawaiian pizza is would be to examine some of the historical figures and other famous idiots who have loved Hawaiian pizza. For example, Adolf Hitler loved Hawaiian pizzas so much that he once said, "Bring me a Hawaiian pizza right now, or I will invade Poland." Nobody could come up with a Hawaiian pizza at that particular moment, so sure enough, he invaded Poland. And in Poland, it is now illegal to eat Hawaiian pizza or to even like Hawaiian pizza, which is why there are so many Polish immigrants in Hawaii. Of course, there are other reasons why they go there, but Hawaiian pizza is always number one on the list whether they or the United States government will admit it.
Hawaiian pizza is a catastrophic culture clash on a platter. Pizza is an inherently Italian food item, and you just don't usually think of Italy and Hawaii at the same time unless there's something contagious going around. Try to imagine Vito and Sonny Corleone walking around on Waikiki Beach in pinstripe suit jackets and swim trunks and snorkles. Vito would stroke his chin with the back of his hand and croak, "Ehh, Santino...go and get me another chi-chi drink and some of that pizza with the pineapple chunks on it" and Sonny would shout "HEY POP! I sure do love that f**king Hawaiian pizza!" and Vito would grab him by the lapels and growl "Never let anyone outside the family know what you're thinking again!"
Virgil Solozzo would overhear this, of course, and think, "Hmm...Sonny's hot for my Hawaiian pizza franchise deal" and try to force the Corleones to back his scheme to open up a chain of Hula Huts in New York, New Jersey, and, for some reason, Utah. And then Fredo would waddle up in swim fins, a giant snorkle, and a Speedo, and yelp "Hey, Pa! Hey, Sonny! You don't even hafta go to the JOHN around here! You can just PEE IN THE OCEAN!" Vito, Sonny, and Fredo would all throw their heads back and laugh, there would be a freeze frame, and the closing credits would roll.
I know what you're saying right now: "But, Porfy-Poo...Hawaiian pizza gives me a tingly and not-altogether-unpleasant sensation in my BUTT!" Well, I can't argue with that. What I can do, though, is to quote a famous scientist who has dedicated his entire life to diligently investigating this phenomenon: "Oh, my god! I've wasted my entire life! I could've been doing something important...what the hell happened! Hawaiian pizza? WTF?" I hope you can understand my point a bit more clearly now.
Hawaiian pizza is bad for you, bad for me, bad for our country at this time. But most of all, it's bad for the children. "I believe the children are our future" Whitney Houston once informed us in song. Which is a load of crap, because by the time the future gets here, the children will all be grown-ups. Hey, if the children are so smart, let's put them in charge of the government for awhile and see how well they handle things.
Oh boy, it's National Lollipop Day! Wow, the stock market just crashed! Hey, the entire rest of the world just attacked us and took over while the three branches of our government were out playing with kitty cats! Yes, the children are stupid. I say we feed them all the Hawaiian pizza they want until they explode.
If, after everything I've just said, you still insist on liking Hawaiian pizza, then here's my special personal recipe for homestyle Hawaiian pizza that you can make yourself.
1. Make some pizza dough
2. Shove it up your a**
3. Get some pineapples
4. Shove them up your a**
5. Dance around naked in your front yard until you get arrested
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Once, while Larry King was flyin' around
With his jet-propelled rocket pack, high o'er the ground
He could see the Wolf Man from his aerial position
Sneaking up behind some guys who were fishin'.
Larry King's Spidey-sense was activated
Battling monsters kept him motivated
Quick as a flash, he swooped onto the scene
Just as the Wolf Man ate Charlie Sheen.
In the next split second, Larry King did mourn
To avenge Charlie Sheen, his next mission was born
As the Wolf Man approached the remaining victim
Rescuing him was Larry's new dictum.
From the corner of his eye, Larry King started glimpsin'
The other guy's face--it was O.J. Simpson
It seems he'd grown tired of football and golfin'
And was currently trying to reel in a dolphin.
Suddenly, almost, not quite but nearly
Larry began to see it all clearly
O.J. and Wolf Man together had planned
To eliminate Charlie Sheen from our land.
And now, as the Wolf Man devoured the corpus
And O.J. continued to fish for a porpoise
From out of the sky, like a vulture on wing
Came the force for revenge known as Larry King.
The Wolf Man attacked, but Larry was faster
A skip to the left averted disaster
Then O.J. let loose with a swing of his pole
Which Larry King dodged with a shoulder roll.
Again came the Wolf Man, this time with a leap
As O.J. retreated and hopped in his Jeep
But Larry, quick-witted, reached into his crotch
And pulled out a silver-trimmed flask full of scotch.
The Wolf Man got drunk as he gulped it all down
While O.J. peeled out--he was headed for town
So Larry bent over and lit a huge fart
The resulting explosion was right off the chart.
The engine and paint job were fried in the fire
As the terrible heat quickly melted each tire
And O.J.'s clothing, of course, was consumed
So naked he fled, to avoid being doomed.
He jumped in the water, and splashed like a guppy
While the Wolf Man, sloshed, danced around like a puppy
And Larry stood back with a satisfied smile
For all was now well--well, at least for awhile.
Then they all fished for dolphins, till each of them scored
They saddled them up, to avoid getting bored
And they rode them away 'neath the dawn's early bling
O.J., the Wolf Man, and Larry King.
Ever notice how stupid babies are? Ask them a question, any question, no matter how easy, and they just answer "Gah-gaaah" or something. Give them an IQ test, and they'll start chewing on it. I mean, they don't know anything.
My cat is smarter than babies. I ask my cat, "You wanna eat?" and she goes "Meow!" Ask a baby if it wants to eat, and chances are it'll just drool at you or start crying. Heck, tell a baby it just won a million dollars and it starts crying. Give a baby the entire set of high-def, CGI-enhanced original "Star Trek" episodes on Blu-Ray, totally free of charge, and the only thanks you'll get is "WAAAA-HA-HAAAAA!!!"
What good are they? Just say "pass me the salt" at the dinner table, or something equally simple, and they look at you like you were a warthog sitting on a bidet. Or make a simple request like "pardon me, but would you mind putting the cat out?" and you might as well be a giant dog dick in a Howdy Doody costume for all they care.
Oh sure, they don't know how to walk yet--they'll learn one of these days, just as soon as they get around to it. Right. I don't remember all the way back to when I was a baby, but in the earliest memories that I do have, I was walking around. So I don't buy this "I don't know how to walk yet" crap.
And then there's the whole "going to the bathroom in your pants" thing. What's that all about? I mean, the biggest, dumbest doofus you know doesn't stand there pounding out a log in his shorts while waiting for the bus. Even Gomer Pyle knew enough not to just let fly with a big geyser of wee-wee while Sergeant Carter was screaming at him. But babies? They never even heard of such quaint societal restraints. As long as someone dutifully keeps cleaning up after them, it's blast-off time.
Babies are like trees--they just aren't any use until they get bigger. What good is a one-foot-tall tree? "Great shade, huh?" your neighbor might proudly remark about his new tree. "No, Jim," you'd be forced to truthfully inform him, "your stupid one-foot-tall tree does not provide any shade at all, you incredible moron." Then you might suggest that he try to climb it, or pick some apples or pecans off of it. See what he does then. If he's still out there by nightfall trying to do something useful with his stupid one-foot tree, call the police.
But that's exactly how people are about their babies. They'll invite you over to their house just to show you their baby, and they'll say something like "Great baby, huh?" The only honest answer would be, "Great? What the hell's it good for, Buttwheat?" or "Forget the freakin' baby--when did you get this cool exer-cycle?" But of course, we're not allowed to say truthful things like that. We're just supposed to wave at the baby and say, "Gootchy-goo!" while girning like maniacs.
Babies don't even make good doorstops, because they keep crawling away. If crawling were a useful activity, babies would be invaluable. But the last time "crawling" was a profitable occupation or an Olympic event or something like that was waaay, waaay back in, like, never. And if you try to train a baby to walk on two legs, forget it. Just by observing your attempts from across the room, your dog will be walking around the house on its hind legs like a champ while the baby's still scuttling about under the coffee table and banging its head on the legs. It's as though the word "duh" was invented just for them.
Of course, baby-defenders will ultimately pull the "cuteness" card on you. "Babies are CUTE!" they'll shriek, tearfully aghast at your monstrousness. Well, that's a matter of opinion. When it comes to nude centerfolds, for example, even Burt Reynolds was cuter than some dumb baby would be. Sorry, but "cute" and "babies" just don't go together. Unless you're the baby's sweet old granny, and you're already halfway off your rocker anyway.
Of course, if you have a baby yourself, then please disregard everything I just said. Your baby is cute. Really, really cute. It looks just like you. Gootchy-goo!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Here's my idea for a sitcom that I'm currently pitching to all the major networks. It's called "Porfle's Kids" and has a really cute and socially-relevant premise that I think will appeal to both kids and adults.
Basically, it's about a lovable but irresponsible bachelor named Porfle who suddenly finds himself raising three adorable, irrascible orphan boys--one white, one black, and one "other" (I haven't decided yet between American Indian or Amish). I, myself, will be portraying the black kid. Some have suggested that I should play Porfle, but I just don't think I'm right for the role. Here, in fact, are my proposed casting choices...
PORFLE: Bea Arthur
SPANKY (white kid): Yaphet Kotto
D.J. JAMMY JAMZ (black kid): me
OTHER: either Ben Kingsley or Hulk Hogan
MAILMAN: Paul McCartney
BIFF, THE FUNNY NEIGHBOR: Russell Crowe
Sounds too good to be true, right? But if you want to impress the network executives, you have to have more than just a killer premise and an incredible cast--you must also come up with a sample script in order to convey a reasonable idea of how funny and heartwarming the show will be. So here's a scene from my "pilot" script for the show, which I use to impress the network executives during my presentation. And before long--fingers crossed--you'll be seeing it on your very own television set!
INTERIOR: KITCHEN: DAY
PORFLE, in a frilly apron and chef's hat, is cheerily cooking breakfast while the kids, SPANKY, D.J. JAMMY JAMZ, and OTHER are sitting around the table.
SPANKY: Hey Dad, when do we eat?
PORFLE: I thought I told you to shut up.
D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: Yo, Dad, there are rabid wolverines in my bedroom.
PORFLE: (incredulous) So?
D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: Well, I was thinking maybe you could call Animal Control, and--
PORFLE: Egg Catch!!!
The boys spring to their feet and hold their plates up as Porfle flings fried eggs at them with a spatula. Each of them catches an egg and sits down to eat. The last two eggs fly over their heads just as BIFF, THE FUNNY NEIGHBOR appears at the back door. The eggs strike him in the eyes and dangle there like goggles.
PORFLE: Ha, ha! Looks like somebody has egg on his face! Right, kids?
OTHER: That's not funny, Dad. You could've injured--
PORFLE: Shut up. What in tarnation do you want, Biff?
BIFF: (wiping off the eggs) Somebody burned my house down last night. The police say it's arson. You boys wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?
The boys all look at Porfle.
PORFLE: (innocently) Hey, I was indexing my circus porn collection all night.
SPANKY: But, Dad--I saw you running around the backyard with your pants on fire.
PORFLE: It's called "friction", son. If you'd bothered to become a Boy Scout, you'd have learned all about stuff like that.
D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: It don't sound like you was rubbin' two sticks together to me!
PORFLE: Shut up. Biff, get the hell out of my house before I sic the rabid wolverines on you.
BIFF: You haven't heard the last of this, you...you bastard!
PORFLE: Cover your ears, kids! He's using cuss words!
BIFF: Damn you, Porfle! Damn you to hell!
PORFLE: Aaargh! Get 'im, kids!
The boys fly out of their chairs like wild animals and attack Biff, dragging him kicking and screaming through the basement door and down the stairs. The sounds of power tools and screams can be heard.
PORFLE: (resumes cooking) Well, that'll keep the little bastards busy for a while.
The front doorbell rings. Porfle answers the door and finds the MAILMAN standing there.
MAILMAN: Your latest shipment of circus porn has arrived, sir.
PORFLE: (grabs his lapels) EGAD! Swiggity suh-WEEET! WOOF! WOOF! Ow-WOOOOOO!!!
The mailman flees in terror. Porfle retires to the rumpus room, dragging the huge package behind him as jaunty circus music fills the air and we FADE OUT.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Remember Arnold Vosloo, the guy who played "Im-Ho-Tep" in those recent "Mummy" movies? If you do, then you can probably understand how easy it is to become totally, irrevocably obsessed with him to the point of sheer, gibbering insanity.
First of all, there's that name--something about it seems to compel the mind to repeat it over and over, relentlessly, during every waking hour and most of the sleeping ones, too. I, myself, have gone days on end thinking nothing but the name "Arnold Vosloo." People ask, "How's it going?" and I respond, "Arnold Vosloo." Or they say, "Isn't that your car that's on fire over there?" and, without even looking, I intone "Arnold Vosloo." It's almost as though I can't get that name out of my mind.
Then, of course, there's that face, that Arnold Vosloo face. He looks kind of like a cross between Paul McCartney and, oh, I don't know--Frankenstein. If Arnold Vosloo robbed a bank and you were a witness, you wouldn't have any trouble identifying him. "It was Arnold Vosloo," you'd tell the police, and they'd look at you funny and ask, "You mean the guy who played 'Im-Ho-Tep' in those recent 'Mummy' movies?" and you'd say, "Well, that's one way of referring to him" and they'd ask the obvious follow-up question: "What's another way?" and you'd answer, "Well, he's also the guy who looks like a cross between Paul McCartney and Frankenstein" and they'd call in a sketch artist. Preferably one who knew what Arnold Vosloo, Paul McCartney, and Frankenstein looked like.
Anyway, my main reason for mentioning Arnold Vosloo is to tell you about the time I actually ran into him one day at EZ Mart. I walked in to get some Honey Buns and there he was, standing at the check-out counter paying for some coffee and a used DVD of MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING. Bells and whistles sounded in my brain like a thousand fire alarms, and my Terminator-Vision processed the visual information I was receiving and began flashing the words "CONFIRM POS IDENT: ARNOLD VOSLOO" in my eyeballs.
I threw up my hands and screamed, destroying a display of "Brady Bunch" cigarette lighters with my left hand and knocking a little old lady backward into the ATM machine with my right. Arnold was so startled that he splashed the large container of scalding hot coffee that he was paying for down his pants. "YAAAAAA!!!" he shrieked, dancing around. He looked just like Im-Ho-Tep reacting in righteous anger at some infidel who had encroached upon his sacred temple or something, except for the way he was fanning his crotch with his hands and screaming, "MY NUTS!!! MY BURNING NUTS!!!" I couldn't recall that line from any of the "Mummy" movies, but then again I spent most of the second one in the bathroom because of those tainted chili dogs.
By this time the counter guy was already calling the police and I'd begun to calm down, so I collected myself and approached Mr. Vosloo in a calm and respectful manner. Unfortunately, I then tripped over the old lady and launched myself at him as though I were swooping in for the kill, emitting what may have been misinterpreted as some kind of "war whoop" or something. Anyway, Arnold Vosloo screamed again and grabbed a handful of those extra-long Slim Jims, swinging them back and forth in a defensive motion.
As the counter guy started to ring them up I crashed into Mr. Vosloo and we both went sailing over a rack of Hostess Ding Dongs and into the frozen desserts case. The exhilarating blast of frosty air, in addition to the fact that his ass had lodged in a two-gallon container of Peach Ripple sherbet, caused him to assume a rather humorous expression. I think he also found it somewhat distressing that I now had a number of Klondike Bars stuck to my face, which may or may not have caused me to resemble some kind of crazed Yeti. At that point, perhaps inappropriately, I asked him for his autograph.
Well, it turned out he wasn't really Arnold Vosloo after all. His name was Finster Bellflower, and he was a mortician from Burtsell, Arkansas. I happen to have passed through Burtsell, Arkansas a number of times, and I wouldn't have suspected that they even had their own taxidermist, much less a mortician. He happened to be both, which had resulted in a few rather embarrassing mix-ups over the years. Fortunately, the Rutherfords kind of enjoyed having their Uncle Harold stuffed and mounted over the fireplace in a dynamic leaping pose that made it seem as though he were pouncing on his prey.
The downside of all this is that I didn't find out that it wasn't really Arnold Vosloo until I'd already ordered a thousand custom T-shirts that said "HA-HA, I MET ARNOLD VOSLOO AND YOU DIDN'T--SUCKA!!!" My self-congratulatory local TV commercial had already aired a number of times as well, and the grand testimonial ball I was holding for myself at the VFW hall was in full swing with a roomful of winos whooping it up on free booze.
After receiving a surprise phone call from Mr. Vosloo's attorneys, it was my sad duty to mount the podium and make the announcement. "I'm sorry everyone," I said in a grave voice. "It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you all that I didn't really meet Arnold Vosloo after all. It was just some mortician from Burtsell, Arkansas named Finster Bellflower."
One of the drunken revelers stopped, peered groggily up at me, and slurred, "Who the hell's Arnold Vosloo?" I leapt off the stage like a screeching condor in heat and attacked, sparking a riot that resulted in the VFW hall burning down and a SWAT team in full battle gear rounding everyone up with excessive force. I then sued Arnold Vosloo for causing the whole thing, which should pretty much set me up for life if I win.
After I'm rich and famous, I'll marry Monica Bellucci and we'll name all our kids Arnold Vosloo, and when he comes over for Sunday dinner every week we'll look back and have a good laugh about the whole thing while all the little Arnold Vosloos run around playing cowboys and mummies, and I'll finally be able to wear those T-shirts.