PORFLE ADMITS: "I WAS CHRISTOPHER WALKEN’S PERSONAL CHEF"

Back when I was Christopher Walken's personal chef, I never knew what random horrors each day would bring. I remember one day in particular, in which Mr. Walken sat his darkened study, lost in one of his strange, pensive moods. He summoned me just as the grandfather clock in the drafty hallway struck noon.




I stood there, awaiting his orders, for quite a long time. He sat in a large leather-bound chair, hands pressed together under his chin, as though pondering his options with grave consideration. Finally, in his familiar low, halting voice, he spoke.



"I would like...the Buggles," he said. "For lunch."



"The Buggles?" I repeated, not sure I'd understood. "You mean, the 80s 'new wave' musical duo?"



"Yes, exactly," he said, relieved that I was familiar with them. A slight smile played upon his lips as he nodded, relishing some mental image that I daren't even imagine.



I wasn't sure what to say. Where the hell had this idea come from? "The Buggles broke up a long time ago," I informed him. "They're, uh, not a duo anymore."



"Then..." he said thoughtfully, "you could get...the ingredients for the Buggles...and make some new ones."



I thought about this seemingly nonsensical request for a moment, when suddenly the horrifying truth dawned on me. By "ingredients", he meant that he wanted me to kidnap Trevor Horn and Geoffrey Downes, the original members of the Buggles, and cook them for lunch. His lunch.



"I can't do that," I said firmly. "I...I won't do that. They're human beings, not just 'ingredients' for some ghastly lunch for you." I cringed, waiting for him to explode in a fit of anger, or at least send me packing.



"Oh," he said softly, as though my words had actually made some kind of sense to him. "Okay. Well, then...I'm not sure what other...lunch options...are available to me. Let's go into the kitchen and...explore them. Shall we?" He rose from his chair and waited for me to lead him into the kitchen, since he had no idea where it was. So I did.



When we got there, he gazed around in silent wonder at all the utensils and appliances. Finally, he spoke. "Where do you keep...the people?" he asked, gesturing with his hands.



"The people? What people?" I inquired, baffled.



"The people that you cook," he explained. "Where...do you store them before preparing them...for my meals?" He asked this as though it were the most normal thing in the world.



Forcing back a retching wave of hot bile, I contained my revulsion long enough to respond. "I don't cook people!" I exclaimed. "I cook food! FOOD! Nobody cooks PEOPLE! That's HORRIBLE!"



He looked at me with a sort of serene puzzlement for a moment, then shrugged. He noticed something on the counter. "What is that?"



"That," I said, grateful for the change of subject, "is a sandwich that I made for my own lunch."



"Ah," he said, amazed. "A...sandwich. Could you make one of those...for me?"



"Sure," I said, relieved. "What kind of sandwich would you like?



"Are there...different kinds?"



"Oh, yes," I said. "You can put whatever you want in a sandwich. Any kind of meat, in addition to things like tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, pickles--"



"Make me," he said with growing excitement, "a Buggles sandwich."



I slapped my forehead. "No...no, you don't understand," I said, exasperated. "You can't--"



"With some of that pickles and...er, cheese things that you indicated," he added. "And I...I really am hungry today, so...make me two of these Buggles sandwiches. Each of them containing half...of each separate Buggle. With cheese." He took a deep breath and stood back with his mouth open, eagerly waiting for me to confirm my understanding of his instructions.



"Look, Mr. Walken," I said, finally tiring of this charade and spelling it out for him, slowly and plainly. "I cannot and WILL not cook people for you to eat for lunch, or for any other meal. You're asking me to commit MURDER, for heaven's sake...so that YOU can indulge in cannibalism, one of the most utterly HEINOUS acts a person can commit. Why, the very notion of this fills me with an inutterable HORROR which I can scant express with mere words!" I leaned wearily against the counter, drained by my emotional turmoil.



He thought about this for a long time, then held up his index finger and began to speak. "Are you...trying to tell me..." he said slowly, a look of concern on his face, "that we...are out of cheese?"



"NO!" I screamed. "WE'RE OUT OF BUGGLES! YOU'LL HAVE TO EAT SOMETHING ELSE!"



"Ah," he nodded, appearing to understand me at last. I waited anxiously, fearfully, for his next words. He extended his arm so that his sleeve would retract and reveal his wristwatch. He looked at it, furrowing his brow. "It's five minutes after twelve," he announced. "Is my lunch ready yet?"



"No," I said. "You told me you wanted the Buggles for lunch, and I told you I could not and would not kidnap and cook them for you. Therefore, you have yet to present me with a viable alternative meal to prepare for you."



"I understand," he affirmed. "Well, then," he said breezily, "I'll just invite some friends over for lunch, and you can cook some of them." He pulled an address book out of his pocket, went over to the phone, and began calling people while I simply stared at him in disbelief. Thirty minutes later, the livingroom was filled with guests milling around drinking cocktails.



"There's Meryl Streep," he said to me in a low voice, pointing. "I'd like some spaghetti and Streep balls as an appetizer. And over there," he added, indicating a gentleman standing next to the Picasso, "is Dennis Hopper. As an entree, I'd like some thick, juicy Dennis Hopper steaks. Ribeyes, of course."



"Of course," I said wearily.



"And to snack on...umm, who's left...oh, just do something fun with Steven Spielberg. Maybe a sort of festive meatloaf. Or some jerky. But you'd better hurry, because he never stays long."



"So...I just slaughter them now?" I asked.



"Yes, yes, just slaughter them now," he urged. "I'm famished."



Steeling myself, I clutched the meat cleaver and began to inch forward. Suddenly a wave of hysteria swept through me and I screamed at the top of my lungs: "NO! NO! I WON'T DO IT! I WON'T SLAUGHTER AND COOK HOLLYWOOD'S ELITE FOR YOUR LUNCH!"



With that, I flung the meat cleaver aside and ran shrieking from the room. On my way out, I could hear Mr. Walken explain to his guests, "Well, you just can't get good help these days."



Later, he found me hiding in the kitchen, trembling. He noticed my sandwich sitting uneaten on the counter. "Are you...going to eat that?" he asked.



"No, you can have it," I said in a quavering voice. "I couldn't bear to eat anything right now."



He picked up half of the sandwich and took a bite. "Mmm, this is very good," he appraised. "Who is it?"



It was Underwood Chicken Spread, but I lied. "It's Tom Cruise. I got a good deal on the cast of TOP GUN at the meat market."



And so, for the next several weeks, I gave Christopher Walken chicken spread sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and told him that we were working our way through the entire cast of TOP GUN. When that was over, I switched to deviled ham and told him we were starting in on PULP FICTION. This eventually presented a problem, since I'd forgotten that he was in it. So one day, two weeks into PULP FICTION, he asked, "When do I get to eat me for lunch?" Thinking fast, I opened up a can of Spam and pointed at it. "This is you," I said. "Oh...I look good," he drooled.





(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE'S TOP 100 FAVORITE COMEDIES OF ALL TIME

1. THE GENERAL

2. STEAMBOAT BILL, JR.

3. SHERLOCK, JR.

4. COLLEGE

5. CITY LIGHTS

6. MODERN TIMES

7. THE KID

8. THE COCOANUTS

9. ANIMAL CRACKERS

10. MONKEY BUSINESS (1931)

11. HORSEFEATHERS

12. DUCK SOUP

13. A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

14. THE BANK DICK

15. IT'S A GIFT

16. MILLION DOLLAR LEGS

17. THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN

18. THE RELUCTANT ASTRONAUT

19. THE SHAKIEST GUN IN THE WEST

20. BLAZING SADDLES

21. YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN

22. SILENT MOVIE

23. MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL

24. MONTY PYTHON'S LIFE OF BRIAN

25. AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

26. THE JERK

27. THE MAN WITH TWO BRAINS

28. THE NAKED GUN

29. THE NAKED GUN 2 1/2

30. THE NAKED GUN 33 1/3

31. AIRPLANE!

32. ANIMAL HOUSE

33. THE BLUES BROTHERS

34. BANANAS

35. TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN

36. SLEEPER

37. WHAT'S UP, TIGER LILY?

38. ANNIE HALL

39. RAISING ARIZONA

40. THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY

41. KINGPIN

42. DUMB AND DUMBER

43. SINGIN' IN THE RAIN

44. ON THE TOWN

45. WHAT'S UP, DOC?

46. ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN

47. IT'S A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD

48. MEET THE PARENTS

49. THE OUT-OF-TOWNERS (1970)

50. THE ODD COUPLE

51. THE FORTUNE COOKIE

52. SOME LIKE IT HOT

53. THE PINK PANTHER (1963)

54. A SHOT IN THE DARK

55. THE RETURN OF THE PINK PANTHER

56. THE PINK PANTHER STRIKES AGAIN

57. THE NUTTY PROFESSOR (1963)

58. THE LADIES' MAN

59. THE BELLBOY

60. THE BIG MOUTH

61. THE PATSY

62. WHO'S MINDING THE STORE?

63. ARTISTS AND MODELS

64. WAYNE'S WORLD

65. BRINGING UP BABY

66. PEE-WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE

67. PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES

68. NATIONAL LAMPOON'S VACATION

69. NATIONAL LAMPOON'S CHRISTMAS VACATION

70. WHO'S HARRY CRUMB?

71. SUMMER RENTAL

72. THE GREAT OUTDOORS

73. UNCLE BUCK

74. UP IN SMOKE

75. BEACH PARTY

76. MUSCLE BEACH PARTY

77. BEACH BLANKET BINGO

78. VILLAGE OF THE GIANTS

79. ACE VENTURA, PET DETECTIVE

80. ACE VENTURA: WHEN NATURE CALLS

81. DARK STAR

82. DR. STRANGELOVE

83. SONS OF THE DESERT

84. THE FLYING DEUCES

85. THE BLOCKHEADS

86. WAY OUT WEST

87. THIS IS SPINAL TAP

88. A MIGHTY WIND

89. HOW TO SUCCEED IN BUSINESS WITHOUT REALLY TRYING

90. THE IN-LAWS (1979)

91. LOST IN AMERICA

92. DEFENDING YOUR LIFE

93. NOT ANOTHER TEEN MOVIE

94. PAPER MOON

95. PINK FLAMINGOS

96. LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS (1960)

97. AUSTIN POWERS: INTERNATIONAL MAN OF MYSTERY

98. AUSTIN POWERS: THE SPY WHO SHAGGED ME

99. AUSTIN POWERS IN GOLDMEMBER

100.M*A*S*H

PORFLE'S JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH

I remember the first time I ever read Jules Verne's classic adventure story, "A Journey to the Centre of the Earth." As soon as I finished the very last page I became so totally, giddily excited by the idea of actually traveling to the center of the earth that I jumped up out of my chair and ran outside right away, determined to set off for the center of the earth at that very minute! Silly? Yes, of course. But way back in those golden days of youthful innocence, well, I pretty much believed everything that I read in books. And I was generally much more idealistic and optimistic back then, because I had just graduated from college.




My excitement growing with each passing millisecond, I began to jump up and down on the front lawn several times. Nothing happened. I jumped up again and landed as hard as I could, sending jolts of pain through both feet. Still nothing happened! The ground was really hard, and I realized that I would need some kind of hole or passageway in order to get to the center of the earth. Looking around, I noticed that there weren't any volcanos or vast underground caverns in the immediate vicinity of my house. Damn!



At that moment, I spotted a passing police car. The words of an ancient storybook echoed in my mind: "The policeman is your friend. He will always stop and help you when you are in trouble." Flinging myself into the path of the speeding police car, I flew over the hood and crashed into the windshield. It shattered and fell away in jagged pieces as I clawed my way through it and grabbed the terrified policeman by the lapels even as he struggled to control the car. Yanking him forward, I screamed into his face. "HELP ME!!! HELP ME GET TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH!!!"



I've never seen such terror. Frantic, the policeman missed the brakes and rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car bolted forward, out of control, and careened haphazardly down the street as I dragged the policeman through the windshield and out onto the hood with me, still screaming "HELP ME!!!" into his face. He was screaming too, but I couldn't make out the words. He may have been trying to tell me how to get to the center of the earth, but mostly it sounded like "URK!" and "GAA!"



This suddenly struck me as funny for some reason and I began to laugh maniacally as I flung the befuddled policeman into a passing dumpster. Standing on the hood of the car with my arms outstretched to the sky, I laughed and laughed and then bellowed mightily to the heavens, "I'M THE KING OF THE WOOOORLD!!!" just as the police car crashed through the front doors of a Super Wal-Mart. As is so often the case, the designated "greeter" failed to smile and "greet" me as I whizzed by, even though I know for a fact that he saw me because he was looking right at me.



Anyway, I was soon barreling down one of those big central aisles and smashing all sorts of elaborate displays to smithereens as I headed straight for the electronics department in the back. People shrieked in terror and hurled themselves out of the way, and it was interesting to watch the bright splashes of color and texture as the police car obliterated each abandoned shopping cart and sprayed its various contents in all directions.



Forgetting for a moment my impassioned quest to reach the center of the earth, I reflected upon how truly happy I was at that moment and thrilled to the prospect of crashing into the store's entire DVD collection, including the new shelf of Blu-Rays that nobody ever bought, and totally demolishing the whole thing within mere seconds. This was my moment of triumph! I don't know why I felt that way, but it seemed appropriate for some reason. Perhaps I simply felt a sense of entitlement since it was almost my birthday.



With a resounding Tarzan yell that echoed throughout the store, I beat my chest with both fists and waited for the crash. Later, as I proceeded downward through a dark tunnel that had been formed in the subterranean rock by molten lava forcing its way upward from the depths of the earth, I looked back upon the incident and chuckled. My Swedish guide, Fjorn, glanced back inquisitively at me from up ahead, but I waved him onward. He wouldn't have understood what it means to be an irresponsible cut-up, a happy-go-lucky clown who behaves strictly on impulse with no regard whatsoever for the consequences or the well-being of others.



I'd tried to hire a guide who did understand stuff like that so we'd have something to talk about, but Fjorn was all the guide agency had left that day. I toyed with the idea of shoving him into some lava if I got a chance--that is, after he had outlived his usefulness as a guide--but then I remembered that he had those incriminating nude photos of me cavorting around in the frozen foods section of a Piggly-Wiggly, which he'd left instructions to have published upon his mysterious death. Curses! Always one step ahead of me...in more ways than one!



Well--long story short--we finally reached the center of the earth approximately eight years after beginning the journey. It wouldn't have taken so long except for the fact that every time we ran out of food we had to go back to Piggly-Wiggly again and buy some more. Anyway, the center of the earth sucked because there wasn't really a big raging ocean down there with giant dinosaurs fighting each other to the death and big, hairy cavemen running around and stuff. I then realized that this Jules Verne guy was just some big stupid dope who had made up a lot of cool stuff and lied about it in his dumb book, and it was at that moment I vowed never to read another book again as long as I live, especially if it was written by that big stupid dope, Jules Verne.



I was so disappointed that I no longer cared whether or not those naked pictures of me got sent to the newspaper, so I kicked Fjorn into a bunch of molten lava and trudged my way back to the surface of the earth. Without a guide, I got lost along the way and ended up emerging from a solid waste processing plant outside of Billings, Montana six months later. Hailed by distraught witnesses as a horrifying, solid-waste-covered monster from the depths of the earth, I became a legend that still haunts the bedtime stories of terrified little children in and around the Billings, Montana area, where I am known simply as "Big Ass." But that was nothing compared to the nationwide horror and widespread panic and consternation that occurred when those naked pictures hit the front page of the New York Times.



The journey was over. Four years later, policeman Fred Burton disappeared, along with partners Mertz and Finklestein, when rabid muskrats swept through their duck blind on Lake Blorch. But on that glorious day in May 1963, I--porfle--went deeper, farther, and slower than any other American--eight years and six months below the surface of the earth; I was the last American ever to go into the frozen food section of Piggly-Wiggly naked. And for a brief moment, Porfo Cooper became the stupidest person anyone had ever seen.

 
(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: IAN FLEMING'S "THUNDERFART"

Most people, even avid James Bond fans, don't realize that Ian Fleming's THUNDERBALL was originally titled THUNDERFART. It was going to be about a special SPECTRE operative who was scientifically altered so that his incredibly rank farts could wreak havoc in whatever situation he may be assigned to infiltrate. In this case, mysterious SPECTRE leader Blofeld would order Thunderfart, disguised as James Bond 007, to enter the office of Bond's boss, "M", and fart him into oblivion. Bond, of course, would catch wind of this malodorous scheme and, with the help of "Q" branch, acquire a similar farting capability in order to go fart-to-fart against the evil Thunderfart. If the original script is any indication, this would have resulted in one of the most explosive finales to any Bond adventure.

When asked why such a promising story was altered so drastically, even to the point of having to rename it THUNDERBALL, producer Albert "Cubby" Broccoli was evasive. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he told a reporter during filming. "Certainly, we toyed with the idea of a villain with super farting capability, but this concept never reached the final script phase. In fact, the closest we got to it was a henchman character named Fart Job, although he was dropped early in the process due to our inability to sign actor Rip Taylor for the part."

Sean Connery had a more negative attitude toward the whole thing. "I thought the idea stunk," he said over a light lunch of squab under glass at Tootsie's one Sunday afternoon. "[Co-producer] Harry Saltzman quite literally pulled it out of his ass one day while we were playing golf. He bent over to pick up his Slazenger 7 somewhere near the eighteenth hole, and cut a fart so powerful that it knocked me clean out the back of my golf cart. I was unconscious for fifteen minutes, and when I came to, Harry was rambling about how great it would be if 007 were to encounter a foe with frighteningly intense farting skills. I told him he was daft, but he wouldn't be put off. He even toyed with the idea of doing the whole thing up in Smell-o-vision.

"I whimsically suggested that perhaps this character might devise some grand plot to rob Fart Knox, which Harry actually considered till he realized the similarity to GOLDFINGER. That's when the idea for THUNDERFART began to gather wind. Harry brought it up with Cubby, and they holed themselves up in an office somewhere with several crates of baked beans, some spoons, and three barrels of Guinness. I'm not sure how far they ever got with the script treatment, but when they came out of there all the wallpaper had peeled off the walls and three potted plants were stone dead. Both their hair had turned snow white. They still don't know what became of Harry's cat."

With only the germ of an idea to show for their weeks of work, they turned to veteran Bond scripter Richard Maibaum to flesh it out. "I thought they'd both gone stark, raving coo-coo," Maibaum confided to The Daily Mail while polevaulting over a moat filled with maneating alligators as he and his valiant army of warrior knights lay siege to the castle of the evil King Sylvester Stallone (no relation to the actor). "There hadn't been a successful spy thriller with a 'super-farting' premise since Hitchcock's THE 39 FARTS or his later film, THE MAN WHO FARTED TOO MUCH. Of course, the great D.W. Griffith started it all back in 1919 with his silent but deadly epic INCONTINENCE, which set the standard. But I just couldn't see the idea working for a Bond film. Especially since Sean, unbeknownst to many of his fans, is physically incapable of farting."

Asked about this later, Connery was reticent to confirm Maibaum's claim. "I've been known to 'cut one' if the occasion called for it," he asserted over a late dinner of meatloaf under glass at Denny's on Wilton Avenue, 1967. "But to my embarrassment, my gaseous emissions are rather high-pitched and 'quacky'--not unlike the sound of an enormously fat woman sitting on a duck. Passable for daily use, of course, but hardly cinematic. Someone brought up the idea of dubbing me, but I balked. If those weren't going to be my own genuine farts up there on the screen, then what's the point? Besides," he added, tucking into a rich dessert of banana split under glass, "it was subsequently discovered that Ian Fleming himself had written a similar, unpublished story, which I thought would make a better film, entitled OCTOPOOTY."

We may never know whether or not THUNDERFART would've been better than OCTOPOOTY, but this surviving excerpt from an early draft of the script may help us decide. In this pre-titles sequence, Bond has been summoned to M's office for a briefing:


INTERIOR: M'S OFFICE: DAY

M is sitting at his desk, smoking a pipe, apparently unaware of Bond's presence as he pours over some papers. Bond sits across from him, waiting. Presently, M looks up with a dour expression.

M: "Did you just fart?"

BOND: (taken aback) "Never on the company's time, sir."

M: "Then it must be this case that stinks. The PM's having a BM about it. Seems SPECTRE's got a new secret weapon they're threatening to unleash on London unless we pay them...a million pounds."

BOND: (smirking) "A...'million' pounds, sir?"

M: "This isn't 'Austin Powers', 007. We're not doing retro-irony yet."

BOND: (abashed) "Of course not, sir."

M: "You're to infiltrate their organization and find out anything you can about... Operation Thunderfart."

BOND: "Hmm...is that as ominous as it sounds?"

M: "Worse. SPECTRE claims to have an agent who can fart clear across London, with a stench rank enough to knock a flock of buzzards off a dinosaur turd. They're threatening to render Buckingham Palace itself uninhabitable. Now get this, 007...I don't intend to have the Queen being farted right out of her own bed some night by a diabolical madman. Not on my watch."

BOND: "Of course not, sir."

M: "What do you know about beans?"

BOND: "Well...I know them when I see them."

M: "You'll be seeing a lot more of them. Henceforth, I want you to start eating beans non-stop. At least fifty cans a day, until you're a match for this...this Thunderfart." (places a can of beans and a spoon on his desk) "We've developed a special brand guaranteed to produce extra flatulence. You'll draw the rest from 'Q' branch on your way out."

BOND: "Anything else, sir?"

M: "You're not eating, 007."

BOND opens the can of beans and starts gulping them down as he rises and walks into the OUTER OFFICE. MONEYPENNY is at her desk.

MONEYPENNY: "How did it go, James?"

BOND: "Mmfff, glmmff."

MONEYPENNY: "Come again?"

BOND: (swallowing) "Sorry. Can't talk with my mouth full."

MONEYPENNY: "That's never stopped you before."

BOND: (roguishly) "And what do you know about flatulence, Moneypenny?"

MONEYPENNY: "Only the kind you get from eating too much cake. You know, like...wedding cake?"

BOND: "Ahh yes, we should look into that someday, my dear. Meanwhile..."

BOND pauses as though stricken. Suddenly he unleashes a resounding fart that knocks his hat off the nearby hatrack. Moneypenny turns green and flops over her desk like a dead fish.

M: (over the intercom) "Really, 007! Try to hold your fire until you've left the office!"

BOND: "Sorry, sir. I didn't want to go off half-cocked."


This, of course, would have led directly into the familiar opening titles song, powerfully sung by Tom Jones, but featuring these previously-unheard lyrics:

He likes to make a lot of noise
Offending's one of his main joys
And flatulence is, to him, an art
So he strikes...like Thunderfart.

Beans are his weapon, of choice
Through which he speaks in thund'rous voice
You're doomed to surrender from the start
If he strikes...like Thunderfart.

Any room he is in, he'll clear
As each nose learns the meaning of true fear

He'll make you think that something's died
You'll try to run, but you can't hide
He smells just like dog poo a la carte
When he strikes...like Thunderfart.

If you're stuck in a lift, with him
Hold your breath, or your will to live will dim

He never stops with only one
His farts go on and on and on
The seat of his pants he'll blow apart
When he strikes...like Thuuunn...derrrr...FAARRRTTTT!

PORFLE VS. SCOOBY-DOO

When I was a little kid, the premiere episode of "Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?" was my very first critical indication that, on the whole, Saturday morning kids' programming was finally turning into total crap. Sure, it was pretty crappy already, but this unholy travesty was the last straw.




First, you had this big, stupid dog who was nothing more than a cheap rip-off of Astro from "The Jetsons" going around saying "Ooby-dooby-doo!" Then there was his subhuman sidekick, a total loss named Shaggy who was not only an obvious hardcore stoner with the permanent munchies but an absolute blithering moron as well. These wastes of oxygen traveled around the country in a van with a homely bookworm named Velma (okay, she was actually pretty hot--just check out your nearest cartoon porn site) and a couple of corncob-up-the-ass Barbie and Ken stiffs named...aah, who cares. They always looked like the coolest kids at church camp and dressed "mod" just in time to be totally out of it.



What did these blithering idiots do with their worthless lives? Well, they solved mysteries. Oh my, yes, ha ha, well, of course they did. A bunch of vomit-inducing teenagers and their mangy hound tooling around the country in a fruity-looking van called the "Mystery Machine" with no visible means of financial support whatsoever are just naturally going to be crackerjack mystery solvers. Come to think of it, maybe they should've started by solving the mystery of what the hell their freakin' problem was.



Anyway, these idiots solved the mysteries that were so incredibly lame that even the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew would've been embarrassed to touch them with a ten-foot pole. Although the show tried to pass itself off as spooky supernatural fun for kids, the anticlimactic rip-off solution to every mystery always involved some creepy old man in a ghost outfit or some kind of monster get-up, trying to scare people away from the old haunted lighthouse or the old abandoned carnival or whatever. And at the end of every show they always tried to make it seem like a big surprise that he wasn't really a ghost or a monster, like we're just gonna keep falling for that same old gag week after week.



When's the last time you dressed up in a monster suit and waved your arms around going "Oooo-ooooo!" and actually scared anybody away from anywhere? Maybe Vanilla Ice should've tried that when Shug Knight and his pals showed up at his crib that day--just dress up like a ghost and wave his arms around going "Whooo-OOO-oooo!" at them. Yeah, that would've worked. "YIKES! A G-G-G-GHOST!" I can hear them saying now during their frantic retreat. On second thought, Vanilla Ice most likely would've actually been a friggin' ghost within roughly, oh, thirty seconds.



Anyway, the next time the cops show up at your front door with a warrant, just dress up like a scary swamp creature and shamble outside screaming "Eeeee-AARRRGGGH!" It won't scare them away, but the video footage of them beating and tasering you into oblivion while they laugh their heads off might make the opening credits of COPS.



I won't go into the "Scrappy-Doo" and "Scooby-Dum" episodes because I just couldn't bring myself to suffer through any of them. I did watch some of those later "guest star" episodes, though, when the ratings were finally starting to sink so low that the producers would try anything. They actually called these "Scooby-Doo Movies", even though they were "movies" in roughly the same way that Vern Troyer is the Terminator.



The Don Knotts episode was okay--it's hard to go wrong when you've got Barney Fife as a guest star and Don himself doing the voice. But Jonathan Winters? I loved the guy but most of the kids watching the show in the 70s wouldn't have known Jonathan Winters from Nelson Rockefeller. I'm surprised Milton Berle and Jimmy Durante didn't show up, too. "Hey Mom, who the hell are these friggin' old geezers doing prehistoric vaudeville patter with Scooby-Doo?" And then there was the tragic Batman and Robin episode. Holy has-beens, that must've been a real wake-up call for poor old cartoon Batman.



I was always hoping the gang would find themselves at Spahn Movie Ranch one night and run into special guest star Charles Manson. "Gee, Scoob! Somethin' awful screwy's going on around here!" Shaggy would whine. "We'd better tell the police!" And then a voice from behind him would say, "It's not nice to snitch, Shaggy..." and Shaggy would scream "Zoinks!" as Charlie and the gang moved in for the kill. Of course, they'd probably unmask Manson at the end and he'd turn out to be the old Spahn Movie Ranch caretaker. "Curses! I'd have started Helter Skelter if it hadn't been for those meddling kids!"


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE: IN SEARCH OF AMERICA

Once upon a time, I set off in my car to travel the highways and byways of this great country of ours, in my own personal quest to "find America." This had been a dream of mine ever since watching movies like "Easy Rider", "In Search of America", and "Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla", not to mention TV shows such as "Route 66", "Then Came Bronson", and "The Flying Nun", in addition to books as diverse as the phone book and Edna St. Milton McWatermelon's "Gee, Rodney Daingerfield Smells Terrific!" So one day I finally made the decision to do it, and off I went!




I brought plenty of cassette tapes with me to listen to while driving. Most of them were mix tapes, because I usually only like one or two songs from the albums that I buy. One of them was a theme tape entitled "Songs That I Like" and another one was a theme tape called "Songs That I Can't Stand", which I didn't listen to very much. I also brought a 27-inch color TV that I'd installed in the passenger seat and hooked into my cigarette lighter. This got to be a bit of a problem when I found out that it's difficult to concentrate on watching TV and driving at the same time, especially when I kept ramming into other cars and running over pedestrians. Once, during a particularly exciting courtroom finale of "Matlock", I crashed through the front wall of someone's house and ended up in their livingroom. As it turned out, they were watching "Matlock" too. It's a small world! I told them I was "real sorry" and backed out and drove away.



As so often happens during a motor trip, I got lost along the way and had to stop for directions. Now, I know there's a common misconception that guys don't ask for directions, but I ask for them all the time. Sometimes I ask for them even when I'm not going anywhere. I'll just be sitting somewhere like the waiting room at my doctor's office, and suddenly I'll ask the person next to me, "How do you get to Cincinatti from here?" They usually don't know, but once the nice lady happened to be from Cincinatti and she was able to give me detailed directions. I thanked her politely and continued reading my copy of "Highlights for Children", trying to find the hidden objects in that damn picture. The football and the ice cream cone had been easy, but the teddy bear and the candy cane were proving to be quite elusive. Anyway, the lady finally asked me, "So, uhh...are you going to Cincinatti?" and I said "None of your damn business, FAT ASS!!!"



Well, the old geezer in front of the Mobile station was only too happy to give me directions after I threatened him with a stick of dynamite and a match, because he didnt want to get blown up. It wasn't real dynamite, of course--it was just a stick of fake dynamite that they gave me when I graduated from an assertiveness training course last year. Anyway, the old guy couldn't have been more helpful. After giving me directions, he gave me his wallet, his watch, all the money in his cash register, a full tank of free gas, and a handy road map that I deftly folded into a pirate hat before his very eyes and shoved onto his head. "Do a pirate dance!" I suggested, wielding the fake dynamite. So he started dancing around singing "yo-ho-ho" as I drove off, laughing.



Presently, I breezed into a small town that was having a colorful street festival with lots of sidewalk booths and other fun attractions. I could see brightly-colored streamers and balloons everywhere, and lots of happy people gaily enjoying the fun activities. There were wooden detour barriers barring vehicular access to the streets, and as I crashed through them I gazed in childlike wonder at the delightful displays of interesting wares and baked goods that came flying over my hood and splattering all over my windshield.



The deafening, cacophonous sound of terrified screams was music to my ears as I demolished all of the cheerfully-festooned booths and chased dozens of terrified pedestrians all over the town square. I didn't mean any harm, of course, and the only people that I actually ran over were the ones that simply couldn't run very fast or were unfortunate enough to trip over something. Having left my mark on the occasion, I headed for home thinking to myself with great satisfaction, "Truly, I have found it...I have found America."



It didn't take long to get back to my house, since, as it turned out, I had been driving around in circles and had never actually left town the entire time. One reason for this might have been my decision not to make any left turns during the trip, which, in my opinion, greatly simplifies the act of driving by cutting down on the highly-distracting decision-making process while also making it much easier to watch TV while driving.



Anyway, unlike the idiots in "Easy Rider", I not only made it back home alive but I also avoided having to spend the night in some boring hippie commune with mimes running around in it. If I had seen a bunch of mimes running around, I would've just chased them with my car, and I'll bet you a million dollars they would have actually run screaming for their lives instead of just miming it. Mimes are funny that way--they like to give the impression that they're dedicated to their "art", but few of them are really willing to sacrifice their lives for it. Which is probably why there are so few mimes in the military, or why there's never been a TV cop show called "Mime Squad."

(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. CITIZEN KANE

OOOOH, CITIZEN KANE!!! DON'T SAY ANYTHING BAD ABOUT CITIZEN KANE!!! That's right, ever since CITIZEN KANE came out in 1941, everybody's oohed and ahhed their stupid heads off about how great it is. Many call it the greatest film ever made, and if you tell any of these slobbering sycophants anything that isn't totally slobberingly superlative about it they start jumping up and down and banging their heads into the ceiling and having heart attacks and crashing through walls and stuff. Well, you wanna know what I think about big, fat, fancy-shmancy "greatest film ever made" CITIZEN KANE? HUH?




Okay, I think it's the greatest film ever made. SHUT UP!!! That still doesn't make it perfect, which it isn't, and do you know why? I'll tell you why. Because I'm not in it. Oh, sure, I wasn't born yet, and even if I was, Orson Welles probably wouldn't have put me in CITIZEN KANE anyway. Which just goes to show that Mr. Big-Fat-Cinematic-Genius wasn't quite so perfect after all. And neither was his terminally me-less movie.



If Orson Welles was so smart, why didn't he figure out a way to put me into CITIZEN KANE? What--he wasn't psychic? He didn't have his own time machine? He couldn't take a sperm sample from my dad and grow me in a laboratory? I thought he was supposed to be some kind of big deal. Guess not, LOL.



Just imagine how much totally fifty-times-better it would be if I were one of the lead actors. "RKO proudly presents 'CITIZEN KANE' starring Orson Welles, Joseph Cotten, Agnes Moorehead, and introducing PORFLE in his stunning motion picture debut!" My popularity, of course, would soon steamroll over that of everyone else in the cast to such an extent that all prints would have to be recalled so that my name could be placed first in the credits in huge letters. "RKO proudly presents PORFLE!!! in 'Citizen Kane.' And some other people, yawn." Eventually, they'd probably just change the name of the movie to CITIZEN PORFLE.



It would've been fun to blast Orson Welles and everybody else right off the screen with half my total greatness tied behind my back. And my invaluable contributions to the screenplay really would've jazzed up some of the slower scenes. Like that sled scene at the beginning. While little Kane is outside in the snow playing with his sled, I would come roaring over a snowbank in a monster truck and crash into the cabin. "COOL!!!" the audience would shriek in unison.



Bursting out of the flaming wreckage with a shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher in each hand, I would heroically wipe out both the attacking Nazi hordes and the squadron of hostile space aliens in flying saucers that were closing in from all sides. This, of course, would lead right into the big naked whipped-cream orgy sequence in which I would have steaming hot sex with Lauren Bacall, Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable, and the Andrews Sisters. As the heart-pounding action reached its "climax" (hee, hee) I would throw my head back, fists raised, and scream to the heavens in extreme closeup, "ROOOOOOOSE-BUUUUUUUD!!!"



After that, the part where Charles Foster Kane takes over that small newspaper and turns it into the largest and most influential paper in the whole world would prove to be a sad anti-climax until I showed up onscreen again to greaten things back up. "I think it would be fun to run a newspaper," he would say, and I'd grab him by the lapels and scream into his face, "KISS MY ASS, KANE!" and he'd say "Yes, sir!" and start kissing my ass in the middle of Main Street for the next fifteen minutes while all of New York paraded by to take pictures and throw bouquets of flowers at me. "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!!!" I'd bellow to my admiring worshippers, later successfully suing James Cameron for stealing the line from me.



The rest of the script would mean nothing to me, of course, since my mere presence was all CITIZEN PORFLE would require in order to be the greatest film of all time. So none of that other stuff that happens in the movie would be necessary. There would be another hour or so of closeups consisting of me being totally fabulous, posing casually in a speedo or berating a waiter in a fancy restaurant because the ice isn't cold enough, or bulldozing orphanages just for fun while I laughed hysterically. As you might imagine, all of this would be so incredibly great that a special kind of film would have to be invented just to contain it all without the camera exploding into a nuclear mushroom cloud and destroying most of the northeastern United States.



Eventually, there would have to be some kind of an ending, since even the most exquisitely wonderful things must come to an end. So, with the question of "who or what is 'rosebud'?" still on everyone's minds, I would break character and step up to the camera, addressing the viewers. "Ladies and gentlemen," I'd intone in my most charismatic voice, "I'm sure you're all wondering who or what 'rosebud' is. Well, idiots--since that is clearly what you all are compared to me--I'll show you."



At that point, I would pull my pants down and thrust my bare ass into the lens, revealing the word "ROSEBUD" tattooed across my buttocks. And thus, the greatest film of all time would come to an incredible conclusion with my big, tattooed ass filling the entire screen, forty feet high, as audiences all over the world swooned in unbearable ecstasy. As a final humorous touch, the words "THE END" would then be superimposed over my gigantic butt.



Come to think of it, now that I've described what would've happened if I had been in CITIZEN KANE, I really can't blame Orson Welles for not putting me in it. I guess he wanted some of the recognition and fame for himself, even if it meant releasing a grossly inferior movie to the public. And I can only assume that this is why nobody else has ever asked me to be in their movies, either. It's too bad, really, since filmmakers are cheating the moviegoing public of the orgasmic greatness of me, the finest actor of all time, and dooming them all to lives that are only a hollow shell of what they could have been. Which is why everyone should protest this insidious worldwide conspiracy by marching on Hollywood with flaming torches and burning down all the major motion picture studios until they start putting me in all their movies. And if this doesn't work, they should just go ahead and burn down the entire city of Hollywood, and rebuild it as Porflewood.


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

LUCA BRASI GOES TOY SHOPPING

One day, I was browsing around in Wilson's Toy Store, when a hulking, ominous figure in a trenchcoat walked in. It was Don Corleone's most feared henchman, Luca Brasi. I eavesdropped on the conversation between him and Mr. Wilson, and it went like this:




LUCA BRASI: "Mr. Wilson. I am honored and grateful...that you have invited me to your big clearance sale...on da day...of your big clearance sale. And I hope dat dis coupon...will be a valuable coupon. I pledge...my evah...ending...patronage."



MR. WILSON: "Thank you, Luca, my most valued customer."



LUCA BRASI: "I'm gonna serve myself now, because I know dat you are busy."



MR. WILSON: "Thank you."



So, Luca went over to the Star Wars section to look at the action figures. I noticed that he seemed to have a special interest in the Wookies. After depositing a large number of carefully-chosen Wookies and a few droids into his basket, he then proceeded over to the videogame aisle.



Suddenly, another dangerous figure filled the doorway, followed by two even larger thugs. It was "The Turk"...Virgil Sollozzo. He doffed his hat and rolled it in his hands, looking around with a narrow, suspicious gaze.



Mr. Wilson approached him. "Can I help you?"



Sollozzo regarded him for a long moment. "The word on the street is that you have the new...como se dice...'vee-dee-o game'," he intoned in a no-nonsense voice. "The one that all the children in the world would sell their own mothers for."



"Ah, yes," said Mr. Wilson. "That would be 'Final Apocalypse II: The Penultimate Armageddon.' But I'm afraid we're sold out."



Sollozzo's countenance darkened. "Surely," he said slowly, "a man in your position might retain an extra copy or two...for special customers. Perhaps as insurance, to avoid any unpleasant...circumstances." He favored Mr. Wilson with an intimidating glare.



"Well, I'm sorry, sir," Mr. Wilson shrugged, "but you should've gotten here earlier, because this morning--"



Luca interrupted him. "Mister Wilson, I'm gonna take dese Wookies now," he said. "And dis videogame, 'Final Apockamuss II: Da Pentanimal Ahm...Ahma...Ahmagooch."



Sollozzo stepped forward to examine the front cover picture, and sure enough, there was a fanged, maniacal-looking Elijah Wood jumping out of a large cake, surrounded by dancing circus monkeys. "So...you're sold out," he growled at Mr. Wilson, his hand creeping slowly into his open jacket. "It seems that our business together has been on a less than honorable basis."



Mr. Wilson smiled and waved dismissively. "Mr. Brasi has had that particular item on layaway for weeks," he explained. "You see, he's a very loyal customer and keeps abreast of such things. Perhaps if you'd like to give me your mailing address so that I could send you our sales brochures in advance--"



Sollozzo brushed him aside roughly and confronted Luca Brasi. "I want that videogame. I'm willing to offer you a fair deal...say, twice the suggested retail price. And, I can assure you, I have the full support of the entire Tattaglia family backing me up."



Luca sized him up with a dull look. "Why does da Tattaglia family suddenly have such an interest in dis videogame?" he asked.



"Because tomorrow," Sollozzo said gravely, "is Fluffy Tattaglia's ninth birthday. She has her little heart set on this game. And I have been given full authority to do everything in my power to get one."



"Dat is touching," said Luca. "But I, too, have a very important reason for wanting it. Because dis game is da only thing keeping me from having da greatest collection of Elijah Wood memora...memorabi...stuff in da entire woild. And I am da woild's biggest Elijah Wood fan."



"With all due respect," countered Sollozzo, affecting a more reasonable tone, "I beg to differ. Fluffy Tattaglia is the world's biggest Elijah Wood fan. In fact, she has assured Don Tattaglia himself, on numerous occasions, that she plans to marry Elijah Wood as soon as she is old enough. Can you say the same thing, Luca? Do you...plan to marry him?"



Luca didn't know what to say to this. As big a fan as he was of Elijah Wood, he had never actually entertained the notion of marrying him. True, he had often fantasized about taking him to the county fair, buying him one of those big, sour dill pickles, attending the hog-judging contest, and riding all the most fun rides with him, and then going home and watching TV with him while they ate TV dinners, until it was bedtime and Elijah Wood, in his bunny rabbit footy pajamas, would turn at the door before scampering off to bed and say, "Gee, you're the greatest...Dad."



Sollozzo spoke again, breaking Luca's reverie. "Perhaps," he said, reaching into his jacket, "this will help to convince you." He pulled out something long and black and pointed it at Luca. Luca's eyes widened.



It was a giant, super-chewy Tootsie Roll.



Luca tried to restrain himself even as his mouth began to water. "You don't have to give me your answer right away," Sollozzo said in a silky voice. "Here, take a bite. Think it over. When you're done...we'll talk."



Luca leaned forward and held Sollozzo's wrist, drawing the Tootsie Roll closer. He opened his mouth and took a bite. It felt like an explosion of chewy, chocolatey goodness in his mouth. But he shrugged, pretending that it wasn't all that great. Sollozzo glanced over at one of his companions and gave a slight nod. With a shock of recognition, Luca realized that it wasn't just any henchman, but Don Tattaglia's son himself--the dreaded Bruno Tattaglia.



With an evil sneer, Bruno Tattaglia suddenly grabbed Luca's hand and rammed it into a vat of Monster Goop that Mr. Wilson kept by the checkout stand as an impulse item. The other man came up behind Luca and started tickling him. Luca began to emit a horrible barking noise as he choked on the Tootsie Roll, his eyes bulging, his tongue sticking out. As he struggled vainly to free his hand from the Monster Goop, Sollozzo snatched the videogame away from him and slid it into his breast pocket with a cruel, self-satisfied smirk. "The videogame--and the Monster Goop," he said to Mr. Wilson. "Put them both...on Don Barzini's account."



Barzini! thought Mr. Wilson. He knew from the start that the Tattaglias would never have had the brains to pull off something like this without someone else behind them. But it wasn't until this very moment that he knew...it was Barzini all along.



With a last, mighty pull, Luca freed his hand from the Monster Goop, then discovered that Bruno Tattaglia had tied his shoelaces together. He stumbled backward, banged his head on a Teddy Ruxpin display, and plunged, unconscious, into a bin of "Finding Nemo" plush toys. Only his feet could be seen sticking out of it.



Virgil Sollozzo turned at the door on his way out, putting on his hat. "If you see Don Corleone," he said ominously to Mr. Wilson, "tell him...Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes tonight."


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)