Sunday, September 14, 2008


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

Tuesday, September 9, 2008


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


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


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 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. "'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 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