"PORF FICTION": PORFLE VS. QUENTIN TARANTINO

Okay, I'm just going to get right to it this time. Here is the main reason why I'm incredibly furious at Quentin Tarantino:




He has never cast me in any of his movies.



I would've made a great Bill in KILL BILL. But I'd have played the role a lot differently than that stupid David Carradine. First off, I would've worn a clown suit with really floppy shoes and an huge orange Afro. And instead of that "cool" walk that he did--or tried to do, ha ha--I would've hopped around on the furniture waving my arms like a flamboyantly gay gorilla, alternately barking or screaming my head off.



That stupid flute would have to go, too. During the campfire scene in which Bill tells Beatrix the "Pai Mei" story, I would've marched around her stark naked, playing a kazoo and a Belly-Bongo while ramming my big, bare butt against a bass drum every time I passed by it. And I'd be screaming the "Pai Mei" story at her at the top of my lungs instead of just quietly "telling" it to her like that rank amateur, David Carradine, until Uma Thurman was utterly terrified of me and I'd win every scene. "WIN! WIN! WIN! TERRIFY YOUR CO-STARS!" That's my acting motto.



I would've terrified the hell out of Samuel L. Jackson in PULP FICTION by blowing up his dressing trailer with dynamite and attacking him every night dressed as the Wolf Man. That's why I would have made a much better Vincent Vega than that big dummy, John Travolta. During the "Tony Rocky Horror-foot massage" discussion scene, my character would be wielding a chainsaw and sawing huge, gaping holes in the walls amidst the deafening roar as I screamed "IT'S IN THE BALLPARK, JULES!!! FOOT MASSAGE IS IN THE F**KING BALLPARK!!!" and threw live grenades in every direction, exploding the building down around us.



What a sweet acting victory that would be as my co-stars, along with the entire film crew and that idiot Tarantino, fled in mortal terror for their very lives as I gave the greatest performance in film history until the whole city block was a raging inferno. What an incredibly satisfying theatrical triumph for me as police, firetrucks, and SWAT vans descended upon the scene while I continued to destroy everything in sight with a shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher in one hand and a flamethrower in the other while reciting the remainder of my lines.



"WE HAPPY, JULES!!!" I'd shriek as I double-checked Marcellus Wallace's mysterious briefcase, then filled it with C-4 and hurled it into the midst of my attackers and scattered them like frantically fleeing cockroaches as the tremendous explosion blew out windows for miles around and I stood there laughing maniacally, already mentally composing my acceptance speech for when I won the Best Actor Oscar or else. John Travolta? That big dope never thought of any of these brilliant acting choices, and neither did the vastly stupid Quentin Taran-tuna-breath.



I haven't seen DEATH PROOF yet so I don't know exactly how I would've improved upon Kurt Russell's doltish performance in that. I'd probably tie up all my co-stars and launch them out of a catapult one by one into various things like the craft services food table and whatever large bodies of water or fine glassware shops happened to be within firing range of our filming location.



Not quite sure of my exact battle plan there, though, until I actually see the movie. But anyway, I would've emerged victorious once again even if I had to lay waste to the entire town, because I'm a "method" actor like Brando, who once totally destroyed a small city in Utah while performing "As You Like It" at the local dinner theater in 1957.



I haven't seen JACKIE BROWN either, but I'm thinking maybe I might have just gone into that one with 100 pounds of dynamite strapped to my chest. Maybe call in an airstrike on my own coordinates during my big dramatic scene and nuke the place, transforming it into a napalm-fueled apocalypse of horror. But it's hard to say without actually reading the script and "getting into" my character first. That's acting lingo, by the way.



And then there's the big scene in RESERVOIR DOGS where Michael Madsen dances around in front of the bound cop before cutting his ear off. I don't know where Tarantino got this talentless loser, but the dimwitted director's total ignorant stupidity in casting him instead of me is now the stuff of Hollywood legend. In fact, Sean Connery was asking me about it just the other day over a light lunch of squab under glass with bamboo sprouts at Toots Shor's. "So," said Sir Sean, "how would you have improved on that particular scene, porfle?"



"Well, Sean," I replied, stifling a belch, "I would have hung Tarantino up by his balls and used him to play human skittle pool with the tied-up guy, leveled the place with an army of steamrollers, and then released the giant, ravenous vultures upon the remaining cast and crew." Noticing Connery's naked, childlike admiration of my greatness, I smiled modestly before liberally dousing my squab with horseradish and shoving the entire thing into my mouth at once. "Mmmfff, mmmrrfff," I continued, further describing the fiendishly brilliant acting skills I'd have brought to bear in the role that Michael Madsen had so thoroughly botched. "Mmmfff...grrmmmffff...bbfff." The squab was delicious.



Well, you may have heard that Sean Connery has subsequently retired from acting, and with such intimidating competition you can hardly blame him. I, being the gentleman that I am, politely refrained from telling him how I would've overwhelmingly improved upon his sadly-lacking portrayal of James Bond. I didn't mention how I would have launched a surprise mortar attack against Gert Frobe and Honor Blackman during the Fort Knox sequence in GOLDFINGER, and encased producers Harry Saltzman and "Cubby" Broccoli up to their necks in large blocks of cement and then shot apples off their heads with a crossbow.



And, demonstrating an almost super-human restraint, I very gallantly omitted the part where my involvement in the production of YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE would have climaxed with me being crowned Emperor of Japan, ordering everyone in the entire country to dress up like Groucho Marx and speak Swahili for the rest of their lives, and then declaring nuclear war on Finland. After all, Sean's a really nice guy and I didn't want to burden him with unbearable regret and a soul-crushing sense of inadequacy in comparison to my soaring, earth-shattering, almost godlike greatness.



I'm still really mad at Quentin Tarantino for never casting me in any of his movies, and that I do not forgive. But I swear--on the souls of my grandchildren--that I will not be the one to break the peace that we have made here today.





(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "THE VIN DIESEL HOLIDAY SPECIAL"

In joyous celebration of this wonderful season, join us now for a classic television treasure from the Hallowed Hall of Fictitious TV Favorites...The Vin Diesel Holiday Special!




(FADE-IN to a stage ornately trimmed with Christmas decorations. Festive Christmas music wafts through the studio.)



ANNOUNCER: (brightly) Pour yourself some egg nog, snuggle up with your Miss or Mister under the mistletoe, and get ready for a blast of high-octane Christmas cheer that'll knock your ass into your hat! Move over Santa, because here comes the one...the only...VIN DIESEL!!!



(Vin bursts onto the stage with a huge grin and trots up to the microphone to mild applause. He slips on some fake snow and lands flat on his back, hard, knocking the wind from his lungs and painfully bruising his tailbone. The audience gasps. Two stagehands rush out to help him up. Vin limps to the microphone, wincing in pain as he tries to smile. There is scattered laughter.)


VIN: Oops! Heh, heh...I guess I zigged when I shoulda zagged, huh?



(Vin waits for the audience to laugh. There is utter silence.)



VIN: Well...heh, heh...welcome to my Christmas special.



AUDIENCE MEMBER: (shouting) What about Hanukkah, you anti-Semitic bastard?



VIN: Oh...oh, yeah. I guess I should call it my "holiday" special. Yeah, that's it. Welcome to my holiday special.



AUDIENCE MEMBER: (shouting) What about Kwanzaa?



VIN: I don't think he's on the show. Anyway, I tried to book some really, really big-name guests, but they were all busy from Christmas shopping and dental appointments and their dogs dying and stuff like that. So I'm really sorry that tonight's guests aren't all that great. But we're still gonna have a lotta fun! Right, everybody? Yay!



(Vin makes a "raising the roof" gesture with his hands. The audience is non-responsive. He lowers his hands sheepishly and limps over to his desk, which sits next to a plush chair and a couch. Vin winces in pain as he sits down, then smiles brightly.)



VIN: And now for my first guest. You're gonna love this guy...he's "da bomb." Ladies and gentlemen...one of the stars of "Friends"...Mr. David Schwimmer!



(The audience applauds. No one appears for a long moment. Finally, David Schwimmer emerges from backstage and approaches the desk with a dour look on his face. Vin extends his hand but David pointedly ignores it and sits down, glowering at him.)



VIN: My man, it's really great to have you here on my Chris--uhh, my holiday special. So, what have you been up to these--



DAVID SCHWIMMER: Hey, F(BEEP) YOU--ASSH(BEEP)!



(The audience gasps. Vin looks at him, visibly shocked.)



VIN: Yo, dude...that's not very, like, in the holiday spirit...



DAVID SCHWIMMER: So I'm not a "great" guest, huh? I'm a disappointment to your viewers? You had to SETTLE for me? Well, let me tell you something, you chrome-dome moron. All those "great" guests you tried to get on the show didn't have Christmas shopping or dental appointments or dead dogs keeping them from being here. They just didn't want to be on your stupid show with you, stupid. You know why? Because you're lame, that's why. The only reason I'm here is because I felt sorry for you, but that was before the "not so great" crack. Now, as far as I'm concerned, you can ROT IN HELL!!!



VIN: So...have you finished your Christmas shopping yet?



DAVID SCHWIMMER: I hope you fry like a piece of fatty bacon for F(BEEP)ING eternity. I really do.



VIN: Yeah, that last-minute Christmas shopping can be a real--



DAVID SCHWIMMER: I'm a Jew--DUMBASS!!! I don't go Christmas shopping!



VIN: Okay...well, folks, David has to run now. He has an important thing that he has to go do--



DAVID SCHWIMMER: No, I don't. I'm staying right here. I'm going to make sure that you suffer through every single second of your stupid, boring, anti-Semitic "Christmas" special.



VIN: It's a "holiday" special, David. It's, err, all-inclusive.



DAVID SCHWIMMER: So, where's the menorah? I see a Christmas tree. I see a stupid plastic Santa and some stuffed reindeer. And, oh look, there are some stupid elves making toys.



VIN: Those are Jewish midgets. They're making...uhh...dradles. And Matzoh balls.



(David Schwimmer glares dumbfounded at Vin, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. Vin takes advantage of the lull in order to move the show along.)



VIN: Ha ha, that was a great story, David. And now, here's the part of the show where I get to demonstrate one of my little-known talents...my singing ability.



DAVID SCHWIMMER: Oh, my god.



(Vin strolls to centerstage, still limping in pain, and sits on a stool that has been placed next to the microphone as a lush musical intro begins.)



VIN: Here's a Christmas...I mean, Hannukah carol I wrote just for all of you. It's called "Havin' a Holly Jolly...uh, Hanukkah."



(The lights go down as a spotlight hits Vin. The music swells jauntily.)



VIN: Oh, the sleigh bells are ringin'

And the carolers are singin'

And the, uhh...bagels are roastin' on an open fire



Havin' a holly jolly Hanukkah

Just me and my girlfriend...uhh, Monica

We're waitin' by the chimney because

It's time for jolly old Rabbi Claus



And on the mantlepiece we leave a treat

Some gefilte fish and milk for him to eat...



DAVID SCHWIMMER: You have got to be F(BEEP)ING kidding me!



VIN: Hey man, that's not cool. I didn't interrupt you when you were talking about Christmas shopping.



DAVID SCHWIMMER: ARRRRGGGHHH!!! YOUR MOTHER (unintelligible)!!!



VIN: YO, THAT IS NOT COOL, MAN!!!



(David and Vin both leap to their feet and confront each other at center stage, pounding their chests together and growling in rage. Stagehands converge on them quickly and pull them apart just as they're about to engage in fisticuffs. The pre-recorded musical backing for Vin's song continues. Their arms restrained by the stagehands, Vin and David begin trying to kick each other.)



DAVID SCHWIMMER: (being dragged offstage) YOU (BEEP) OF A (BEEP)(BEEP)!!!



VIN: OH, YEAH!!! I HATED "FRIENDS"!!! IT WAS A GAY SHOW!!!



AUDIENCE MEMBER: (shouting) You homophobic bastard!



VIN: SHUT THE F(BEEP) UP!!!



(The audience gasps. Vin, realizing that he has lost control of the show, composes himself and smiles sheepishly.)



VIN: Well, that was a funny skit, huh? Ha, ha. Isn't my buddy David a card? We goof around like that all the time. And now for my next guest. If you were a fan of "Full House", you'll recognize her as one of the cutest twins in the whole wide world. Here she is...Mary Kate Olsen!



(The audience applauds. Mary Kate Olsen storms angrily onto the stage and kicks Vin in the balls. Vin doubles over and vomits.)



VIN: (groaning) What the (BEEP) was that for?



MARY KATE: What's the big idea of booking me on the show and not Ashley? Are you really that cheap? Are you really that big of a (BEEP) (BEEP) (BEEP)???



VIN: (still groaning) Hey, you look exactly alike. What's the point of having the both of you on the show? We could just do a friggin' split-screen or something...oww...



MARY KATE: (stalking off-stage) I HATE YOU!!! I HATE YOU!!!



VIN: (trying to straighten up) Holy (BEEP), what a crazy bitch...



AUDIENCE MEMBER: (shouting) You misogynistic bastard!



VIN: LOOK, I'VE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF YOU F(BEEP)IN' ASSH(BEEP)S!!! F(BEEP) YOU!!!



(The audience gasps in shock, then begins to boo loudly and throw debris. Vin doubles his fists and begins to shake uncontrollably, his face contorted in a grimace of rage.)



VIN: OH, YEAH? THAT'S THE WAY YOU WANT IT? OKAY, YOU ASKED FOR IT! SAY HELLO TO MY FINAL GUEST...CARROT TOP!!!



(There's a moment of shocked silence, followed by ear-piercing shrieks of terror. Carrot Top emerges briskly from backstage with a large bag of props, making funny faces and playing with his hair as he saunters up to the microphone. People begin to wail and lament and rend their garments as in the Old Testament. Vin rubs his hands together with an evil laugh as Carrot Top reaches into his bag and pulls out a dinner plate with a windshield wiper on it.)



CARROT TOP: Here's something to cut your dishwashing time in half! You wash it, it wipes itself! Speaking of which...



(He reaches into his bag and pulls out a baby doll with a windshield wiper on its ass. People begin to keel over. Others flee the theater, screaming.)



VIN: (maniacally) EAT IT!!! EAT IT RAW, YOU SCUM-SUCKING AUDIENCE!!!



(Fade out to jolly Christmas music and dancing elves.)



ANNOUNCER: Well...that sucked.
 
 
 
(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE'S CHRISTMAS BUMMER

I never tried to wait up for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve when I was a kid, because my parents told me that if Santa came by and I was still awake, he would skip our house.  This filled me with a terror unlike any I'd ever known, except for the time I saw those photographs of Larry King posing nude on the hood of a '57 Studebaker.  The idea of Santa skipping my house on Christmas Eve was the worst thing imaginable.  So, I dutifully trundled off to bed and lay awake for hours, listening for sleigh bells even though it was 68 degrees outside.

After I found out there wasn't any Santa Claus, I realized that my parents had told me that just so they'd have time to set up all my toys in the livingroom for Christmas morning.  It dawned on me that parents tell their kids all sorts of lies during the holiday season.  I guess they aren't really sinister lies or anything, but they're enough to warp a kid's mind. 

For one thing, there's that "naughty or nice" crap.  I used to go around being good as much as possible because I was convinced Santa was watching my every move, judging my behavior and rating my toy-worthiness.  Every time I did something bad, images of coal in my stocking or a bundle of switches under the Christmas tree instead of toys filled me with a dark, paralyzing dread.  One which, needless to say, my parents were quick to capitalize upon. 

"You'd better straighten up," they'd warn, "or Santa Claus will bring you a bundle of switches this Christmas."  I could imagine all the other kids playing with their cool toys on Christmas day, like pedal cars you could ride in or a machine that made real snow cones, and me sitting there like a leper with my bundle of switches, wailing and gnashing my teeth in Old Testament despair.

And then there were the lies your parents told just to mess with your head.  Once I leapt out of bed on Christmas morning and my mom was standing at the door to the livingroom, peering through the crack.  "Santa Claus is in there!" she whispered hoarsely.  I ran to look in, but then she said, "Too late, he just left."  I kicked myself for years over that one, devastated that I'd missed out on an actual Santa sighting by mere seconds.  The psychological torment was almost unbearable. 

Nowadays, Christmas comes and goes and I barely even give a rat's ass.  I'm not a drinker anymore, but every once in a while I'll buy a bottle of booze and a six-pack of Bud and get loaded on Christmas Eve just so I can simulate the old Christmas spirit in kind of a vague, melancholy way.  I stay up as late as I jolly well please now because Santa has been skipping my house since I was a kid anyway, so who the hell cares.  So I get bombed and pass out, and the only sleigh bells I hear are the ones clanging inside my skull the next morning. 

I really did think Santa Claus had come to visit me one Christmas Eve a few years ago, but it was just Wilford Brimley asking if he could use my phone.  I told him he could come in if he acted like Santa Claus and said "Ho ho ho" and stuff, and maybe left me a present or two.  I thought he was going to pull a gun on me or something.  He did eat all my cookies and drink up all my milk while he was on the phone, which was kind of Santa-like.  "I left you a present in the john," he said on his way out.  "Ho ho ho."  When I found out what it was, that bundle of switches started looking pretty good.

(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "BILL'S CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK SUIT"



Bill loved chicken-fried steaks. He loved them so much, in fact, that he ate them every day, and even enjoyed talking about them to his family and friends. As you might guess, Bill began to dwell on chicken-fried steaks to an unhealthy degree, his escalating obsession gradually altering his basic thought processes. Until one day, with a firm, unshakable resolve, Bill decided that he wanted more than anything else in the entire world to have a three-piece, double-breasted chicken-fried steak suit.

After returning from the supermarket to purchase a thousand chicken-fried steaks, Bill put on his apron and began to cook them all up. When he had several heaping platters of cooked chicken-fried steaks, Bill set about trying to devise a way to attach them to each other in order to construct a wearable suit of clothes. Failing this, he simply stripped naked and began super-gluing the steaks directly to his body. Eventually his entire body, except for his head, hands, and feet, was covered with chicken-fried steaks. Anxious to show off his incredible new suit to an astonished public, Bill put on his socks, shoes, and a tie, and went outside.



Strolling down the sidewalks of the old hometown in his chicken-fried steak suit made Bill feel like "Mr. Big" at last. People instantly began to look up to him--he could see it in their bulging eyes and expressions of envy and dismay as they gasped in horror and ran away screaming. And the children loved it. They danced with delight, pointing and shouting in mindless glee at Bill's passing, unaware that they were witnessing history in the making. Decades later, Bill mused, these children would be telling their own grandchildren that they were "there" when Man first walked the earth in a chicken-fried steak suit.



With a jaunty spring in his step, Bill breezed into the office building where he worked and marched proudly before his fellow employees to his desk, leaving a trail of gravy on the carpet behind him. Reveling in their collective gaze, he stood before his desk, cleared his throat, and formally addressed the group. "You've probably noticed that I'm wearing a chicken-fried steak suit today," he announced. "Rest assured, this doesn't affect the way I feel about you all. I still regard each and every one of you as being almost my equals. So, please--try not to be unduly intimidated by my presence."



Bill's boss, Mr. Wendell, was the first to speak up. "Bill...what's the matter with you?" he asked with concern. "You look...well, you look like you've totally lost your mind."



"No, I don't," Bill said airily. He plucked the Baxter file out of his briefcase and regarded it studiously over his glasses. "And now, if you'll all excuse me," he added, "I have work to attend to. You may continue to gaze admiringly at me if you wish, as long as your sighs of passion and envy don't drown out my thoughts." Pretending to ignore them all, Bill sat down in his cushioned chair and spread out the Baxter file for his perusal.



Mr. Wendell came over and sat cautiously next to him. "Bill," he said in a low voice, "you do realize that the CEO of Baxter Industries is due to arrive here this morning. Needless to say, this meeting is absolutely crucial to the future of our company. Now, why don't you just dash home and put on a real suit, and we'll forget all about this funny little--"



"Mr. Wendell," Bill interrupted testily, "I'll have you know that, legally, my chicken-fried steak suit is just as real as yours or anyone else's suit. Plus, it's more interesting, it smells better, and it's historic. I'm sure that Mr. Baxter will appreciate the thought and effort I've put into it, and will be deeply honored and grateful that I saw fit to wear it upon the occasion of our important meeting. Will there be anything else?"



Mr. Wendell didn't say anything. With a strangely incredulous look, he backed away and slipped into his office, closing the door. Bill chuckled quietly as he enjoyed his victory and imagined himself astride a mighty steed, addressing a great army before battle. "Remember this day!" he bellowed mightily in his mind as the soldiers cheered. "A sword day! A chicken-fried steak day!"



Suddenly, something felt wrong. It seemed the chicken-fried steaks that were glued to Bill's ass made his buttocks feel funny when the two were squished tightly together in the cushioned chair. Bill twitched reflexively, trying to conceal his sudden discomfort from his admiring coworkers. How could he not have foreseen this? Why hadn't he first tested the suit out in one of his own comfortable chairs at home?



The Baxter file went unnoticed as Bill continued to suffer the agonizingly strange sensation of several chicken-fried steaks being smashed against his buttocks. His mind raced. He had to get them off. Dashing into the executive washroom as inconspicuously as possible, Bill began to tug firmly at the chicken-fried steaks, trying to peel them off. But they might as well have been spot-welded to his ass.



He had a last-ditch idea. If he could sneak out through the back door and into the alley behind the office building, maybe a passing stray dog would eat the chicken-fried steaks that were glued to his ass. It would only take a minute, and as soon as the dog had eaten only those particular steaks, Bill could simply zip back inside and sit comfortably in his cushioned chair once again, without anyone being the wiser.



No sooner had Bill devised this plan than he was out back in the alley, bending over a trash can with his rear end in the air. "Steaks!" cried Bill. "Yum-yum steaks!" Before long, two poodles that had recently gotten seperated from their owner scampered by. As soon as they got a load of those delicious chicken-fried steaks, the poodles made a beeline for Bill's ass, launching themselves into the air and coming down with two mighty chomps that sent Bill screaming up a brick wall.



Bill came flying into the office area in his chicken-fried steak suit with a poodle dangling by its teeth from each buttock, just as Mr. Wendell was shaking hands with Mr. Baxter in front of his office. Spotting the two men, Bill managed to compose himself and walk over to them with his hand extended. "Greetings, Mr. Baxter," he said confidently, turning on the charm. "I'm Bill. What a distinct pleasure it is to meet you at last." The dangling poodles growled menacingly.



The two men gaped at Bill in utter mortification, speechless. Bill coolly took charge of the situation. "Why don't we all step out and discuss our impending merger over lunch?" he suggested. "I know a place that serves the most mouth-watering chicken-fried steaks you ever sank your teeth into."



Mr. Baxter responded to Bill's invitation by vomiting into a potted plant and then keeling over dead from a massive coronary. Mr. Wendell backed against a wall, stunned. "Ruined," he muttered. "We're ruined."



Bill tried to salvage the situation. "Oh, I'm sure Baxter Industries has someone else they can send," he said. "I'll handle the details and follow through on it ASAP." One of the poodles took a fresh chomp on his left buttock and he added, "OWW!"



The room fell silent. Everyone was afraid to speak, or even to move. "Bill," Mr. Wendell managed to say at last. "You're fried. I mean, fired."



At this, everyone else in the office burst into laughter. The tension had been unbearable up to that point, and some kind of release was needed lest they all go mad. Mr. Wendell started to laugh too--slowly at first, then in waves and waves of uncontrolled, manic laughter that convulsed his entire body and froze his face into a frantic rictus of pure insanity. Finally he reached such an extreme state of gibbering, psychotic hysteria that when the paramedics arrived to get Mr. Baxter, they also had to wheel Mr. Wendell away strapped to a stretcher.



The laughter died down as everyone managed to regain their composure. Bill looked at them with reproach. "I hope you're all ashamed of yourselves," he said. "Your behavior has quite likely jeopardized our relations with Baxter Industries and, on a personal note, I found it most embarrassing." One of the poodles shifted its grip on Bill's right buttock. "OWW!" he added.



With Mr. Wendell indisposed, Bill was next in line to head the company. And with the managerial reins now firmly in his grasp, he turned Wendell Enterprises into a chicken-fried steak suit manufacturing empire. His cherished dream of outfitting every man, woman, and child in America with chicken-fried steak suits and other related apparel was, at last, within reach.



Unfortunately, nobody else in the country wanted to wear chicken-fried steak suits, and the entire company went bankrupt that afternoon. Bill blamed this failure on the unenthusiastic attitudes of his employees, who then hog-tied him, carried him down to the local zoo, and threw him into the lion cage. Bill survived, but was never the same. He now lives across the street from me and can often be seen standing around in his front yard in his underwear, blowing his nose. Occasionally I'll yell over at him to knock it off, and he'll gaze upward with a beatific look and say, "Is that you, God?"



As for chicken-fried steaks...he no longer remembers them. All he eats now are microwaved corn dogs with no mustard, and he has never, to my knowledge, considered wearing them.





(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. SANTA CLAUS

A couple of years ago I thought it would be a really nifty idea to interview Santa Claus.  Not even Playboy had ever scored a sit-down with the "Big Red Cheese" himself!  So I put on my warmest jacket and two pairs of sweat pants, and set off for the North Pole.  Six months later, after much arduous traveling that had left me physically and emotionally drained, I was in Butte, Montana.  It soon became obvious that I would have to purchase a map of some kind. 

While on my way to the nearest gas station, I happened to pass a department store with a sign in the window that said "Visit Santa Claus Here, 6:00-9:00 p.m."  I was elated beyond words!  Instead of having to go to the North Pole to see Santa, he had come right to me!  But why, I wondered briefly, was Santa Claus hanging around in Butte, Montana?  This thought soon evaporated as I scampered inside the store and followed the long line of little kids who were also there to see Santa.

Taking advantage of my superior weight and dexterity as a grown-up, I shoved the kids at the head of the line back and stepped in front of them as they sprawled on the floor in a heap, crying.  The little girl in Santa's lap was just finishing up, so I dislodged her with my foot and sat down.  Santa winced and regarded me with dismay.  "Hey, you're not--"

"Here's what I want for Christmas, Santa," I interrupted.  "An exclusive interview.  And I won't take no for an answer because I've been traveling six months to get here, been married and divorced twice along the way, invented Silly Putty, and accidentally taken part in a plot to overthrow Fidel Castro.  So you'd better cooperate or I'll throw a fit the likes of which you've never seen."

"Okay, okay," he said wearily.  "Let's get this over with." 

"Oh, goody!" I squealed in giddy delight, jumping up and down in his lap as he groaned audibly.  Then I turned on my tape recorder and began the interview.



PORFLE:  So, you're Santa Claus.

SANTA CLAUS:  That's right!  Ho, ho, ho!

PORFLE:  I have a question I've always wanted to ask you.

SANTA CLAUS:  Fire away!  Ho, ho--

PORFLE:  How come the rich kids always get the best toys?

SANTA CLAUS:  Ho, ho...huh?  What are you talking about?

PORFLE:  Well, when I was growing up, this rich kid down the street always got a buttload of big, expensive toys for Christmas.  He'd play with them out in his front yard and laugh at us, and then smash them all with a sledgehammer and set them on fire.  And all us other kids always wondered why you liked him better than us.

SANTA CLAUS:  No, no, it's not that.  See, your parents just couldn't afford to pay for the really expensive toys, and--

PORFLE:  Wait, my parents had to pay for the toys?  I thought you gave them away for free!

SANTA CLAUS:  It's...err...complicated.  You wouldn't understand.  Ho, ho ho!

PORFLE:  Cut the crap, Santa!  You're just a big fraud!

SANTA CLAUS:  Am not!

PORFLE:  Then how come my parents had to pay for--

SANTA CLAUS:  BECAUSE I DON'T REALLY EXIST!!!  THERE!!!  HAPPY NOW???

(awkward silence)

PORFLE:  You don't really exist?

SANTA CLAUS:  Well, not technically.  I mean, I'm here, of course--that's obvious.  But I don't really live at the North Pole, and I don't really have a bunch of elves who make toys for all the good little boys and girls.

PORFLE:  And what about the reindeer?  The flying reindeer?

SANTA CLAUS:  What do you think?  Listen to what you just said.  "The flying reindeer."  Heh.

PORFLE:  So, who are you really?

SANTA CLAUS:  I'm Fred Lipschitz.  I sell life insurance.  I'm a member of the local Rotary Club, and I like to fish.  Every Christmas I dress up like Santa Claus and the store pays me to sit here and listen to what little kids want for Christmas so their parents can eavesdrop and know what to get them.

PORFLE:  So...it's all just a big capitalistic confidence scam!

SANTA CLAUS:  Yeah, but the kids love it.


Shocked beyond words by this horrific revelation, I turned off the tape recorder and stood up, regarding the big, fat faker through a veil of bitter tears.  I had drawn pictures of him with my crayolas!  I had left cookies and milk for him to eat during his rounds!  I had watched the "Charlie Brown Christmas Special" a hundred times and cried every time! 

"You BAST**D!!!" I screamed with accusatory rage.  Then I turned around to warn all those other gullible kids who were even now lining up like lemmings to fall for Fred Lipschitz's dastardly deception.  "HE'S A FAKE!  There is no Santa Claus!  This is just some fat guy the store hired to fool you!  THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS!!!  THERE IS NO--"

Suddenly, I found myself being pursued through the store by a mob of angry parents!  Parents who were in on the deception and would not tolerate the truth being revealed, exposing their shameful complicity in this heinous scam!  "THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS!!!" I continued to scream out at passing children as I ran for my life, desperately seeking an escape route!

Reaching a side door, I bolted outside and into traffic.  Drivers slammed on their brakes and weaved haphazardly to keep from hitting me as I lurched from car to car, banging on the windows and shrieking at the occupants at the top of my lungs.  "LISTEN TO ME!!!  THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS!!!"  I pointed at my angry pursuers, who were making their way toward me through the passing cars.  "SEE?  THEY'RE HERE ALREADY!!!  THEY'RE COMING FOR US!!!  YOU'RE NEXT!!!  YOU'RE NEXT!!!"

Later, at the police station, I tried to explain all of this to the psychiatrist, but to no avail.  Shaking his head dubiously at my admittedly outlandish account, he spoke in a low tone to the police chief.  "This man is obviously insane," I could hear him say.  "No Santa Claus, parents buying Christmas toys for their children..."  He scoffed.  "It's one of the most extreme cases of advanced 'coo-coo' I've ever seen."

The police chief nodded and summoned two officers to take me away.  Just then, another officer raced into the room and handed him a report that had just come in.  "Smash-up on the expressway, Chief," he said breathlessly.  "An SUV and a station wagon.  Two couples...parents.  Claimed they'd just been 'Christmas shopping' for their kids.  Darndest thing...both vehicles were filled with these...well, it may sound crazy, but they looked like...well, like...toys."

The police chief and the psychiatrist gasped in unison, then gaped at me in wide-eyed astonishment.  "Get on the radio to all patrol cars!" the chief bellowed.  "Tell them to stop all vehicles with parents in them and search for toys!  Repeat--STOP ALL PARENTS AND SEARCH FOR TOYS!!!"

As they scrambled into action, I leaned back wearily against a wall.  Maybe it wasn't too late.  Maybe I'd made a difference.  And maybe, just maybe...Fred Lipschitz and the Dollar General Store of Butte, Montana would be held accountable for their dastardly crimes against humanity.


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "MY OLD-FASHIONED, TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS"

If you're like me, you remember a time when Christmas really meant something special and seemed to fill you with a warm, comforting glow if you got drunk enough. Here's my fond, fading memory of one of those special yuletide days of Christmas Past. It was way back around 2008 or thereabouts, so I may have to make up parts of it that have been lost in time...

On Christmas Eve, as per tradition, I hung my stockings by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. Actually, I don't have a fireplace, so I hung my stockings in front of the fireplace of a guy down the street who has one. He was already asleep at the time so I had to break in, but I'm sure he wouldn't have minded because I waved at him once a few years ago and he waved back. And, come to think of it, they weren't really stockings, exactly. In fact, they were live chihuahuas.



Earlier, I had devised a really neat harness for hanging chihuahuas in a safe and relatively painless manner, and instead of a rope or chain, they were suspended by springs so that they would constantly bob up and down. So the more they barked and struggled to get away, the more they would bounce up and down with a funny "boing-boing" sound. One of the chihuahuas had on a little Santa hat that I had made for him, and the rest of them were wearing reindeer antlers. (These, I must admit, were store-bought, because I just couldn't get the hang of making chihuahua-sized reindeer antlers that looked realistic.) I had also made some really cool huge, bulging, googly eyeballs for them to wear like glasses, and giant froth-dripping wolf fangs that fit over their own teeth.



And to top it off, I hid a tape recorder next to them which emitted, on a continous loop, at ear-splitting volume levels, the words, "WHY have you disturbed our sleep? Awakened us from our ancient slumber? YOU WILL DIE!!! One by one we will come for you, HA HA HA, WE WILL COME FOR YOU!!!" I'm not sure how St. Nicholas reacted to this display, but I saw an ambulance pull up at the house later on and take my neighbor away. I sure hope they had eggnog for him at the hospital, because Christmas without eggnog is like the Fourth of July without blowing up someone's car with a home-made pipe bomb or Halloween without chopping down telephone poles.



New Year's Eve was pretty fun, too. I invited a bunch of people over to my house and then went to the movies. While I was there I called the police and told them I was my neighbor and that I could see a bunch of people in my house while I wasn't at home, and the police came and arrested them all. I would've felt bad about doing this except that in my town, anyone who is in jail on New Year's Eve gets a free Dixie cup of Mountain Dew and a popcorn ball. And later on, I admitted to my friends what I had done and that it had all just been a funny, good-natured joke, and we all had a good laugh about it while they were beating me with baseball bats and setting fire to my priceless record collection.




(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)


PORFLE'S POETRY CORNER: "WHEN DAVE SETS SAIL WITH BUFFY"

WHEN DAVE SETS SAIL WITH BUFFY

by porfle


When Dave sets sail with Buffy
There'll be no grand farewell
They'll slip away
Before the day
Shines bright upon Carmel.

When Dave sets sail with Buffy
Around the world they'll go
From Johnson's creek
Their sailboat sleek
Will reach the Bay of Schmoe.

They'll get up in the morning
Their mental clocks will know
And with the dawn
They'll eat a prawn
And drink a cup of Joe.

Dave will wear his sailor suit
And Buffy, gingham britches
They'll hop into
Dave's Malibu
And drive between the ditches.

They'll drive until they reach the banks
Where floats their hardy vessel
While Buffy dreams
Of soccer teams
And "That Girl" star, Ted Bessell. 

When Dave sets sail with Buffy
A fine adventure, that
In Timbuktu
They'll see a zoo
While Buffy buys a hat.

They'll go ashore in Amsterdam
To visit Dave's friend, Alice
Then on to Guam
Where Buffy's mom
Cleans toilets in the palace.

The seven seas they'll cross with ease
Until they get to Venice
They'll take a bus
To visit Gus
And maybe even Dennis.

And when the wind's exactly right
They'll sail on down to Haiti
Where children dance
In furry pants
And worship Warren Beatty.

When Dave sets sail with Buffy
How small the world will seem!
While on their boat
They'll train a goat
To serve them prunes and cream.

And when the sun sets o'er the sea
Into their bunks they'll leap
To think of squirrels
And ugly girls
Until they fall asleep.

When Dave comes home with Buffy
Their holiday complete
The weary Dave
Will have a shave
While Buffy soaks her feet.

PORFLE'S HISTORIC CATTLE DRIVE

One of the proudest accomplishments of my entire life was being the first man to lead a cattle drive from my ranch in El Paso, Texas to the train station in Abilene, Kansas. The first man in this century, anyway. I'd heard that cattle drives were no longer necessary and that, in fact, no one ever actually conducted them anymore. This only fueled my burning desire to go through with it despite the naysayers. I hate naysayers because they always think they're so smart, when really they're usually a bunch of big, fat dummies who don't know the first thing about cattle drives.




One reason I was told there was no need for a cattle drive was that El Paso now had its own train station. I, however, was unaware of this fact until my preparations were well underway, and even so I didn't believe it anyway. Sure, there was this big, noisy metal thing on wheels that went roaring past my ranch on two rails every day, but I didn't know what it was. I thought maybe it was a ride or something. I went to Disneyland once and it had stuff like that for people to ride on. And I wasn't about to cancel my historic cattle drive just because of a bunch of little kids in Mickey Mouse hats sailing past my ranch on some wacky fun ride. Yes, I found out later that this was, in fact, a train. But what if the Apollo astronauts had been ready to blast off to the moon and then discovered that they were already on the moon? Would that have stopped them from blasting off? History, of course, has totally vindicated me on this "train" of thought, so to speak.



Well, all of these various distractions became irrelevant on the day that we embarked upon my big cattle drive. My ramrod, Biff, had rented an actual horse for the occasion. The rest of my cowhands--Jerry, Mel, Frankenstein, Burt Reynolds, Pete the Shrimp, and Rabbi Horowitz--rode go-carts. I, myself, drove a '57 Buick Skylark that I'd nicknamed "Cochise." Leaning out the window, I waved my hand around and shouted "YEE-HAAA!!!" and "ONWARD, COCHISE!!!", and we were under way, leaving the cozy confines of the "Lazy P" ranch behind. It was a grand occasion and we seemed to be off to a great start until we encountered our first major obstruction--a Super Wal-Mart on Wilton Boulevard. I checked the map and sure enough, we were following the original Chisolm Trail just like we were supposed to be doing. So I took the lead and drove right through the automatic doors and into the building, with over 9,000 head of cattle following close behind.



"HYAAAH!!!" yelped my cowhands as they guided the cows through the store. After allowing them to graze for awhile in the grocery section, we passed through various clothing and hardware departments and made our way into Electronics, checking out the new DVDs along the way. Pete the Shrimp tried to ask the saleslady if she had the new Charlie Sheen DVD, but before she could answer her entire department was demolished by a sudden surge of cattle that had been spooked by seeing dozens of Larry Kings on a bank of high-def display TVs. Presently the herd passed through Automotive and emerged into the tire shop in back, ambling through the large doors and into the great outdoors once again. I looked back with satisfaction, our first big hurdle having been conquered.



Suddenly, without warning, we came upon one of the cattleman's greatest fears--the freeway. The nerve-wracking sound of high-speed collisions filled the air as we guided the herd across multiple lanes of traffic, endeavoring to avoid the exploding tanker trucks and flying automobiles that seemed to be crashing all over the place. It was as though these people had never seen a cattle drive before. As so often happens, I found myself in utter disbelief at how stupid everyone else in the world is compared to me, and pressed onward with even greater determination than before, thankful that we hadn't been attacked by Indians or rustlers yet. I kept my fingers crossed.



No sooner had we crossed the freeway, however, than we found ourselves faced with another of the cattleman's greatest fears--the mighty Rio Grande river. While pondering the best place in which to cross this awe-inspiring force of nature, it suddenly occurred to me that we shouldn't even be encountering the Rio Grande in the first place if we were headed due north for Abilene as we should be. Checking my map, I realized that I was holding it upside-down and that we had been traveling south by mistake. It was a silly oversight on my part, to be sure, but in order to avert blame from myself, I fired Burt Reynolds on the spot and sent him packing. He swore revenge and went back to Hollywood, where he was never heard from again.



We had been on the trail all day so I decided we would bed the herd down for the night before getting a fresh start. After everyone had gotten some grub from the lunch wagon--the tuna salad was on sale that day--we all sat around the fire and sang cowpoke songs and bounced a beach ball around. The next day we awoke, refreshed and rarin' to go, only to find that all the cattle had wandered off during the night. I mean, there wasn't a single friggin' cow in sight for miles around. I wasn't aware at the time that you're supposed to guard them, assuming that they knew they weren't supposed to run away, but I found out later that cows don't know things like that. So, our spirits dampened by this apparent setback, we returned to the Lazy P. As it turned out, we hadn't traveled more than half a mile from it the entire time.



The police were waiting for us there and took us all into custody, accusing us of all sorts of trumped-up infractions and violations and whatnot. Not only did the people at Super Wal-Mart fail to understand that they'd built their stupid store right smack in the middle of a major cattle drive route, but the state highway department seemed determined to blame us for that massive freeway pile-up as though it were our fault that so many people are careless drivers. During my arrest, I tried to explain to the police that I was merely trying to drive my cattle herd to the train station in Abilene. They told me that there was already a train station in El Paso, and I said "Yeah, right--like, you mean that big amusement park ride?" and they just looked at me funny.



So, instead of putting me in jail, they sent me to some kind of holiday camp where you take drugs and watch TV all day. I told the other people there stories about my cattle drive, and they were all really interested. Some of them, in fact, were so interested that they went totally freakin' nuts and started jumping around and diving off the furniture and stuff. I felt vindicated by this reaction and swore that when I got back to the Lazy P, I'd gather up another herd of cattle right away and start another cattle drive. But then I found out that I had been declared legally forbidden to own cattle in the state of Texas. So I decided to raise ducks instead, and started planning a massive duck drive to the train station in Abilene. Unfortunately, this undertaking was doomed from the start, since my entire herd flew away as soon as I yelled "YEE-HAAAAA!!!"



Well, I'm still trying to figure out what I can herd from here to Abilene that won't wander off or fly away. In the meantime, in order to make enough money to keep the ranch going, me and Biff, Jerry, Mel, Frankenstein, Pete the Shrimp, and Rabbi Horowitz are touring South Texas as the new "Beatlemania." I'm John, Biff is Paul, Mel is George, and Jerry, Frankenstein, Pete the Shrimp, and Rabbi Horowitz take turns being Ringo. But even as we're performing for birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, and other exciting venues, I dream of the day that I'll once again be out on the dusty trail, leading a herd of something besides cattle or ducks, and going down in the history books right alongside guys like Daniel Boone, Benedict Arnold, and Richard Simmons.





(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. NETWORK TELEVISION EXECUTIVES



When I was approached by the three major television networks to do a series, my first thought was: "What unmitigated gall these silly bastards have--daring to address me as though they were equals." My indignance was temporarily assuaged when they referred to me as "Your Holiness", but then I noticed that they were merely on their knees instead of sprawled out facedown in total supplication to me. This really irked me, and I was compelled to release several gallons of molten lead that I keep handy in large swiveled urns around the house. Panic-stricken, they screamed and backed into corners and onto the furniture to keep from being incinerated, which I found so amusing that I actually decided to entertain their pathetic pleas for my participation in some sort of television program. But the first subject on the table, of course, would be my list of demands.

"First of all," I firmly announced, "I want peanuts. All kinds. Salted, unsalted, dry roasted, boiled, raw, all shapes and sizes. I want a variety of every kind of peanuts in the entire world at my disposal at all times. Every time I hold out my hand, even if I have my eyes closed, I should be able to grab a handful of peanuts. Do you get that? Peanuts! PEANUTS!"



Vincent Buggatti, head of programming for ABC, was the first to hastily jot this down in his notepad. This seemed to be a point in ABC's favor until I noticed that Phyllis van Buren, head of programming for NBC, was already on her cell phone to the CEO of the World Peanut Federation, ensuring me a perpetual lifetime supply of peanuts, truckloads of them, twenty-four hours a day, delivered by movie stars and prostitutes. I made a mental note of this.



Meanwhile, Brendan Gilhooley, the boy genius of CBS who had turned the network from a boring wasteland of old-people shows into a fantasy wonderland of brain-rotting crap for teenagers to watch while getting stoned and whacking off, was still struggling with the concept. "Peanuts?" he muttered with a perplexed look. "Why? With the whole world at your demand, with anything you could possibly ever dream of merely a wish away, why in god's name would you ask for something as trivial and inconsequential as--"



Taking the liberty of interrupting him by releasing a horde of rabid, flesh-eating warthogs, I watched with mild interest as Gilhooley scrambled for his life, first by trying to outrun the carniverous fiends, and then by leaping onto a chandelier and dangling precariously over the slavering beasts for dear life, screaming in mindless terror.



"What do you think about peanuts now?" I asked.



"Yes! YES!" he screamed. "They're GREAT!!!"



"I thought so." With a casual wave of my hand, the warthogs obediently retreated through their secret sliding wall panels. Gilhooley nervously climbed down from the chandelier as Buggatti and van Buren smirked at him like schoolchildren.



"My second demand--"



At this, all three instantly sprang to attention in front of me, their notepads, cell phones, and laptops at the ready. I opened my mouth to speak, and van Buren hastily croaked into her phone, "He's opening his mouth to speak!" The unbearable suspense caused Gilhooley to have a massive heart attack and croak right there on the spot. Buggatti, meanwhile, was having an out-of-body experience and was observing the scene from somewhere near the ceiling.



"My second demand," I continued, " is that everyone else who works at the network of my choice, whether in an acting or production capacity, must walk around stark naked all day--"



The two surviving network executives instantly began tearing their clothes off. After a few moments of ripping sounds and flying scraps of material they both stood there naked as jaybirds, bug-eyed and hyperventilating as they trembled in anticipation of my next utterance.



"--and they must also hop around clucking like chickens."



"BAAAAAWK!!! BWAAAAAWK!!!" they shrieked while hopping jerkily around the room, hands lodged in their armpits as they made flapping motions and darted their heads back and forth. With a bright smile of childlike amusement, I reached into a bag of chicken feed that I kept handy for such occasions and spread a few handfuls on the floor. "BWAAAAARK!" Buggatti and van Buren cried in unison as they sprawled onto the meticulously-polished teak floorboards and started pecking hungrily at the chicken feed, their bare butts bobbing up and down in the air.



Suddenly, Gilhooley opened his eyes and sat up groggily. "Oh my god," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "I just died, and...and experienced the afterlife..." As he spoke, a heavenly light seemed to shine down and cast his face in its otherworldly glow. "Everyone was there," he said wistfully, "beckoning me to join them...it was b-beautiful..." Tears streamed down his cheeks. "And then...a deep, wonderful voice said to me, 'Brendan, it isn't your time yet.' And, and then..." He looked around and saw what was going on. "Oh, SH**!" he cried, ripping his clothes off and joining the others as they clucked insanely and pecked at the chicken feed. "BAAAAAWK! BWAAAAAWK!" he shrieked.



Well, needless to say, I had no intention of participating in some stupid television program, but I'd found it momentarily entertaining to toy with these network executives for a brief time until they became boring and I had all three summarily ejected from my home by burly armed bodyguards. They were hesitant to leave at first, but the warthogs soon encouraged them to scramble into their limosines, still stark naked and covered with chicken feed. In the desperate hope that I might change my mind, they were still hopping around in their seats naked and clucking as loudly as possible out the open windows as their chauffeurs drove them away. After that, I made a salami and cheese sandwich and watched my hidden camera videos of the whole thing, which of course would be posted on the Internet the next day, before I grew tired of this and popped in a "Howdy Doody" DVD. It had been quite a nice day, and as I drifted peacefully off to sleep that night, I dreamt of human chickens.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "MY PHIL COLLINS NIGHTMARE"

One day I was sitting at the computer, googling pictures of Mickey Dolenz, when suddenly I looked out the screen door and spotted a short, middle-aged bald man running around my house in his underwear.




I ran out onto the front porch and waited for him to come by again. Presently the man rounded the corner of my house and came huffing and puffing across the front yard, barefoot, his baggy boxer shorts flapping in the wind. My eyes focused on his face as he approached, and to my shock-it was Phil Collins. "ZOOM! I'M A ROCKETSHIP!" he cried as he thrust his arms forward and jumped up and down into the air, disappearing around the other corner.



"Why?" I thought. "Why is former Genesis frontman and wildly-successful solo recording artist Phil Collins running around my house in his underwear? And why does he think he's a rocketship?" At this point, I was afraid that maybe my mind was playing tricks on me and I was just seeing things. So I waited to see if he would show up again.



Sure enough, here came Phil Collins rounding the corner of my house just as before, screaming "ZOOM! ZOOOOOM!" By this time, several of my neighbors' dogs were chasing him, including two Dachshunds, a Chihuahua, and Mrs. Wilson's poodle, Milkshake. They were yapping away, but they couldn't drown out Phil's frantic exclamations. "I'M A ROCKETSHIP!" he repeated as he disappeared around the corner again.



"Why?" I thought. "Why MY house? Why MY hometown, which is so far away from Phil Collins' native England? Why? WHY?"



"ZOOM! ZOOOOOOM!" I could hear echoing from my backyard as he made his way inexorably around the house. By this time, several of my neighbors were beginning to wander over to see what the hubbub was, and when Phil reappeared, a few of them pointed and said, "Look! It's Phil Collins!" Some of the little kids started chasing him too, laughing happily and pretending to be rocketships. But Phil took no notice of the neighbors, the little kids, or the dogs as he ran, jumping up and down with his arms outstretched, proclaiming once again "I'M A ROCKETSHIP!"



"PHIL!" I screamed. "WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON!"



But he didn't hear me, because he had already rounded the corner again. My next-door neighbor Ralph ambled up and stood beside me on the front porch, smoking his pipe. "Isn't that Phil Collins, the singer?" he asked, a cloud of rich, aromatic pipe smoke swirling lazily around his head.



"Yes, it is," I replied.



Ralph puffed thoughtfully. "It looks like he's lost his mind, or something," he pondered. "You know, what with the running around your house in his underwear, thinking he's a rocketship, and whatnot."



I was about to respond, when Phil showed up again. By this time he was seriously out of breath, struggling to continue as his chest heaved and his feet began to drag. "I'M...I'M A ROCKETSHIP," he wheezed. "ZOOM...ZOOOOOOOM..." Suddenly he whirled around and fell flat on his back, his feet flying upward and then landing with a plop onto the grass. The dogs jumped up and down around him, yapping. The little kids stopped and watched, wondering what Phil would do next.



"I guess he landed," one of them said.



At that moment, a van pulled up in front of my house. On the side of it were the words "PHIL COLLINS ROCKETSHIP RETRIEVAL SERVICE." Two men in uniforms got out, picked Phil up on a stretcher, and placed him in the back of the van. Then they got back in without a word and drove away.



My neighbors watched the van disappear down the street, and then they all looked at me like the whole thing was my fault or something. I shrugged. Finally, they all wandered away. Milkshake barked at me a few times, but quickly lost interest and scampered back to Mrs. Wilson's house a few doors down. I went back inside and sat down in front of the computer. There was a picture of Mickey Dolenz on the monitor. It seemed as though he were laughing at me. And to this day, I can't look at a picture of Mickey Dolenz without getting the impression that he's laughing at me about Phil Collins running around my house in his underwear, thinking he's a rocketship.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE IS: "THE 'OOPS' DUDE"

I used to have this cute affectation where anytime someone around me said "Oops!", I would immediately follow it with a word that rhymed, such as "Soups!" This really caught on with my friends and before long, they began to wait patiently for someone to say "Oops!" so that they could look at me with keen anticipation until I said something like "Hoops!" or "Scoops!" Eventually, the neighborhood kids even started referring to me as "The 'Oops' Dude."




This increased my popularity, which was good, but I soon discovered that people expected a different word from me every time. Once, when someone in the breakroom at work happened to say "Oops!", I was distracted by a rotating bag of microwave popcorn that I was trying not to overcook, so I just offhandedly said "Soups!" You could hear a pin drop. I quickly noticed that everyone was staring at me with disbelief bordering on thinly-veiled contempt. Then I realized that my popcorn was on fire. It was "one of those days."



After that, I made sure to keep a new word right on the tip of my tongue, poised to respond instantly and with confidence to any unexpected "Oops!" It became an obsession. I would walk around all day in a daze, muttering "Droops...droops..." over and over, my reflexes tensed to the breaking point. "Oops," someone would say, causing me to spring to attention and scream "DROOPS!!!" in a strident tone that set everyone's nerves on edge.



The situation came to a head one day while I was attending a fellowship luncheon at my local Baptist church. It was a buffet under the trees and the weather was lovely. I was cheerfully piling some potato salad onto my plate, when suddenly the preacher's wife dropped her napkin and said "Oops." Frantically, I realized that I didn't have a word ready and had to say the first rhyming word that popped into my head. "POOPS!" I screamed. Everyone gaped at me, aghast. "What did you say?" asked Reverend Barker. "Poops," I repeated, assuming a casual tone. "Ha, ha." I finished with the potato salad and moved on to the baked beans, trying to chuckle the whole thing off as a harmless lark. But the damage had been done.



The infamous "poops" incident got around quick, and I found myself regarded as somewhat of a loose cannon. "You've taken this thing too far" someone told me one day, which caused me to snap back "No, YOU'VE taken this thing too far!" Which didn't even make any sense. It got to the point where anytime someone said "Oops!", everyone in my vicinity would glance sideways at me and cringe. Well, I thought, if that's what they expect from me now, then that's just what I'll give them. So the very next time someone said "Oops", I announced in a clear, no-nonsense voice: "Poops."



I had stepped through the looking glass. I had run through their gauntlet of shame and emerged triumphant on the other side. From that point onward, I roamed the sidewalks and store aisles like a wary panther, senses keen, ears alert for the word "Oops!" wherever and whenever it may be uttered. A kid drops his ice-cream cone and says "Oops"...I say "Poops." An old lady's underwear flies off in a stiff wind and she says "Oops"...I say "Poops." Reverend Barker loses his place while reading from Deuteronomy during church service and mutters "Oops"...and, yes, I say "Poops."



Nobody messes with me. The neighborhood is on alert. Kids now refer to me in hushed tones as "The 'Poops' Dude." My former friends are terrified of me, and they live in fear of accidentally saying "Oops!" in my presence. Because--make no mistake--I will say "Poops." And anyone who doesn't like it is welcome to move the hell out of my country.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. BEER

"I don't like alcoholic beverages anymore because they make me act silly while I'm under their influence and then they make me feel bad after I've recovered from their disorientating effects." -- porfle




This is a direct quote from something that I just thought to myself in my own head, so I can't sue myself for slander because I know for a fact that I actually thought this, and then wrote it down just now. So there's no way I can rightfully stand up and indignantly proclaim, "Hey! I never said that! See you in court, a**hole!"



And even if I won the lawsuit, I'd just be paying myself so the best I could do would be to break even. So I've decided to settle this whole thing out of court before it gets ugly, and besides, most judges don't put up with silly nonsense like people suing themselves except in funny comedy movies with Morgan Freeman in them.



If I had a nickel for every gallon of beer that I've imbibed, Kathie Lee Gifford would win the Indianapolis 500 on a fart-propelled lawn chair. I used to drink so much beer that my brain cells were replaced with beer cells, and then my brain itself was replaced with the state of Arkansas. I used to go into withdrawal whenever I didn't have beer, even if I had to pay for it myself.



It got to the point where I began signing my name "Beer" and only hearing sentences with the word "beer" in them, so I came really close to failing algebra. My high school diploma reads, "This is to certify that Beer has successfully completed the blah, blah, blah..." I never appreciated the "blah, blah, blah" part, but I went to a really indifferent high school. Our commencement speech was delivered by Wilford Brimley's proctologist, who told us: "You're all doomed."



I used to drink until I threw up, which really irritated my dentist. Finally it got to the point where I was standing on a street corner every day with a sign that said, "Will Drink Beer For Beer." This continued until I realized that the street corner was really the goat cage at Biff's Petting Zoo and the sign was really a huge photograph of Gary Busey in a string bikini. That's when I knew that beer was literally taking over my life and I had to stop drinking before it was too late. So I became a heroin addict.



Ha ha, I'm just joking about that last part. It was really a picture of Tommy Lee Jones in a string bikini. But now that I've completely stopped drinking beer I've begun to appreciate the little things in life a whole lot more, which is driving me nuts. Yesterday I went outside and appreciated the song of the lark for about two hours, until it dawned on me that I was really listening to my neighbor's kids doing lark imitations through a bullhorn. Then I decided to try appreciating the simple beauty of a sunset, but it kept getting darker and darker until finally I couldn't see a damn thing. So I went inside and appreciated the simple beauty of abusing myself to bestiality porn. Ha ha, just joking again. I didn't really go inside.



So now that I've decided to stop drinking, I've really cut down substantially on my drinking. And when you manage to accomplish something worthwhile such as this, you should always celebrate by doing something nice for yourself, like getting drunk. Yes, I know that doesn't make sense. But if I made sense all the time, I'd have a high-paying job like chrome-plating Al Gore's buttocks or valet-parking aircraft carriers while drunk and accidentally crashing them into small coastal cities. Which is probably why Al Gore only hires non-drinkers to chrome-plate his buttocks, because the last time they crashed into a small coastal city, one of his inflamed hemorrhoids demolished a 7-Eleven.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "IF I WERE AN ASTRONAUT"

If I were an astronaut, I would eat a million steaks. Big, thick, juicy steaks with lots of ketchup and steak sauce, and a big pile of delicious tater tots, and three vegetables--probably spinach, English peas, and asparagus. I'd want a big, big salad too, drenched in Thousand Island dressing, because with a million steaks you'd need an enormous amount of salad. When asked how I wanted my million steaks cooked, I'd say "Well done...DUMBASS!" And that's what I would do if I were an astronaut.




I know this without even thinking about it because I've been asked that question a lot over the years and I eventually got tired of stammering, "Uhh, I'd, uhh...well, I'd uhh..." so I finally sat down and figured out exactly what I'd do if I were an astronaut so that I could reel off the answer immediately, with supreme confidence. This has helped my social life immeasurably and made me the toast of sophisticated parties all over town. Now people make it a point to ask me what I would do if I were an astronaut, and my "I would eat a million steaks" speech has become legendary among the denizens of high society.



The one drawback to this, of course, is that I run the risk of becoming predictable. So every once in a while, when someone asks me the "astronaut question", I pull the old dipsy-doodle on 'em and respond with something totally unexpected. Just last week, the mayor and his wife invited me to a fancy dinner party in honor of some important fatass from out of town, and during the lobster entree Mrs. Mayor coyly inquired, "Err, porfle--pray tell--what would you do if you were an astronaut?"



Everyone leaned forward expectantly, waiting to be instantly gratified by my celebrated "I would eat a million steaks" response. Instead, I answered the question by stating: "If I were an astronaut, I would blast off in rocket ships and go on missions in outer space. I would wear a spacesuit and float around in zero gravity. Why, I might even go to the moon! And I would eat pasty astronaut food from little squirty tubes."



Shocked, Mrs. Mayor looked around in embarrassment at the buzzing assemblage and then pressed me further. "What, err, what else would you do?" she asked. "That is, what else would you...you know...eat?"



"Oh!" I said, feigning a sudden realization that my "million steaks" speech was being set up. Mrs. Mayor breathed a sigh of relief and sat back to hear it at last. Instead, I picked up the lobster I was eating and held it up. "I would also eat one of these." I handed it to her and then asked her to pass it around so everyone else could see it. She did so, reluctantly, and then trembled with dismay as the lobster made its way around the table. The guests regarded it as though it were an aborted cow fetus. When it got to the important fatass from out of town, he flatly refused to handle it, so the lady who was now stuck with it began to weep openly.



Mrs. Mayor tried one last time to rescue the occasion from total disaster. "Are you...absolutely sure...that if you were an astronaut...you wouldn't...perhaps...eat anything else?" A freakish grin of insane, desperate hope contorted her face.



"Such as?" I asked casually, munching on a sliver of carrot and waving it around.



"Wouldn't you..." she gasped, almost croaking, "...wouldn't you...eat...a million steaks?"



Silence filled the room. Everyone sat stock-still, their bodies tensed like coils. I held up my index finger. A billionaire railroad tycoon from Philadelphia grasped his chest with a hideous groan and fell out of his chair. Nobody noticed. I drew a breath. The lady holding my lobster fell face-first into her plate with a clattering thud. I opened my mouth to speak. The air crackled with so much static electricity that everyone's hair stood on end as though they were all wearing fright wigs.



"Eat...a million steaks?" I repeated with a chuckle of smug derision. "A MILLION steaks? How monumentally absurd, ha-ha. Why, it would be both impossible and utterly ridiculous." With a thinly-disguised snort, I glanced sideways at Mrs. Mayor and rolled my eyes. She suddenly fell backward in her chair with a tremendous crash, her feet sticking straight up over the edge of the table. The mayor didn't move--he'd already lapsed into a catatonic state several minutes earlier.



"Oh, yes," I said brightly, as though I'd just had a sudden afterthought. "I would also eat a million aborted cow fetuses. In a rich, clotted cream gravy."



With this, everyone else at the table suddenly erupted, the tension finally too much for them to endure. They vomited convulsively for what seemed like several minutes, some hurling their liquified lobster dinners up to ten feet or more. Soon the air was filled with crisscrossing streams of flying vomit which splashed all over the people sitting opposite each other. A smartly-dressed waiter emerged from the kitchen with a silver platter of after-dinner apertifs, turned on his heel, and disappeared back into the kitchen.



I rose from my chair and walked slowly through the hail of vomit, a glazed look in my eyes. The front door opened for me and I wandered out into the night as once-gay party streamers drifted starkly in the chilling wind. I could still hear Mama's warning voice echoing in my mind: "They're all gonna LAUGH at you!" But I showed them. I showed them all.


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. AUNT BEE

Ever want to blow Aunt Bee's head off with a shotgun? Me, too.




I love "The Andy Griffith Show", or at least the black-and-white episodes before Barney left and the show became a living nightmare of horror. Mayberry was filled with lovable characters--Andy, Barney, Opie, Floyd the brain-damaged barber, Goober the dangerous idiot, Gomer the other dangerous idiot, Thelma Lou, Ernest T. Bass, the Darlings, and so on. All of them lovable.



All except for Aunt Bee, who was supposed to be lovable but elicited nothing but pure, seething hatred. The despicable, loathesome Aunt Bee. Oh, how I've fantasized about all the different ways I wanted to execute her. Or how cool it would've been if some guy Andy put in prison escaped and returned to Mayberry looking for revenge, and ended up blowing Aunt Bee in half with a shotgun. In slow motion. It would've made a great Sam Peckinpah episode.



BLAM! Aunt Bee's mid-section explodes and she goes flying backward in slow motion through the livingroom window as the bad guy keeps on pumping and shooting. CRASH! Glass shards cascade in all directions as Aunt Bee smashes through the window, her fat feet flying upward. She would land like an overstuffed sack of manure on the porch just as Gomer and Goober, who had been invited for supper that night, were coming up the steps. "GOH-HOL-LEEE!" Gomer would utter in surprise. "Somebody dun kilt Aunt Bee!" and Goober would say "Does this mean we don't git tuh eat?"



Aunt Bee was sorta okay in the earlier episodes, before she began to assert her evil influence over the Taylor household. But one day the writers thought, "Hey, wouldn't it be funny if we suddenly made Aunt Bee a brass-plated bitch in this episode?", which gradually got to be a habit with them after a while. "Hey, let's have Aunt Bee interfere with Andy's duties as a sheriff by angrily protesting some old bum's eviction" or "Hey, let's have Aunt Bee join the Mayberry Women's League and start sticking her big, fat nose into everybody's business and giving strident lectures to people about stuff she doesn't know jack sh** about", and finally "Hey, let's have Aunt Bee nag the ever-livin' dog crap out of Andy until the last traces of his amiable, laidback NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS-type character have been totally beaten out of him, leaving him a bitter, irritable, and humorless shell of his former self." Which is exactly what happened, thanks to the unrelenting, soul-crushing horror that was Aunt Bee.



The nadir came in one of the color episodes, when Andy was appointed umpire of the Little League championship game that Opie was playing in. Of course, Andy ended up having to call Opie out, losing the game for the home team, and Aunt Bee went hog-wild. She waddled up to the fence, spittle flying from her festering gob, and croaked "You were supposed to HELP!" with all the bile-spewing vitriol her rancid soul could muster. So, of course, she was royally and righteously pissed off at Andy for displaying honesty and integrity, and Andy's slow slide into utter despair once again became an ulcer-fueled rocket sled to Hell. This would've been a good time to introduce the revenge-crazed escaped convict with the pump shotgun, but no. Aunt Bee was like Jason Voorhees--you couldn't kill her, no matter how much horror and agony she spread to everyone around her during her one-hag buffalo stampede through the once-idyllic town of Mayberry.



Andy finally got his ass out of town when he married Helen Crump, who by that time was just as much of a spiteful harridan as Aunt Bee so he ended up pretty much just-plain screwed forever. (Well, not quite forever--when Helen and Aunt Bee finally kicked the bucket, Andy was free to change his name to Ben Matlock and revert back to his former easygoing self.) The show morphed into "Mayberry, R.F.D." and Aunt Bee moved in with the unsuspecting Ken Berry and his equally-doomed son, "Mike", who had no idea what disaster had just befallen them. In one episode, for no particular freakin' reason whatsoever, Aunt Bee decides to take flying lessons. We're supposed to get all happy and inspired when she makes her first solo flight, but for some unimaginable reason the writers left out the part where she flies straight into a water tower and the plane explodes. Sorry, but that's just lazy scriptwriting.



As you can surmise, I've oftened imagined Aunt Bee horrendously frying in the electric chair a la Michael Jeter in THE GREEN MILE, or taking Robert Blake's place during the big hanging scene at the end of IN COLD BLOOD. A firing squad would be cool, though a little too quick for my taste. Or how about a special edition of SAW, with Aunt Bee digitally inserted into all of the torture sequences? Surely this is possible with today's technology. And Ron Howard's still around to do some new scenes--I'm sure a grown-up Opie would love to resolve some of his long-suppressed hostility issues with Aunt Bee by gleefully cheering the maniac on.



Hey, how about an all-new "Mayberry" TV-movie where Aunt Bee finally gets what's coming to her? You know, something like 2000 MANIACS, only heartwarming. It's too late for Don Knotts and Sam Peckinpah to join in the fun, but good old Andy's still kicking. Come to think of it, forget the revenge-crazed escaped convict. Just hand revenge-crazed Andy that pump shotgun--I'm pretty sure he'll know what to do with it.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "THE JOKER FROM B.E.H.I.N.D."

I was watching THE DARK KNIGHT again recently, and during the scene where the character known as "The Chechan" walks into the big mob meeting, it occurred to me that he somewhat resembled Heath Ledger's "The Joker" from behind. Then the phrase "the Joker from behind" got stuck in my head.



As I repeated it over and over to myself, it started to sound kind of like "The Man From U.N.C.L.E.", that cool 60s spy series with Robert Vaughn. So then I pictured the phrase as "The Joker From B.E.H.I.N.D.", and for the next several hours I kept wondering what the hell kind of super spy organization would have such a stupid-sounding acronym as "B.E.H.I.N.D."? And why would their main secret agent be called "The Joker"?



Before you knew it, I had dashed off a series treatment called "The Joker From B.E.H.I.N.D." and arranged a meeting with J.B. Chickenstein, the executive in charge of programming for NBC. Later that afternoon in his office, he looked at me across his desk and asked, "What is this series about, porfle?" and I answered, using some Sesame Street hand puppets as visual aids:



"Well, J.B., it's about a secret agent who works for a super-secret spy organization known as B.E.H.I.N.D., which stands for 'Bureau (of) Espionage, Headquarters In North Dakota.' But they're not really in North Dakota, see--that's just a clever ruse to throw off their enemies. Their number one agent, around whom the series will revolve, is an ex-Navy Seal, international martial arts champion, and former stand-up comic known as 'Joker' Johnson. Not sure if we can afford him or not, but in the lead role I see...David Hasselhoff."



"Hasselhoff, eh?" broke in J.B. as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. I marvelled at how smoothly J.B.'s famous catchphrase, which he had been uttering intermittently against his will ever since being attacked by squirrels one day in Central Park while eating a ham sandwich, had worked itself into our conversation. Usually it stuck out like a sore thumb, as in the time Rachel in Accounting announced that she was pregnant and J.B. responded, "Hasselhoff, eh?"



"Yes, he is the only possible choice," I asserted, showing J.B. a cut-out doll I'd made of "Joker" Johnson with David Hasselhoff's head pasted on it. I moved it around on the edge of the desk to simulate walking, which seemed to elicit a positive reaction.



Suddenly, J.B. buzzed his secretary. "Vera, get security. Tell them there's an impostor in my office, pretending to be porfle." He sat back warily and shot me a suspicious glare. "Hasselhoff, eh?" he accused.

I stood up angrily, crumpling the doll in my trembling fists. "Curses!" I shrieked. "For years I've labored to perfect my porfle impersonation! Not to mention the endless sessions of painful plastic surgery! What in the galloping blue blazes gave me away?"



J.B. gave me a smug look as he toyed with a pencil. "You overlooked one thing," he explained. "You, my friend, are left-handed. Whereas porfle, as everyone knows, is right-handed."



"But," I sputtered, "I'm NOT left-handed. I'm right-handed, just like porfle."



"Oh," said J.B. "I thought you were left-handed. Well then, let's just call it a lucky guess."



Just then, two burly, armed security guards burst through the door. J.B. stood up and pointed at me. "Get him!" he ordered. "He's a porfle impersonator!"



The guards gasped in shock, then advanced with nightsticks and handcuffs at the ready. I sprang from my chair and leapt catlike onto J.B.'s desk. "You'll never take me alive!" I screamed, executing a thrilling kamikaze dive right through the open window. A sudden wave of terrifying vertigo swept through my body as I found myself in mid-air, rushing helplessly toward the ground. Then I landed in some bushes outside of J.B.'s window, which, fortunately, was on the first floor.



More security guards were already pouring out of the front door as I scrambled to my feet and sprinted toward the fabulous porfmobile, which was double-parked in back of a hot dog stand. Leaping into the cockpit, I flicked a switch to activate shields and punched the power-up button. The porfmobile roared to life like a surging beast and made my seat vibrate really hard, which felt awesome. I looked over at Robin, the Boy Wonder, who was pressing buttons on his control panel.



"Reactor to power!" he cried. "Turbines to speed!" He sat back in his seat and braced himself for the sudden burst forward.



I gaped at him in surprise. "Robin? What the hell are you doing here?"



"I'm ready to help you fight crime, of course!" Robin said breathlessly. "Let's go!" He sat back and braced himself again.



I pressed the ejector button. A section of the roof blew away and Robin flew upward through the hole like a jack-in-the-box, screaming. He landed headfirst in a garbage can about thirty feet away, which then fell over and started rolling down the hill into traffic.



Suddenly the security guards arrived and started beating on the porfmobile with their nightsticks. Well, I didn't like that! Springing into action like a coiled cobra, I pushed a button on the door. The power window came down slightly.



"I don't like that," I said through the crack. "Would you please stop doing it?"



"Oh, I'm sorry," said the head guard, lowering his nightstick with an abashed look. "You see, we were just--hey, wait a minute! I don't care if you like it or not!" He started banging on the porfmobile again and pretty soon they were all doing it.



Well--long story short--I set the controls to emit a sustained burst of deadly radiation which instantly flash-fried the security guards like fish sticks. Then I parked the porfmobile on the lawn across from J.B.'s office, activated my hood-mounted twin M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launchers, and blew J.B.'s fat ass to smithereens. I imagined him uttering "Hasselhoff, eh?" one last time as he exploded.



"That's right, J.B.," I chuckled, taking off my mask and revealing myself to be none other than David Hasselhoff. "You didn't know how right you were." I said it all smart-alecky, too, so it sounded really cool. Then I drove away, admiring myself in the rear-view mirror and thinking of how totally cool it was to be David Hasselhoff. I was doing that when I drove across some railroad tracks and got hit by a freight train, which shattered the fabulous porfmobile into a million pieces. Suddenly I found myself pinned by centrifugal force to the cowcatcher of a speeding train, flying through the outskirts of town as people noticed me going by and said, "Hey, isn't that David Hasselhoff?" I waved and gave them a "thumbs up", pretending that I was doing it on purpose.



When the train finally stopped in Butte, Montana, I fell off and took a bus back to my hometown, where the streets were filled with joyous people dancing around celebrating J.B.'s demise, singing "Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead." I was hailed as a hero. The mayor presented me with J.B.'s ruby bowling shoes, and before long I was skipping merrily along the yellow brick road on my way to the Emerald City. A few hours later I stopped suddenly and thought: "Wait a minute...what the hell am I doing here?" So I turned around and went home.



My cat was mad at me for forgetting to feed her that morning, so I gave her some tuna fish. Then I turned on the TV and sat back in my easy chair to enjoy some fine entertainment. Suddenly a promo for "The Joker From B.E.H.I.N.D." came on, announcing it as the flagship series for NBC's new fall season. Damn! J.B. had stolen my idea and sold it to the network before I'd had a chance to blow him up, and now the show was destined to be a big hit without me.



The promo even had David Hasselhoff in it as "Joker" Johnson, which made me realize that I was actually a David Hasselhoff impersonator, which was a huge letdown. My parents, upon realizing that they were actually David Hasselhoff's parents, disowned me. My cat, who was really David Hasselhoff's cat, ran away. And I, who was really porfle, vowed never again to use my mind for anything besides looking at internet porn and inventing things that had already been invented, like nuclear reactors and squirrels.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)