Saturday, December 17, 2011



(I'm not saying that the following story really happened.  I'm only saying that, for all we know, it could have.) 

One day, actor Michael Clarke Duncan, whom you may know better as "John Coffy" in THE GREEN MILE and "Bear" in ARMAGEDDON, walked into the offices of the United States Gymnastics Federation and went up to the receptionist's desk.  "I would like to join the Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team," he told the lady.

She looked up from the papers she'd been reading and examined him.  "I'm sorry, sir," she said, "but you are too big and you are a man.  You would not be an appropriate choice."

Michael Clarke Duncan started to cry.  "But I want to be on it," he pouted.  "I want to be like Dominique Moceanu.  Oh, BWAH-HA-HAAA!"  A heart-rending sob escaped from his trembling lips like the barking of a seal, causing several passersby to feel sorry for him.

"Well, I'm just sorry, sir," the lady persisted.  "There has never been a man on the Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team.  It has always consisted of women, and often young girls no more than four feet tall--"

"And big, tall black men like me?" he added hopefully, sniffling back the tears.

"No, sir," she said.  "Now, you could try out for the Men's team.  But it has always consisted of young, lithe, graceful men like Bart Conner."

"My ears are burning, Louise," said Bart, peering around mischievously from behind Michael Clarke Duncan.  "Hey, did somebody build a wall here?"  He laughed, a boyish grin exploding from his face and casting a brilliant, shimmering light throughout the entire room.  "Ha ha, no offense, sir, I was just making a little--"

"I WANNA BE LIKE DOMINIQUE MOCEANU!" Michael Clarke Duncan shrieked, shaking his fists in wide, petulant arcs.  One of the great ham-sized fists came down on Bart Conner's head and knocked him out cold.  He flopped across the receptionist's desk like a dead fish, twitching, his eyes blank white, and the receptionist began to scream.

Michael Clarke Duncan ran down the nearest hallway, bawling like a baby, desperately looking for someone who would make him a member of the Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team no matter what the bad lady had said.  Suddenly, a slender, athletic-looking woman stepped out of a doorway down the hall, and when he laid eyes on her, he froze in his tracks.  It was the Belarusian Swan herself, Svetlana Boginskaya.

"GUH..." he gasped, wide-eyed, pointing at the legendary gymnast.  "YOU!  You'll understand!  WATCH THIS!"

"I'm sorry?" she said, not quite comprehending what she was seeing even as Michael Clarke Duncan wound himself up and started his tumbling run.  A dawning apprehension tingled down her spine as the oncoming behemoth went into the first of a series of cartwheels designed to build up the momentum necessary for a succession of four backflips in a row and a triple-twist which would end with a double back layout. 

Svetlana Bogenskaya screamed in terror as Michael Clarke Duncan hurtled inexorably toward her like a one-man elephant stampede, emitting a cry which sounded like the tortured death throes of a fatally-wounded rhinoceros.  She glanced desperately from side to side and quickly realized that there was no escape, and that her only chance for survival would be for him to stick his landing. 

Unfortunately, the odds of that happening were drastically reduced when his first cartwheel went horribly awry and he started tumbling uncontrollably down the hallway with a frightening momentum, knocking gaping holes in the walls along the way.  In one terrifying split second, the Belarusian Swan's vision was filled with Michael Clarke Duncan's airborne body, and she knew conclusively that he wasn't going to stick his landing, and he screamed "I WANNA BE LIKE KERRY STRUH-HUH-HUUUGGGG!" even as he collided with her and they both crashed through the wall, through an adjoining office, through another wall, through a room where legendary gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi was dancing around in women's underwear and a Shirley Temple wig, through another wall, and into the office of USGF president Mike Jacki, where Michael Clarke Duncan finally screeched to a halt in front of his desk amidst a shower of cascading debris as Svetlana Boginskaya flew through a window and into a dumpster in the alleyway behind the building.

Mike Jacki sat motionless at his desk, in a state of deep shock.  When the dust finally cleared, Michael Clarke Duncan blinked his eyes in recognition, and his face broke into a huge smile.  "I...I know who you are, Mr. Jacki," he said with growing delight.  "I...I want you to see this."

He hastily stripped off his clothes, underneath which he was wearing the official uniform of the United States Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team, and went into his carefully-rehearsed, extensively-choreographed floor exercise.  Maintaining his beaming smile for the imaginary crowd of rapt onlookers, he performed a graceful series of hops, skips, twists, dramatic floor moves, and sweeping dance steps, topping them all off with a final, thrilling, leaping aerial pirouette during which he inadvertently crashed into Mike Jacki's desk, smashing it flat, and landed on top of Mike Jacki, killing him instantly. 

When he saw what he had done, he got scared and jumped out the window, crying.  He is still at large.  Be on the lookout for actor Michael Clarke Duncan, a large, heavy-set black male, last seen wearing the official uniform of the United States Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team.  May be heard saying, "I wanna be like Kerri Strug."  Approach with caution, especially if he is performing a series of graceful pirouettes or a tumbling run which ends with a triple-twisting double back layout.

Friday, October 28, 2011



You may recall the time I told you about meeting Arnold Schwarzenegger.  Well, believe it or not, that wasn't the end of it.  Here's what happened after that...

One evening, as twilight gently descended over my cozy abode and I was just settling into my beloved swivel recliner to watch a Mickey Rooney marathon on TCM, a large foot came crashing through my front door.

It withdrew, and then the entire door was smashed into a million tiny toothpicks by a huge ham-fist.  Arnold Schwarzenegger popped into the doorway, his face contorted into a gigantic gap-toothed grin.

"PORFLE!!!" he bellowed.  Actually, it sounded more like "POE-WAH-FOOL!!!"

I sat up, startled.  "Arnold!  What the hell are you doing here?  Why did you just wreck my front door?"  I hadn't seen him since the day he'd forced me to play Tarzan with him in the city park on his day off from being Governor of California, and he was literally the last person I expected to come crashing through my front door that evening.  Well, except maybe for Billy Corrigan.

Arnold laughed and blundered into my livingroom over the scattered pieces of my door.  "Don't worry, I buy you a new one!" he chortled. Then he lost his balance and fell backward into my big-screen TV set, destroying it in an ear-splitting explosion of sparks, plastic, wood splinters, and other debris.

"My TV!" I cried.

"I buy you also a new TV, ha ha!" said Arnold as he lumbered to his feet.  I then noticed that he was carrying a large silver keg under one arm and a decorative beer stein in his hand.

"Are you drunk?" I asked warily.

"No, I yam drinking only bee-yah!" Arnold scoffed.  "Bee-yah does not ged you dronk, porfle, ha ha!  Everyboddy knows dat!"

He lurched forward a few steps, tripped over a braided throw rug, and launched himself at me.  I ducked hastily as the beer keg sailed over my head and crashed through the window behind my chair.  Arnold landed on my coffee table with a resounding THWACK! and broke it in half.  The impact knocked all the pictures off my walls except for a nude portrait of Phil Donahue on horseback, which had been super-glued there by vandals.

Arnold slowly dragged himself to the edge of my couch and sat with his shoulders hunched, a sheepish look on his face.  I could tell he was embarrassed.  He looked down at his decorative beer stein, which was now a mocking reminder of his previous frivolity.  "Perhaps I haff behaved in a manner which is unseemly," he muttered apologetically.  "It was not goober...goober..."

"Gubernatorial?" I prompted.

He looked up in awe.  "I love dat word."

"Well," I said, trying to lighten the situation, "what the heck brings you here this evening, Arnold?"

He brightened immediately, revealing his trademark gap-toothed grin again.  "For you I haff a wunnerful surprise, porfle!" he beamed.  "I know dat you are lonely und mit-out a girlfriend.  So tonight I bring my twin sister here for you to haff a blind date with!"  He stood up and shouted toward the front door.  "OLGA!!!  HE NOW ISS VERY MUCH EXCITED TO MEET YOU!!!"

Gripped with apprehension, I braced myself.  Suddenly, an eye-watering vision of horror which sent icy chills down my spine filled the doorway.  It looked like Arnold in drag.  With a wider and even more maniacal grin than that of her twin brother, Olga Schwarzenegger stomped into my livingroom wearing a skintight polka-dot dress and high heels.  She looked like she'd just had her hair and makeup done by Tom Savini.

"Hit a crab pose, Olga!" Arnold prompted.  She complied with a resounding grunt, bursting the buttons off the back of her dress like slugs from a .45 and richocheting them off the walls.  The expression on her face caused my cat to dash straight up the curtains and leap onto a hanging light fixture, hissing frantically.  For good measure, Olga threw in a couple of bicep poses and various crunches as Arnold looked on proudly.

"See, porfle?" Arnold beamed.  "She almost is as strong and powerful as I am!  If not for dah fact dat she iss a girl, she would easily become Mr. Universe!  But instead, she soon will enter the Ms. Fitness competition!"  He pulled a cassette tape out of his hip pocket and inserted it into my tape player, turning up the volume to maximum.  Olivia Newton-John's "Let's Get Physical" came blasting out of it. "OLGA!!!" he screamed over the noise.  "PERFORM FOR PORFLE YOUR SEXY AEROBIC DANCE ROUTINE!!!"

With that, the radiantly-smiling Olga began to hop around and gyrate in a haphazard combination of frenetic calisthenics, gymnastics, and suggestive "Flashdance"-style choreography.  She looked like a demented moose in heat trying to back through a turnstile.


As the music reached its crescendo, Olga wiggled her massive hips coquettishly, gave a girlish wink, and, after a running start, launched herself into the air for a final leaping somersault.  She crashed through the wall into the kitchen and collided with my refrigerator, collapsing it like an accordion.  Ripping its door off the hinges in an effort to regain her balance, Olga spun through the gaping hole in the wall and staggered back into the livingroom, hurling the refrigerator door like a huge discus and shattering my front windows.

The force of her forward momentum carried her after it and she flipped end-over-end out the window, landing on my car and smashing it flat.  Mercifully, she was now out cold.  With a blood-curdling shriek of grinding metal, the car rolled backward out of the driveway with Olga sprawled across the crumpled roof and disappeared down the street, picking up speed until it eventually made its way into peak rush-hour traffic.  The sound of screeching tires, high-speed collisions, and screams of terror filled the air.  Distressed cattle could also be heard.

Olivia Newton-John's voice faded to silence at last as Arnold stood with his head bowed dejectedly.  "Once again I must apologize, porfle," he said.  "I fear perhaps my sister Olga and I have failed to properly rehearse her aerobic dance routine."

"That's okay, Arnold," I said, still shaking.  "It could've happened to anybody."  Then I thought about it for a moment and added, "Actually, there are probably very few people in the world that this could've happened to."

"It happened to Lou Ferrigno a couple of times," Arnold mused.  Then he gave me a hopeful look.  " think maybe you and Olga will now fall in love and have sexual intercourse?  And get married and make for me some brand new nephews and nieces to play with?"

"Oh gee, Arnold, I'd love to," I replied, thinking fast.  "Except for one thing...I'm gay."

His eyes widened in shock. "You are gay, porfle?  I did not know dat!"

"Yep," I affirmed, confident that my brilliant ruse would solve everything.  "I'm absolutely, positively, 100% gay."

"Den you must meet my twin broddah, Heinrich!  He also iss gay!"

As a jubilant Arnold dragged me kicking and screaming toward his Hummer, it occurred to me that perhaps I should've just left well enough alone and agreed to marry Olga.  Still, I did take comfort in the possibility that Heinrich might be prettier.

Sunday, October 23, 2011


One thing I've discovered about Super Wal-Mart--their salespeople are woefully inadequate when it comes to helping me pick out a suitable Halloween costume. 

In fact, it took me several minutes just to find someone I recognized as an employee.  He was hiding in the gardening department behind a stack of fertilizer, pretending to do something like they always do, so I pressed him into service as my Halloween "tailor", as it were, in order for him to meet my needs as a customer.

"I want to dress up as the Tyrannosaurus Rex from JURASSIC PARK," I announced.  To demonstrate my sincerity, I crouched into my patented dinosaur position and emitted a frightening growl, clawing the air with my "talons."

"We don't have any Tyrannosaurus Rex costumes," he said.  Without even looking.  I mean, it was as though this guy wanted me to believe that he had memorized every costume they did or didn't have. 

"What the hell do you mean, you don't have any Tyrannosaurus Rex costumes?" I countered, inching forward in my dinosaur crouch in order to intimidate him. 

"Look," the guy said, "all's we got is what you see here."  He waved his hand over a display of costumes ranging from "Sparkly 'Twilight' Vampire" to "Random 'Harry Potter' Character" to assorted princesses, pirates, game show hosts, etc.  There wasn't a single Tyrannosaurus Rex costume on the whole blooming rack!

"I WANNA BE A TYRANNOSAURUS REX!!!" I screamed in sudden rage, jumping up and down and pumping my fists.  He simply stared at me, nonplussed, so I continued to do this until a big guy from store security came over and asked what the problem was.  I was beyond verbal communication by that point, so I pointed at the salesguy and the costumes, and did my dinosaur crouch again, and then continued jumping up and down screaming, "I WANNA BE A TYRANNOSAURUS REX!!!"  Only by this time the words were garbled into something that sounded like "ARR GARR BAR RAR RARR RARRRRR!!!"

The security guy made a threatening move toward me, so I ducked out of his grasp and ran down the aisle.  Other customers were staring at me wide-eyed, obviously sympathetic to my plight and afraid that some simple request on their part might also result in them being persecuted for no reason. 

Regaining my ability to speak, I darted from person to person as I ran, grabbing them by the shoulders and screaming "DON'T ASK FOR TYRANNOSAURUS REX COSTUMES!!!" into each of their terrified faces.  Thank goodness my warning seemed to work, since several of them immediately ran away.

Upon reaching the electronics section, I whipped around resolutely and prepared to face my pursuers.  At first it seemed as though they were no longer chasing me.  I knew better, though, reasoning that they must be circling around for a sneak attack from one of the side aisles. 

Easing behind a DVD rack, I took the opportunity to check and see if any new "Pippi Longstocking" DVDs had come in that month.  They hadn't.  In fact, I couldn't remember ever seeing any except for those crappy recent ones that never got the character right like the authentic Swedish versions from the 70s did, and should burn in hell.

A saleslady walked by, so I asked, in my most polite voice, "Excuse me, are you expecting any new 'Pippi Longstocking' DVDs any time soon?  And I don't mean those crappy recent ones that never get the character right and should burn in hell, but the authentic Swedish versions from the 70s."  In order to better convey what I was talking about, I began to brightly croon Pippi's theme song while doing the Pippi dance. "I am Pippi Longstocking, a-hope and a-hey and a-hope sha-naaa!"

The saleslady stood there and watched until I came to the big finish, which involved a final hop-skip dance step into a frozen pose with the usual hand flourishes and big toothy smile.  "Uhh," she said at last.  "I don't think we have any of those."

"I know you don't have any," I said calmly, with only a small, controlled sigh betraying my annoyance.  "What I'm asking is, are you going to get any?"

"I don't know," she said nervously.

"Well then," I said patiently, changing the subject.  "Are you going to get any Tyrannosaurus Rex costumes?"

"Any what?"


The saleslady screamed in terror, and suddenly the security guy and the fertilizer guy were after me again.  I scrambled down the main aisle that cut through the middle of the store and careened into the grocery section, flinging potatoes and heads of lettuce behind me.  But as soon as I turned the next corner, I spotted several uniformed policemen moving in from the frozen foods section.  I was trapped!

Looking around, I spied a large cardboard cutout standing next to a Kool-Aid display.  I darted behind it and waited for my pursuers to run past, chattering about how they were going to "catch that guy."  And I was that guy!  Me, an unflinchingly loyal Super-Walmart customer whose only crime was wanting a damn Tyrannosaurus Rex costume! 

Fear and indignation merged within my roiling breast as the unfairness of the situation began to consume me with a surge of manic intensity.  "GRRRRRRR!!!" I growled, grabbing the cardboard cutout in both hands and holding it in front of me as I charged my way out of the store.

It wasn't until I watched the video footage of the incident on the news that night that I discovered the cardboard cutout was--in one of those funny coincidences--a Tyrannosaurus Rex from JURASSIC PARK which was part of their commercial tie-in with Kool-Aid.  Since my anger had reduced me to non-verbal status again, the rampaging cardboard dinosaur seemed to roar "ARR GARR BAR RAR RARR RAAARRRRR!!!" as it crashed its way through the store and out the front door, with the security guy, the fertilizer guy, and the saleslady all running for their lives along with the rest of the screaming customers. 

Again, I hadn't realized exactly what was happening when I went on to terrorize an orphanage, a hospital, and an old folks' home in similar fashion, unwittingly chasing a wide and ever-increasing assortment of terrified people down the street until I finally ducked down an alleyway and made my way home. 

That night, Mom called and asked if I'd had anything to do with "that story on the news", and I asked her why she would simply assume that I did and she just sort of sighed.  Later, some little kids in weird costumes came to my door begging for free candy, so I grabbed my Tyrannosaurus Rex cutout and chased them away.  Pffft--like I buy that stuff just to give it away to a bunch of strangers. 

Saturday, September 24, 2011


original song at youtube

This is the latest volley in my ongoing campaign against Jerry the Mouse and the anti-cat racism in "Tom and Jerry" cartoons.


Every time I watch a Tom and Jerry toon

It fills me with hostility

Cause I'm the kind of person who loves cats

Instead of mice, so here's my fantasy

When finally Tom gets Jerry

And does he ever give him kicks and hit him with a stick

Until that mouse is black and blue

Or maybe dump the little chump into an envelope and mail him

Straight to Timbuktu

When they met Tom was always the clown

Now that stupid rodent's finally goin' down

He's goin' down

When sweet revenge is the hinge

In the minds of guys like me

Who see the mouse must pay

And when the same old chase replaces

The injustice that takes place

When mouse gets aced today

And finally Tom gets Jerry

And does he ever kick his ass and make him eat Bermuda grass

Instead of yummy cheese

Will Jerry run around

When Tom begins to pound him on the head

With frozen English peas

When they met Tom was always the brunt

Now that stupid mouse is gonna get the punt

Gettin' the punt, bop doo wah


And when the banquet is laid out without

The stunned and hungry mouse

Who's flung across the yard

The clueless people get to keep all of

Their rich delicious food

And Tom gets his reward

When finally Tom gets Jerry

And do you want to see the cat not told to scat

But growing fat on luscious bowls of cream

The stupid apes at last appreciate their cat is great

The answer, to their fondest mouseless dreams?

When they met Tom was always the chump

Now that stupid mouse is gonna get his lumps

Gettin' his lumps

Gettin' his lumps

Gettin' his lumps

Gettin' his lumps

Friday, September 9, 2011


Oh, how fondly I remember the nostalgic Halloween that just happened to fall right in the middle of my "Pippi Longstocking" phase. I had just finished reading those wonderful books by Astrid Lindgren, and was so obsessed with them that I didn't leave the house for over two months as I created my "Pippi" costume for Halloween and, through weeks of diligent practice and mental discipline, practically became the character. Some of my neighbors eventually grew curious and started trying to peer through my windows to see if I was dead, so I loaded up my pump shotgun and blasted away at them.

BLAM!!! BLAM!!! You should've seen those cock-a-roaches run! The shattered glass of my windows exploded out at them like a million tiny shards of sheer terror as I stood there in my Pippi Longstocking costume that I'd just finished in time for that evening's trick 'r' treat fun, firing off a few more loads of blazing buckshot over their heads. I leaned out of the broken window with my gun raised triumphantly and screamed, "I am Pippi Longstocking! A-hope and a-hey and a-hope sha-naa! BASTAAARDS!!!"

My beautiful costume included a really cool red-orange wig with pigtails that stuck straight out on either side of my head and bounced around when I moved. My tattered dress was cutely adorned with colorful patches, and I wore mismatched stockings which served to disguise my hairy legs. Topping off my ensemble was a pair of pointed boots that were twice as long as my feet, and, of course, a sprinkling of freckles painted on each cheek. I felt so cute! I couldn't wait to finally share myself with a grateful world.

Interrupting my blissful reverie, the phone rang and I snatched it up petulantly. It was Mom, reminding me that Gramps' funeral was that afternoon. "WHAT THE TIN-PLATED COAL-BURNING HELL'S YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION!" I screamed, then composed myself and reminded her that it was Halloween and that I would be busy trick 'r' treating. I won't go into the rest of our conversation since it was private and all--mostly just Mom saying the usual stupid stuff like "But you're 35 years old" and me snapping back with clever retorts and whatever--so with a final "I HATE YOU!!! I HATE YOU!!!" I slammed down the phone, grabbed my Halloween candy bag, and skipped merrily out the front door.

Being the middle of the afternoon, it was still broad daylight outside. This was part of my clever plan to beat all the other kids to the candy while also showing off my new costume to its fullest advantage. I basked in the attention of passersby as I skipped along the sidewalk, my pigtails flailing wildly about. Presently I passed a street construction crew who were putting in a new water line or something, and they all stopped what they were doing to stare at me. It's funny, the fine line between naked admiration and total, horrified disgust, but that's what I saw on their faces as they admired my wonderful costume. "What the hell are you supposed to be?" one of them asked.

"I'm yo' worst nightmare, FOOL!" I shot back in my Mr. T voice. Then I caught myself and slipped back into character, skipping in place and singing brightly, "I am Pippi Longstocking, a-hope and a-hey and a-hope sha-naa!" This seemed to amaze them into silence, so I continued down the sidewalk as they stared after me with their mouths agape. Presently I came to the biggest house in the whole neighborhood and thought, "Surely they would have the best candy!" So I marched right up the front steps and banged on the door.

An old lady answered, eyeing me suspiciously. "What do you want?" she said.

"Trick 'r' treat!" I beamed, skipping in place. "A-hope and a-hey and a-hope sha-naa!"

She looked confused. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon! I haven't even gone to the store to buy candy yet!"

"Look, lady," I said, pointing at her with a sudden air of authority, "it's Halloween all day long today, not just at a 'certain time'"--I framed the last two words with finger quotes--"so technically, you'd better have some treats for me or I'll have to make with the tricks." I put my hands on my hips and gave her a cutely determined look so she'd know I meant business.

"Get outta here!" she barked, slamming the door.

"That does it!" I cried, jumping up and down. Looking around, I spotted something that seemed ideal for the trick that I was already forming in my fevered mind as a retaliation against the horrible old lady. The construction workers had gone home, but they'd left their equipment behind, so I hopped into the big, bright yellow bulldozer and cranked it up. "Woo-hoo!" I cried as the engine rumbled and roared. Slamming it into gear, I lurched forward and headed up the old lady's front sidewalk, flattening her flower bed and taking out a birdbath along the way.

She opened the door to see what was going on and recoiled in horror. A split-second later I crashed into her front porch and demolished it in an explosion of wood splinters and wind chimes. The forward momentum carried me right through the front wall of her house and into the living room, which I destroyed with a few wide arcs of the bulldozer. CRUNCH!!! went her TV and her china cabinet, followed by all her other furniture and some of those knick-knack shelves that I was able to deftly shave off the walls. Then the old lady ran out the kitchen door screaming as I burst through the back wall of her house, shrieking "HOPE AND A-HEY AND A-HOPE SHA-NAAAA!!!" at the top of my lungs. In my mind, I was being cutely mischievous and unpredictable, just like the real Pippi!

"TRICK OR TREAT!!!" I screamed, and then began to sing, "I AM PIPPI LONGSTOCKING, WATCH OUT HERE I COME!!!" Steering back onto the main street, I noticed that most of the people who lived in the vicinity had already rushed into their houses and were bringing loads of candy right out to me so that I didn't even have to knock on their doors or threaten to demolish their houses. It was the best Halloween ever! At least, until the police cars started coming after me. I tried to outrun them but the bulldozer didn't go very fast, so it wasn't a very exciting chase. We toodled along at about twenty miles an hour for awhile until I ran out of gas, and then I hopped down out of that wonderful old bulldozer and skipped away real fast with my candy bag overflowing with goodies. The police fired a few shots over my head but I ducked into Old Man Burton's backyard and disappeared through a hedge.

That night, I sat eating my delicious candy and watching the news reports on TV. The videotape footage was kind of grainy and shaky but my awesome costume could be clearly seen as I sat atop the bulldozer, smashing through picket fences and stuff as people ran in terror. I was still unidentified, so the reporters were describing me with odd, non-specific terms like "freak" and "psycho", which disappointed me since I'd hoped they would refer to me as "The World's Greatest Pippi Longstocking Impersonator." But I guess you can't have everything.

Mom called later and asked if that was me on the news. "It's always you," she added, which totally wasn't true because there was a lot of stuff on the news that wasn't me. Like, for example, the Hindenberg disaster. I apologized for the "I HATE YOU!!!" and for not showing up at Gramps' funeral in my new Pippi costume, which I think made her feel better, so I felt better myself as I hung up. It had been a wonderful Halloween. For some reason, strangely-garbed children kept knocking on my door for the rest of the night expecting me to hand over some of my hard-earned candy to them, but a few random blasts from my pump shotgun seemed to scatter them.
(originally posted at

Thursday, August 25, 2011


(This is sort of a tribute to vaudeville.  Hope there are some Yes fans out there.)

(To the tune of "Close to the Edge" by Yes)

[I The Silly Time Of Strange]

A seasoned comic takes the stage and leaves them all in tears
A rearranged scenario could play for years and years
And use the same material in every different town
And kill 'em all with stuff that every funnyman has passed around

A plant within the audience with one distinctive cry
Can keep them all guffawing even though they don't know why
A stooge who takes a roundhouse slap and bounces back for more
A sexy dame who keeps them in their seats, not heading for the door

Up on the stage, round by the curtain
(Just make 'em laugh, just make 'em laugh)
Close to the wings, down by the footlights
(Just make 'em laugh, just make 'em laugh)

On a tour from Buffalo to Nacogdoches
Playing to a different crowd for every show
Honing all the gags we hope to take back with us to New York
Wond'ring why our favorite jokes just tend to lay there
While the ones we think aren't funny knock 'em dead
We increase the laughter simply by including the word "pork"

Up on the stage, round by the curtain
Close to the wings, down by the footlights
People will laugh at you
I go on, I get off
Now that your pants, are falling down
Now that you find, now you're a clown

[II Total Massive Fail]

I do my act, I throw every single thing I've got at them
I drop my pants and dance just like a hoochie-koochie femme
I mug and girn as though I've lost my everlovin' mind
And still they throw tomatoes that are splattering on my behind

Sad jester on the naked stage while everybody jeers
Resorts to acting like he's being raped by rabid steers
He's going down the toilet like a turd expelled by Lawrence Tierney

Up on the stage, down by the curtain
Close to the wings, round by the footlights
Down by the wings, close to the curtain
Up on the stage, round by the footlights

Total failure's now ingrained inside your memory
You're a jerk and everybody hates your guts
You should climb under a rock and never show your face again
You were wrong if ever you thought you were funny
With the main exception of your ugly mug
So you run away and hide, and never take the stage again

Up on the stage, round by the curtain
Close to the wings, down by the footlights
People will laugh at you
I go on, I get off

[III I Go On, I Get Off]

In his blackface
He was clearly just a vaudeville entertainer
Singing in some minstrel show for the entertainment of the yokels

I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off

A hundred people barely qualify
To be an audience, and watch us die, onstage
Remember when a squirting daffodil
(When the straight man tells his stooge to smell the flower)
Could make 'em laugh, now it seems nothing will, today
(Giving him a faceful when he bends to sniff the fragrant bouquet)

I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off

Nobody cares when Pagliacci cries
(It's a boring act that nobody remembers)
We give them faces hit by custard pies, the rubes
(Asking them to not recall that they've seen it all a half-a-million times)
I wish we had a star like Milton Berle
(He's hilarious when he puts on a dress and)
Or just a single decent-looking girl, with boobs
(Wiggles his pretend behind for the titillation of the group mind)

I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off

I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off

[IV Seasons Of Mook]

The time between the shows is when I get drunk on my ass
And weave among the patrons throwing every dame a pass
And realize my trousers are still down around my knees
And stagger out into the street, my dingus flapping in the breeze
Ahh, ahh

Then according to a paper handed to me by a kid
The headline states that vaudeville's deader than an oven lid
So I decided I'd go into real estate with cousin Sid

And the days of acting stupid for the people
Swept away and soundly kicked into the past
By a brand new wave of bigger fools on radio and TV

Up on the stage, down by the curtain
Close to the wings, round by the footlights
People would laugh at you
Now that it's all moldy and dead
Punched in the gut, kicked in the head
Now that it's gone, now that you're old
Vaudeville will pass you by

I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off
I go on, I get off

Sunday, July 31, 2011


If there's one thing I've learned in my years of surfing the 'net, it's that most of my fellow travelers here on the World Wide Web are big, fat idiots. Being the selfless, concerned person that I am, I often like to do my part in educating them about certain things that I'm sure they're too stupid to know. So today, I'm going to give everyone a little history lesson, just so you'll at least have a few useful facts rolling around in your big empty skulls.

Abraham Lincoln was our twenty-fourth President. I don't know if that's the exact number, but it's close enough to sound correct. There are only five or six Presidents who were important enough for us to need to know anything about, and he's one of them. Guys like Grover Cleveland and Millard Fillmore might as well have been hot dog vendors at Coney Island for all the historical significance they have. Their names exist now only as fodder for jokes, such as this one:

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Millard Fillmore.

Millard Fillmore who?

Oh, never mind.

Anyway, Abraham Lincoln was the most interesting of all the Presidents because he was the most similar to some really off-the-wall fictional character. He was a tall, gangly weirdo who had a funny beard and wore stovepipe hats, even when he was a little kid, and he danced funny. It is said that at the annual Halloween party that was held in his neck of the woods, he was the only kid who always showed up as himself. All the other kids were ghosts or witches or clowns, but he would always be Abraham Lincoln. This was enough to win first prize in the costume contest every year, which was a volume of the Finster and Woolworth Encyclopedia. It took Abraham Lincoln twenty-six years to complete his collection of these, which is why he was thirty-eight years old before he even knew that there was such a thing as zebras. When he finally found out about them, it blew his mind. Which is why the period of his life between ages thirty-eight and forty-two is referred to by most historians as "The Women's Underwear Years."

Little known by just about everyone is the fact that Abraham Lincoln was a huge "Star Wars" fan. Of course, "Star Wars" would not exist until over a century after his death, but he wasn't one to let a little thing like that stop him. He often perplexed friends, relatives, and fellow politicians by waxing enthusiastic about characters like Boba Fett, Jabba the Hut, and Jar Jar Binks, and how the rebel forces in their X-wing starfighters defeated Darth Vader and Moff Tarkin and blew up the Death Star. This story was particulary puzzling to members of the House and Senate during Lincoln's 1862 "State of the Union" address, because it seemed to have so little to do with the Civil War. Lincoln's biggest regret during that time was that he had no way of buying Star Wars action figures. He once asked a blacksmith to make some for him, but they turned out looking a lot like horseshoes. Lincoln tried to account for this by creating a fictional race of aliens he called the Horseshoopians, but he could never figure out a way to work them into established Star Wars canon.

Abraham Lincoln was assassinated at Ford's Theater in 1865, shortly after the end of the Civil War. The play he was watching at the time was called "Our American Cousin", which was a notoriously boring play whose chief attraction was that it was performed entirely by dogs walking around on their hind legs, with their dialogue being shouted by unseen actors from backstage. One particularly florid love scene was climaxed by the line "Oh, my dearest Josephine! Pray, allow me to express the depth of my undying love for you", at which time the dog who was supposed to be saying this took a long, leisurely whiz on a nearby potted plant. This prompted the incredibly bored Lincoln to exclaim under his breath: "Somebody, please shoot me." John Wilkes Booth, who was about to do just that, took this as a validation of his actions by fate itself, so he shot him. A fellow theatergoer named "Biff" Zapruder, who was such a huge Lincoln fan that he vowed his every male descendant would henceforth be named "Abraham", was sketching the President at that exact moment and captured it for posterity.

If one examines the sketch closely, it becomes apparent that the President's head is snapping back...and to the left. This prompts many historians to suspect that Booth was not the "lone gunman" and was part of a conspiracy that might well have included the author of "Our American Cousin", Finster Woolworth. Further examination of the picture reveals that John Wilkes Booth's head was much too big for his body, which garnered him such childhood nicknames as "Big Head Booth" and "Old Fathead." Indeed, the man on the far left is said to have shouted "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing, Big Head?" This may account in part for Booth's general hostility and desire to eliminate big "heads" of state.

Anyway, Booth knew that this was a historical moment, so he tried to think of something cool to say. But all he could come up with was "Sic semper tyrannus!", which illicited groans from the audience and remarks like "what the hell does that mean?" and "well, that was lame." He attempted to gloss over this by making an impressive leap from Lincoln's box to the stage, but managed to trip over a banner and break his leg, making himself look like an even bigger doofus. (This, by the way, was the origin of the oft-heard saying "break a leg", which is usually said by one Presidential assassin to another right before a big assassination attempt.) At this point, Booth staggered to his feet and cried, "Wait! I thought of something else!" and then began to quote Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar":

"How many times shall this, our lofty scene be acted o'er, in states unborn and accents yet unknown?"

Booth waited eagerly for a response, but was met only by the sound of crickets. Feeling something moist, he looked down to find the star of the play whizzing on his leg. This caused the audience to laugh hysterically, and Booth, fed up with the whole thing, limped offstage with a lame "Shut up!", which prompted more laughter. Then everyone remembered that Lincoln had just been shot, and the nation mourned.

A century and a half later, we still remember Abraham Lincoln, and his stovepipe hat, and how much he loved "Star Wars." He never got to act with Luke, Chewie, or Jar Jar, but he did appear as himself on an episode of "Star Trek." We also celebrate his birthday by going to Wal-Mart and buying cheap underwear. And there is a car named after him that is highly popular with members of the Mafia, not to mention the fact that the black guy in "The Mod Squad" was named after him, which is pretty fly for a white guy. And that, my friends, is how we, and history itself, should remember Abraham Lincoln, our twenty-third President. He was, indeed..."pretty fly for a white guy."

(originally posted at

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


I hate heat.  My heat-hate is legendary among the people who are within earshot of me for any extended period of time, which, admittedly, doesn't happen very often.  I hate heat so much that it makes me want to break pencils in half, just like Goldfinger did when his gin rummy scam got busted by James Bond. 

In fact, whenever it gets really hot, I start to feel a lot like Goldfinger.  "Do you expect it to rain?" someone will ask.  "NO! I expect you to DIE!" I'll respond petulantly.  Only instead of planning to use a nuclear device to blow up Fort Knox, I would use a bunch of them to create one of these "nuclear winters" you hear about.  That would be my criminal master plan--a glorious nuclear winter with no heat whatsoever, anywhere.  The governments of the world would collectively scream, "Why?  WHY?  What evil goal could you possibly have hoped to achieve by doing something this overwhelmingly disastrous to humanity?" and I would say, "Ehh...I just hate heat, that's all.  MWAH-ha-ha-haaaaa!" and they would shriek, "You incredibly insane BASTARD!" and I'd be all like, "Yeah, whatever."

Of course, we'd all eventually freeze to death.  Or die of starvation.  But for a while, it would be perfect.  I'd get up in the morning and flick on the radio, and the weather report would be:  "Well folks, absolutely no sunshine plus increasingly plummeting temperatures for the tenth week in a row, thanks to that incredibly insane bastard, porfle.  Super weather for ice-fishing, I guess.  That's...that's about it.  May God have mercy on us."  And then the DJ would play something sadly ironic, like "Hot Fun in the Summertime" or "It's a Sunshine Day" by the Brady Bunch, and you'd be able to hear faint weeping in the background.  Which reminds me, I hate sunshine, too.

Come to think of it, Katie Couric would probably bawl her eyes out during her entire newscast every night, until a frozen doom inevitably overtook us all.  And your local "happy talk" news show would be considerably less happy--no more cute human interest stories about some dopey little kid frying an egg on the hot sidewalk, or humorous video footage of fat people waddling around in bathing suits at the beach. 

Fat people, in fact, would now be envied, since their vast stores of body fat would enable them to live longer than the fashionably skinny people like Fiona Apple or Adrien Brody, in addition to keeping them warmer--thereby giving them the last laugh.  Which they would, by all rights, owe to me.

Stand-up comics wouldn't be so funny anymore, either.  They'd probably try to joke around for awhile, until the crushing horror of the situation became too much and they broke down onstage.  Except Carrot Top, of course--he'd end up with a big goofy, stupid smile on his face while frozen solid in the middle of some horrible sight gag, until someone came along and mercifully kicked him over and he shattered into a million pieces. 

As for Janene Garafalo, I can only imagine the razor-sharp, intellectual barbs she'd unleash against me in a dull, droning voice until she keeled over.  Sarah Silverman, on the other hand, would probably find the worldwide "extinction-level event" to be an endless gold mine of priceless black-comedy material.  Until she keeled over.

Anyway, I hate heat, and days filled with bright, glaring sunshine, and all the frolicsome things that sun worshippers love to run around doing when it's hot and sunny.  Ever go to the beach?  It sucks.  How about a hot, grimy, sweaty sport, like football?  Sucks.  Picnics are stupid, or at least they have been since the day some caveman piled a couple of rocks together and invented the chair.  Cookouts are okay if someone cooks the food outside and then brings it inside for you to eat like civilized people, i.e. without flies crapping all over it. 

Mainly, though, nothing is worth doing outside in the heat if it can be done inside under the air-conditioner, and preferably while lying down.  You see, God knew that we would suffer through discomfort and toil for much of our lives, so that's why He invented the prone position sometime around 20,000 B.C.  It's our reward for all that standing up that we have to do.  Therefore, I consider it my moral duty to partake of it as often as possible, and as far away from heat as is geographically feasible.  Which for me is about 17 feet, since I live in Texas and most of our summers are horrendous and last at least nine months. 

Last year there was a day in mid-October when the temperature reached 100 friggin' degrees.  Mid-October...100 degrees.  "Do you expect it to be this hot again tomorrow?" my neighbor asked me over the back fence.  "NO!  I expect you to DIE!" I screamed.  By 4:30 there wasn't a pencil left in my entire house.  I was sorely tempted to finally go through with my nuclear-winter criminal master plan at long last, except I had neither the resources, the skills, nor the intelligence to actualize such an endeavor.  But if I had, Carrot Top's dumb ass would be a giant frozen jerksicle right about now.


And don't even get me started on humidity.

(Originally posted at

Saturday, May 28, 2011


I thought it might be both interesting and cute to interview you.  I couldn't literally interview you, of course, so I took the liberty of supplying your answers myself.  If for some reason you feel these aren't the answers that you would actually give, or that they don't accurately express your true thoughts and feelings, then it's probably due to some fault of yours.  It's silly to think that I could in any way be held responsible for such a discrepancy.

PORFLE:  How does it feel being interviewed by me?

YOU:  Oh my god, it's such an incredible honor.  Just being acknowledged by you is the greatest and most deeply, emotionally exhilarating feeling I've ever known.

PORFLE:  Oh, ha ha.  How flattering.

YOU:  Well, you are the greatest.

PORFLE:  True.  Do you enjoy having sex with timber wolves?

YOU:  I sure do.  Llamas, too.

PORFLE:  Why are you so incredibly stupid?

YOU:  [thoughtful]  Gee, that's hard to say.  I don't remember ever getting kicked in the head by a mule or anything.  Maybe my mom accidentally drank floor wax or something before I was born.  Or it could have something to do with the fact that I like to make babies laugh by smashing cinder blocks over my head.

PORFLE:  That could do it.  So, who do you like better--the Rolling Stones, The Who, or the Backstreet Boys?

YOU:  Oh, "Da Boyz", definitely.  Like, yo, I am so totally down wit both their great music and their incredible sexual magnetism.  In fact, just fantasizing about their bobbling buttocks gives me a hands-free "blast-off" that would send the space shuttle crashing into Mars.

PORFLE:  How many Barbra Streisand concerts have you been to?

YOU: would probably be easier to simply mention the ones I haven't been to.  Let's see...there was that time I was in a coma for two years and missed her "Havin' Sex With Water Buffalos" tour.  And then there was the time that I was in a train wreck while on my way to watch her perform in that big benefit concert for hemorrhoids.  I crawled out of the flaming wreckage and managed to drag myself through forty miles of malaria-infested swampland, but unfortunately I arrived at the Palladium just as Barbra was farting "People" as her final encore.  I got a faint whiff of one of her wonderful Beluga caviar farts, but that was it.

PORFLE:  Are you sure it was a Beluga caviar fart?

YOU:  Oh, yes.  Because when she cuts one of those, she actually makes it sound like the word "Beluga."  You know, like this [imitates huge three-stage fart] "Baaa-LOOOO-gaaaaa."

PORFLE:  Wow!  It would be interesting to hear her perform an "Oysters Rockefeller" fart.

YOU:  She attempted one once, but the first three rows had to be rushed to the hospital and the theater was condemned.  Now she simply ends her shows with the standard "Eggs Benedict" fart, which the kids really love.  And the great thing about it is that it's authentic--she actually eats a huge platter of Eggs Benedict before the show.

PORFLE:  Are you still having an affair with former vice-president Dick Cheney?

YOU:  Yes, but we're trying to cool it off a bit.  I mean, once something's white-hot, it's eventually going to either melt or explode.  Our carnal escapades are just too intense--it got to the point where we were afraid our sexual couplings would rip a hole in the time-space continuum.  Also, we were scaring my neighbor's cats and peeling my good fuschia moire wallpaper off the walls.  Anyway--he completes me. 

PORFLE:  What's your favorite color?

YOU:  Squirrels.

PORFLE:  Are you a religious person?

YOU:  Yes, if you consider Larry the Cable Guy to be a "religion."

PORFLE:  Ever had any interesting celebrity encounters?

YOU:  No.  Well, there was that time I accidentally sat on Dakota Fanning.  But I didn't know it was her until I got home later and discovered her faceprint in my left buttock.  Also, one day on the subway I was listening to Barbra Streisand on my iPod, and, without really being aware of it, I started farting along with her "Eggs Benedict" encore.  I honestly had no idea that Dakota Fanning was standing right behind me.  She had amnesia for a month.  Really, I have nothing against Dakota Fanning--the two incidents were just an unrelated coincidence.  Oh, and there was the time I was emptying my cat's litter box out the window and it landed on--

PORFLE:  Dakota Fanning?

YOU:  No, Patrick Stewart.  Fortunately, he was reciting Shakespeare at the time and didn't notice it.  That night during his performance of "King Lear" at the Globe Theater in London, he still had a pile of cat turds on his head.  To this day, he can't figure out why the reviews were so unfavorable.  Oh, and as luck would have it, Dakota Fanning was in the front row. She finally passed out from the horrific stench in the middle of Act II.

PORFLE:  Based on your own personal experiences, what valuable advice do you have for today's youth?

YOU:  Never pretend to be a brain surgeon just because you think it would be "fun."  Never think that it's a good idea to introduce live chickens into a formal dinner setting.  Never attend your own wedding disguised as a giant duck.  And most of all, never--ever--try to catch Oprah Winfrey if she falls out of an airplane without a parachute.

PORFLE:  Wow...what useless advice.  Your comments are ridiculous.

YOU:  Well, you wrote them.

PORFLE:  No, I didnt.

(originally posted at

Sunday, May 15, 2011


I hate billionaires because they have so much money that'd they'd never miss a puny million dollars, and yet not a single one of them has ever had the common decency to give this totally unmissed million dollars to me.  It would be like me giving someone a nickel.  Would it have any effect at all on my financial situation?  No, none whatsoever.  I would give a perfect stranger on the street a nickel if he asked for it, as long as he mowed my lawn or something.  And that is why I hate all billionaires and am a hundred times better than they are.

Generally speaking, billionaires are just a big, ugly bunch of asshats.  If you do an image search for them, they all look like nerds.  In fact, several of them look like total, blithering dickheads.  Check out the puss on Bill Gates sometime--he looks like girls used to beat him up in high school.  And Carlos Slim HelĂș?  He makes Captain Kangaroo look like Fernando Lamas. 

Billionaire-industrialist Lakshmi Mittal, who is worth a whopping $32,000,000,000 according to Forbes magazine, looks like some dork with B.O. that you wouldn't even buy a series of "Get Rich Quick in Real Estate" videos from if you saw him on an infomercial.  If I ever ran into Lakshmi Mittal in real life, I'd kick him in the balls. 

If I were to ever meet Donald Trump, I'd point and say, "Hey, Donny-Boy, what's with the hair?  Did some squirrels build a nest on your head?  HYUK, HYUK!"  Of course, he'd probably just order his bodyguards to beat me to a bloody pulp and hurl me into a dumpster, but my point would've been made.  Donald Trump would henceforth know that he had funny-looking hair, and all the billions of dollars in the world would never erase his memory of me pointing at him and saying, "Hey, Donny-Boy, what's with the hair?" and he would order his hairstylist to work in a chicken-processing plant in Utah for the rest of his life.

Of course, the bad thing about this is that billionaires can simply wave their hands like magicians, and suddenly the magic of money turns their slightest whim into a reality.  So if you make a billionaire mad by taunting him or telling him how goofy-looking he really is, he can have you wiped out of existence merely by moving his pinky.  Have you ever heard of Lancelot "Biff" Feldman?  No, you haven't, because one day Lancelot "Biff" Feldman told billionaire Warren Buffett (net worth approx. $52.B) that he looked like he just got finished having oral sex with a diseased water buffalo, and Warren Buffet did the "billionaire pinky wave", and suddenly Lancelot "Biff" Feldman no longer existed.  Even his high school yearbook photo has been replaced by one of those jokey little cartoons that says "Oops--camera shy!" and his own kids think he was abducted by Jabba the Hut.

You can't even sneak up on them, either, because they hire entire teams of former military intelligence agents just to keep members of the general public from sneaking up on them.  One day I tried to sneak up on Ingvar Kamprad ($33.B) and hold two fingers behind his head to make it look like he had bunny ears, and ended up spending six months in a sensory-deprivation tank in the Phillipines.  When I finally got out, I thought I was Boris Karloff for two weeks.  And when I eventually came back to my senses enough to be able to sneak up on people again, Ingvar Kamprad was throwing a $50,000,000 birthday bash for himself in the Bahamas with Elvis Presley and Jim Morrison singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. Wonderful" to him while Oprah Winfrey sat on his face. 

So naturally, I hope there aren't any billionaires reading this.  Because if there are, I could be in big trouble.  I don't even know if billionaires surf the 'net, or what websites they go to if they do.  I doubt if they go to porn sites, because they can make their own mind-boggling wonderlands of extreme total porn erupt in their own bedrooms whenever they want to, which is another reason why I hate them.  Heck, just the thought of Bill Gates throwing gouts of cash all over the place and getting serial blowjobs from the entire cast of "Showgirls" in his private jet while they pretend he's Brad Pitt makes me mad.  I know, you're not supposed to envy people or begrudge them their good fortune and all that, but billionaires don't count.  They're barely members of the human race.  In fact, I think they may be some weird species of large, well-dressed vermin. 

Anyway, if by some hideous twist of fate there is a billionaire reading this, none of what I just said applies to you.  So please give me a million dollars.  I'll even pay the guy I was going to give that nickel to five bucks to mow your lawn.

(originally posted at

Wednesday, May 11, 2011


Giddy as a schoolgirl over having just been promoted to the "Double-O" division of British Intelligence--due in part to the fact that my uncle was the Prime Minister and I blackmailed him with some photos I'd snapped of him having sex with Benny Hill's sister--I giggled with delight and practically skipped into M's outer office, looking forward to my first day on the job. 

Miss Moneypenny looked up from her typewriter as I doffed my hat and jauntily spun it toward the hattrack.  It missed and flew out the window.  She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was desperately in love with me.

"Fancy meeting you here, Moneypenny," I said roguishly as I perched on the corner of her desk, allowing her a full view of the bulge in my crotch, which was actually my lunch.

Moneypenny shuddered and pointed toward the inner door.  "M's waiting for you," she said coldly.  "You're late."

"I was masturbating," I admitted with a coy sideward glance, waggling my eyebrows.  "To you, darling."

Moneypenny made a face--I'm positive she'd just experienced a spontaneous orgasm due to my pervasively masculine charm--and indicated a strange white powder that seemed to be strewn like tiny snowflakes across her desk.  "You're getting dandruff all over the place," she said with a shiver. "Don't you ever wash your hair?"

"That isn't dandruff," I said, thinking fast.  "It's--err--cocaine.  Care for a snort while I nestle my face between your breasts?"

Moneypenny's passionate response was cut short by the buzz of her desk intercom.  M's voice quacked out of it like a giant electronic duck.  "If Double-O Eleven has seen fit to grace us with his presence, tell him to get his fat ass into my office before I have him executed." 

I chuckled at M's quip, knowing that, secretly, he regarded me fondly as the son he'd never had and that his cross words masked a deep admiration and respect.  I was about to mention this to Moneypenny when I noticed that she was busy aiming an oscillating fan at her desk in order to sweep away my dandruff flakes, which went swirling around the room like a blizzard.  "Get lost, creep," she said, feigning indifference.

I blew her a kiss and popped into M's office, settling into a chair in front of his desk.  He ignored me for the time being as he pored over the contents of a file that didn't appear to please him in the slightest, and I waited patiently for him to finish.  Suddenly feeling the effects of the chili-cheese burritos I'd eaten for breakfast, I rose slightly in my seat and began to release a long, silent fart that I was confident would go undetected.  M suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, causing me to expel the remainder of the fart like an ear-splitting blast from a bass trombone. 

"What the hell was that?" M demanded.

"Sounds like termites, sir," I surmised.  "I'd have the entire floor fumigated as soon as possible."

"Oh, I will," he said dourly, waving a hand in front of his face.  He tossed a photograph across the desk.  "Recognize this face?"

I looked at the picture and recoiled.  "Whoa," I winced, feeling a bit nauseous.  "What a hag. Did ugly and repulsive get married and have a kid?  She looks like somebody's ass.  Does Gabby Hayes know that one of his hemmorhoids grew up and ran away from home?  Yikes.  This scrotum-curdling barf bag from Dog City is beyond earthly help."

"That's my wife!" M sputtered indignantly. 

"Ahh, just my type," I said, coolly reappraising the photo with a lecherous leer.  "Is she into threesomes?"

M snatched the photo away.  "She's been kidnapped!" he blurted out.  "We think SPECTRE's involved.  This has Blofeld's fingerprints all over it."

"Oh, those are probably mine," I admitted.  "I ate a semi-melted Hershey bar on my way here, and--"

"Not the picture, you idiot!  The kidnapping plot!"  M slammed his fist on the desk again. "Somehow the insidious fiends got hold of my home address, despite our rigorous security measures."

"Oh, that," I said.  "I, err, gave it to the clerk at Blockbuster when I was applying for a membership card.  By the way, you may be getting a bill for some 'Girls Gone Wild' DVDs that my dog ate."

M began to quiver uncontrollably and emit a low growling noise.  I could tell that he had become somewhat agitated, so I decided to exude some of my patented super-cool confidence.

"Don't worry, old chap," I said smoothly.  "I'll spank SPECTRE, bugger Blofeld, and screw your wife's brains out.  Wait--how did that last part come out?  My mind wandered." 

M leveled an ominous look right between my eyes.  "I'll expect my wife back safe and sound within the next 24 hours, Double-O Eleven," he said gravely.  "And if you lay so much as a hand on her, I'll have you neutered by a nearsighted veterinarian."

"So, anything but hands, then?  Oral's a go?"

"I'll have you tortured slowly for a month before you're allowed to die!"

"A straight month?  Weekends, too?  Because I was thinking of popping up to Brighton for the big weenie festival, and--" 

"Out!  OUT!!!"

I made the "okay" sign with my thumb and forefinger and gave M a confident wink.  "Right-o, old bean," I said, bounding out of my chair and strolling briskly toward the door.  "By the way," I added, "your wife is such a fabulous babe, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if Blofeld was banging her like a screen door right now.  So I wouldn't worry.  She's probably enjoying it, and--"

M reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Walther PPK, struggling to control his shaking hands long enough to shoot me.  I took that as my cue to withdraw.  Passing through Moneypenny's office, I noticed that she had removed the emergency fire hose from the wall and was aiming it at me, ready to release a powerful blast of pressurized water in my direction at a moment's notice.

I smiled at this feeble attempt to mask her insatiable lust for me by playing "hard to get" and exited with a puckish salute, leaving her with her dreams.  Despite her intense, unrequited love for me, I had other business to attend to.  I was on a mission--a mission that could change the course of history and have worldwide repercussions.  The nation, not to mention the entire human race, was counting on me.

Six hours later, I was still lying around my apartment in my underwear, reading comic books.  I had eaten 18 microwave burritos and drank six two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew, and had gone through my entire collection of "Skunk Man" comics including his pulse-poundin' twelve-ish battle with the dastardly Dr. Raccoon.  I was just about to tuck into some Hostess Ding Dongs when the phone rang.  It was M.  "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded, seething with rage.

Whoops! I thought.  I'd totally forgotten about my incredibly important mission!  Knowing that this might look bad on my permanent record with Her Majesty's Secret Service, I decided that honesty was the best policy.  "I was abducted by aliens, taken to a planet at the far end of the Andromeda galaxy, and shown nude photos of Burt Reynolds in a hammock," I candidly admitted. 

After being fired from the Secret Service with the most horrendously dishonorable discharge they could humanly muster, and having been assured that my brief tenure there was the absolute blackest blotch imaginable on that organization's once-sterling history, I applied for a job at Blockbuster and was hired to work Tuesday and Thursday nights and some weekends.  As a result, I was able to square things with M regarding those "Girls Gone Wild" DVDs, which his wife gave him holy hell about after they got the bill for them in the mail. 

As it turned out, Mrs. M had gotten away from SPECTRE on her own and made it back home after eluding their assassination squads for three weeks by crawling through the London sewer system until she finally emerged in a solid-waste processing plant somewhere near Bristol.  I don't know why Mr. and Mrs. M are still so mad at me, seeing as how everything turned out okay and all.  My offer for a threesome still stands. 

As for Miss Moneypenny--well, I finally gave in and made all her fondest dreams come true by allowing her to have sex with me ten times a day.  Ha ha, not really, but I did peek through her bathroom blinds once until her dog bit me and she called the cops.  I found out later that she'd joined one of those "lonely hearts" clubs and hooked up with a nice older gentleman named "Mr. Fitzwilly", who later turned out to be Blofeld, and that they're living in a volcano crater somewhere in the South Pacific where he topples nuclear missiles in an attempt to start World War III and she makes decorative seashell mosaics. 

(originally posted at

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


I hate any song with the words "Mustang Sally!" in it. It's always sung by some guy with a guitar who fancies himself a storytelling troubador whose job is to mesmerize a roomful of people at a party with his stupid "story song" while he makes goofy facial expressions and "acts out" the various characters in the song. This is especially true when he belts out the phrase "Mustaaaang SALLY!" I don't know why this is supposed to sound so cool and get everybody so excited about his dumbass song, but it is.

Who the hell is "Mustang Sally" anyway? Does she drive a Mustang? Does she look like a horse? And why should we have the slightest interest whatsoever in what goes on in her worthless life while she's scuzzing her way through some moronic "story song"? Just because some doofus songwriter somewhere put the words "Mustang!" and "Sally!" together one night while he was at home drinking alone and then concocted a stupid story for her to take part in, we're supposed to all gather round any idiot who wields a guitar and croaks it out after we're already too smashed to realize what an extravagantly horrifying waste of several precious minutes of our lives it's going to be.

But even worse than this is when the self-appointed entertainer in question, who is invariably some creepy bastard you wouldn't be caught dead associating with under normal circumstances but is now a "star" all of a sudden, has penned a song of his own which is just like the "Mustang Sally!" song but has different names that he's come up with himself, such as "Paraquat Patty" and "Munchies McDougall." And, god help us, chances are he will "talk-sing" the song like the charismatic, divinely gifted storyteller that he is while making eye contact with everyone as he holds them in his magical musical spell one at a time.

"Now Paraquat Patty..." he'll talk-sing while mugging like a brain-addled goon and strumming his cheap guitar, "and Frisco Fatty... ducked into an alley with Heroin Hattie." There's always an alley in these songs, by the way, mainly because "Mustang Sally!" rhymes with "alley" and not much the hell else, and the word has to be included even though it doesn't rhyme with "Patty" or "Fatty" because alleys are one of the cool places that the cool wasted lowlifes in story songs hang out in.

And what happens in that alley--oh my, is it ever entertaining and funny and hip and cool, not. But Mr. Superstar will perform this wretched artifact of his own Shrinky-Dink brain as though he were Woody Guthrie serenading some noble rail-riders around a bubbling cauldron of hobo stew instead of just a bunch of dizzy stoners strewn across somebody's livingroom furniture or vegetating in lawnchairs in the backyard surrounded by bongs and beer cans.

The really, really embarrassing part, though, is when, one by one, these fickle stoners begin to lose interest in the increasingly boring story song, which goes on forever because the derp who wrote it thought it was an epic that would hold listeners in rapt attention till the very last note, and they start getting visibly restless. The Entertainer will notice his fans glancing listlessly around the room, wishing he would shut up so they could go back to having fun, and start to talk-sing louder. "SO, COUGH-SYRUP KATIE..." he'll bark like a TV that's suddenly been turned up too loud, setting everyone's nerves on edge.

Even worse than this, his mugging facial expressions will get broader and more extreme, his eye contact more intense and intimidating, even when various people actually begin conversing amongst themselves about their day or what they saw on TV that afternoon or how freaking boring this clown's interminable song is.

And when enough people have bailed out on his stupid story song, which is only about halfway over by now and still has lots of drugs 'n' booze adventures about Paraquat Patty and Frisco Fatty to recount, he'll zero in on the last hardy listener who still feels a moral obligation to suffer through the rest of the song till the bitter end (it's usually some nice blonde girl who is smiling politely while secretly wishing she were dead), and jolly well make them suffer through it till the bitter end. Meanwhile, the happy hophead party has loudly resumed around them and Paraquat Patty and her friends can go straight to hell as far as they're concerned.

And so, whenever you're at a party full of drunks and stoners and some self-styled songster grabs an acoustic guitar and looks like he's about to utter the words "Mustaaaang SALLY!" or a reasonable facsimile thereof, you should all immediately attack him, tie him up, gag him, and fling him kicking and screaming into the nearest dumpster behind a supermarket or fastfood restaurant somewhere. Because if you don't, he and Mustang Sally are going to buzz-kill your poor, helpless party right back to the Stone Age.

Sunday, March 20, 2011


Spring!  When a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.  That's the best time to whack him over the head with a club and lock him in a closet.  "Think about something else, young man!" you yell through the door.  "You're just asking for trouble with all this 'lovey-dovey' crap!"  Don't forget to feed him at least once a day, and make sure he's getting a life-sustaining amount of oxygen in there.  You're already in enough hot water as it is without hanging a murder rap around your neck. 

Actually, my thoughts do turn to love every spring.  I think about how much I love to hate spring's big fat guts.  To me, spring means the return of hot weather, bugs, and bird crap all over my car.  It also means that summer is just around the corner, and I hate summer even more than I hate spring.  "But, porfle!" you would protest if, for some reason, you actually cared.  "Spring is a magical time of beautiful flowers and lush greenery, and the lovely, lilting music of birdsong!"  Well, here's my answer to that--my dog's butt.  Enjoy!

Birds would be a lot more wonderful to have around if they would simply learn to shut the hell up more often.  Think of the times you've tried to sleep a little later than usual, but you kept getting blasted awake by a bunch of birds sitting around in the trees chirping their freakin' heads off.  What the hell are they saying to each other?  It's probably just stupid pointless chit-chat like "Boy, that fat, slimy earthworm really hit the spot" or "Lookit that dumbass down there washing his car" or "FYI--I've got the urge to mate and I'm rarin' to go!  YEE-HAAAA!" 

"SHUT UP!!!" I scream out my window.  "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUUT UUUUUUP!!!"  Invariably, there's some old fart in a fishing hat out watering his lawn or something and he thinks I'm talking to him.  "No, YOU shut up!" he yells back indignantly. 

"I wasn't talking to you!" I shriek at the top of my lungs.  "I was talking to the BIRDS--DUMBASS!"  I love totally winning an argument like that.  Sure, it destroys the poor guy, but he asked for it by getting involved.  Besides, just knowing that he's out watering his stupid lawn while I'm trying to sleep ticks me off.  For all I know, all of those birds making such an insufferable racket might be talking about him.  "Hey, check out the old fart in the fishing hat!  Let's crap on his head!"

Of course, I don't want to give the impression that I don't like birds, because I do.  Birds have saved me an awful lot of money on cat food over the years.  And they make wonderful targets, too.  In fact, anytime you're stuck for something nice to say about anything, you can always say, "Well, it makes a dandy target."  This is especially true of things like Muppets, Paris Hilton CDs, or Carrot Top.  "Fun to shoot at" and "explodes in a pleasing fashion" are other positive ways of describing certain things so that you sound nice. 

But this doesn't work with spring, because you can't shoot at it or blow it up.  You can make it the "target" of caustic, extremely witty barbs as I've done, but that doesn't bother it a bit.  It just keeps barging into your life every year and sitting on your face and braying "HEE HAW!!!" like a donkey.  Only it's an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys.  That's why, whenever someone starts gushing about how wonderful spring is and then asks me how I feel about it, I always tell them:

"Spring is an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys."

(originally posted at

Friday, March 18, 2011


Once, back when I was managing a small nightclub called "Porfle's Playpen" on the south side of Chicago, I was fortunate enough to book Gladys Knight and the Pips for a solid week of what I was certain would be big, big, blockbuster business.  It wasn't every day we had big, big big-name entertainment like that on our stage.  Usually it was people like Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods or Neil Sedaka, or the guy who played Sam Drucker on "Petticoat Junction."  Sure, they're fairly well-known, but nobody wants to see them naked. 

Not that they ever actually got naked, but you know how people are--they hear that a certain celebrity is going to be performing somewhere, and they show up in hopes of seeing them naked for one reason or another.  That's why so many people really went to see Elvis during his declining years--they were hoping his pants would fall down or that tight costume would explode right off of his body or whatever, and they'd get to snap a picture of naked Fat Elvis.  It's also why so many people used to watch "The Golden Girls."  They were hoping, due to some incredibly unlikely but still slightly possible turn of events, to see naked Bea Arthur. 

Anyway, Neil Sedaka was onstage the night I found out over the phone that Gladys Knight and the Pips were confirmed for the following week.  I felt celebratory, so I indulged in something that was rare for me, which was to run out onto the stage and rip Neil Sedaka's pants off.  Then I signalled to Fred, who worked the canned music and lighting effects up in the booth, and he pressed the red button, which released several gallons of water onto Neil's head.  One moment he was in the middle of singing "Laughter In The Rain", and the next moment he was standing there in nothing but a red spangled speedo with little candy canes all over it, dripping like a wet hog.  It was like some kind of horrifying "Flashdance" outtake.  Several of my customers started to throw up, especially the ones who happened to be eating cottage cheese.   

"I hate you!  I hate you!" Neil screamed as he ran offstage, crying.  But it was his last night anyway, so I felt lighthearted and optimistic.  Then, suddenly aware that I might possibly have raised the ire of some of my patrons--especially the Neil Sedaka fans--I gaily announced, "Free club crackers for everyone!"  This seemed to placate the goofy bastards.

Well, the weekend passed slower than molasses on Al Gore's ass, but at last Monday came and it was time for Gladys Knight and the Pips to begin their engagement.  I didn't greet them when they arrived to set up, since back in those days I thought I was better than everyone else and felt it beneath my sanctified magnificence to actually associate with lesser human beings, which included the entire human race except for Ben Gazarra, Robert Loggia, and, of course, Doris Day.  But I did make sure to be sitting at my special private table when the show started, basking in my own greatness and ready to be entertained. 

As the lights dimmed and Gladys Knight and the Pips sashayed onstage, wave after wave of pure excitement washed over my body.  It was just like that time I took a shower.  Fred flicked the switch and the first sweet strains of the pre-recorded "Midnight Train to Georgia" backing track began to waft over the audience.  Gladys assumed her position at the mike to enthusiastic applause as the Pips danced in unison behind her.  I looked around at all the happy-faced customers--or "pigs" as I jokingly referred to them back in the day--who had just lined my pockets with wads of sweet, sweet cash and were even now shelling out top dollar for day-old food that the cafeteria down the street sold to me for practically nothing every night instead of throwing it out.  All was right with the world.

Suddenly, I sensed something was amiss.  Gladys was singing "I'm leavin'...on that midnight train to Georgia" just as beautifully as ever.  Two of the Pips were harmonizing the words "she's leavin'...leavin' on that midnight train" and dancing with their trademark precision choreography.  But the third pip was a different story.  Not only were his movements dreadfully erratic and non-choreographed, but the only sounds coming from his mouth were things like "ZZZRRRKKKK" and "SSSSKKKRRRTT."  As the song drew to a close, I arose from my seat and slowly made my way onto the stage.

"Thought you could pull one over on me, didn't you, Gladys?" I said, hands on hips.

"Huh?  What are you talking about?" she replied, trying to use the old "innocent act" on me.

"Oh, nothing," I remarked nonchalantly.  "Except that one of your so-called 'pips' seems to be, in actuality...A ROBOT!!!"

Her eyes went wide.  "CURSES!!!" she screamed, realizing that the jig was up.  Leaping from the stage, she grabbed a hanging light fixture and swung over the crowd, landing like a cat near one of the exits.  I sprang into hot pursuit.  An off-duty cop rose to stop her, but she gave him a vicious karate chop to the Adam's apple and grabbed his gun.  I dove over the bar and snatched the double-barrelled shotgun from beneath it.  Gladys ducked behind the cop's overturned table and fired.  I returned with a double blast of buckshot that took out the jukebox.

"YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!!!" she shrieked, crashing through the front window.  I sprang from behind the bar and was out the door just in time to see her scurrying up the steps of a huge petroleum storage tank next door to the club.  She turned to exchange fire with me again as several police cars converged on the scene, sirens blaring. 

When she reached the top, she could see that there was no escape.  Laughing maniacally, she emptied her pistol into the tank and raised her arms in victory as flames began to rise out of it.  "TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!!!" she screamed right before the tank erupted into a massive, earth-rattling explosion that could be seen for miles. 

After that, of course, I made it a point to check all further performing acts for robots before allowing them into my club.  Which paid off, too, when the freakin' Partridge Family tried to pass off a "Danny" robot on me.  And there's no telling how many robots had already performed in the club before I was on the lookout for them.  I still have my suspicions about Jose' Feliciano--that incident with him bursting into flames and his head falling off during "Feliz Navidad" is starting to make a little more sense to me now. 

As for Gladys Knight--well, don't ask me how, but, against all odds, she somehow survived that night.  In fact, there she was hosting "The Midnight Special" on NBC the very next Friday night.  The Pips all looked like real people this time, thank goodness, but I'm pretty darn sure Wolfman Jack was a robot. 

(originally posted at
(thanks to for the pic)

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


When you come right down to it, there's nothing in this whole wide world that's more fun and entertaining than looking back at the magic that is Old Hollywood.  And if you disagree with that, then you're just plain stupid!  So let's turn back the clock and revisit the legendary land of make-believe, shall we?  We'll begin with some memorable movie quotes that should evoke the proper mood of golden-hued nostalgia and set our course for Memory Lane... 

"Hey" -- James Caan, "The Godfather"

"The"  -- Marlon Brando, "On The Waterfront"

"My" -- Claudette Colbert, "Cleopatra"

"It's" -- Sylvester Stallone, "Rocky"

"But" -- Judy Garland, "The Wizard of Oz"

"You" -- Joe Pesci, "Goodfellas"

"Instead" -- Meryl Streep, "Sophie's Choice"

"Now" -- Gregory Peck, "To Kill a Mockingbird"

"Or" -- Ben Kingsley, "Schindler's List"

Ha ha, oh boy, does that ever bring back some golden memories.  And now, here's one of those delightful stories from Old Hollywood that may be true, or it may be apocryphal...but if it isn't true, it should be!

As the story goes: During the crucifixion scene in the star-studded production of THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD, John Wayne played the Roman centurion who delivered the famous line: "Truly, this man was the Son of God."  Unhappy with the first couple of takes, director George Stevens asked Wayne to try the line again, only this time with "more awe." 

Wayne considered Stevens' advice carefully and, during the next take, dramatically intoned the line "Truly...this man was the Son of God"--and then exploded.  The blast took out three soundstages and killed the entire cast, including a thousand extras, and the resulting inferno destroyed most of what was known at the time as "Little Israel", which was also used in such films as ABBOTT AND COSTELLO STAY HOME and THREE GUYS AND SOME SPINACH. 

Wayne had given the line "more awe", all right!  Missing in action after the explosion, he was discovered three months later in Hackensack, New Jersey, managing a small boutique under the name "Beaufort Shmeck."  The famous actor had no memory of the incident, but was later said to often wake up in the middle of the night screaming, "Gah, prunes!!!"

Wow!  What a story.  That Old Hollywood sure had its share of incredible anecdotes that entertain and astound us to this day.  And here's another one, this time involving popular comic actor Don Knotts during the filming of his classic comedy THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN.


It seems Don had an unforeseen problem during the big sex scene in which he and co-star Joan Staley are rolling around "buck-nekkid" and covered with molasses in the back of what, unbeknownst to their characters, turns out to be a float in the city's Founders' Day parade.  Well, Don and Joan are having furious "X-rated" sex all the way down Main Street before their characters realize they're being watched by hundreds of shocked townspeople, in what is to be one of the comedy highlights of the film.  Suddenly, Don stands up right in the middle of a take and shouts, at the top of his voice:  "Hey!  I forgot that this is supposed to be a G-RATED movie!" 

Whoops!  Sure enough, while writing the screenplay, the fact that THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN was meant as a wholesome family film had totally slipped Don's mind.  It was only after he'd had sex with former Playboy centerfold Joan Staley approximately sixteen times that this crucial bit of information finally dawned on him.  The scene was then hastily re-written to place Don and Joan's characters (tastefully clothed, of course, and not having sex) at a Chamber of Commerce picnic in honor of Don's character "Luther Heggs."  Attaboy, Luther!

Don later would jokingly refer to the incident as "that funny old slip-up where I accidentally had sex with Joan Staley sixteen times."  Ha, ha--it sure was a humorous mix-up, all right!  But not as humorous as the fact that during filming of Don's next movie, THE RELUCTANT ASTRONAUT... the same mistake happened again!  This time Don inadvertently had sex with attractive co-star Joan Freeman a whopping THIRTY-FIVE TIMES before he remembered that the film was intended for general audiences.  (Sounds like that particular "astronaut" wasn't quite "reluctant" enough!)  The doubly-embarrassed Knotts later admitted:  "It was all my own bone-headed fault, no doubt about it.  I just need to pay more attention while I'm writing those darn screenplays."

And now, here are some more fun movie quotes.  See if you can remember these from your favorite blockbuster films:

"This" -- Vincent Price, "The Ten Commandments"

"I've" -- Jean Harlow, "Grand Hotel"

"Unless" -- Ronald Colman, "The Story of Mankind"

"Because" -- Rock Hudson, "Giant"

"What" -- George Kennedy, "Cool Hand Luke"

"If" -- Fay Wray, "King Kong"

Hoo-boy, you never know what those famous stars are going to say in their classic films!  And finally, here's a terrifying tale from the mist-shrouded mysteries of Old Hollywood's voluminous vault of apocryphal anecdotes.  It's an unnerving urban legend that's reluctantly referred to by the denizens of Dreamland as..."Rhett Butler's Fart."  (Parental discretion advised.)


It was during the filming of one of Hollywood's most memorable scenes, as Victor Fleming directed Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh in the unforgettable climax to GONE WITH THE WIND.  All that was left was for Vivian, as Scarlett O'Hara, to breathlessly implore a departing Rhett Butler:  "Rhett, Rhett!  If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?" and for Gable, as the roguish Rhett, to deliver his immortal comeback: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." that's movie history in the making!

There was just one catch...Clark Gable had eaten beans for lunch.  And not just the ordinary portion, but bowls and bowls of them.  It seems Gable was a bean fanatic, known to down a dozen cans in one sitting when the craving was at its peak, and right before the fateful scene was to be shot he had gobbled a record fifteen cans of "Old Faithful" Extra-Strength Ranch-Style Beans while guzzling an entire gallon of Grade A whole milk and six quarts of tutti-fruitti ice cream.  Thus, Gable's innards were positively roiling as Vivian Leigh fed him the line that prompted his historic retort. 

"Rhett, Rhett!" Leigh dramatically intoned.  "If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?"  Without missing a beat, Gable twisted his ruggedly handsome face into that familiar roguish smirk and confidently proclaimed: "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."  FRRRRRRRRRRT!!! 

The horrendous fart blasted the seat out of Gable's pants and took out thousands of dollars worth of scenery, setting it on fire, while the ghastly stench swept instantly throughout the soundstage like a full-scale gas attack.  Cast and crew who were caught in its wake dropped like flies or stood petrified on the spot. 

Vivian Leigh's hair turned white as she sagged backward and crashed through one of the mansion's front windows.  Paint melted and dripped down the backdrops used to represent the scenery surrounding Tara before they, too, went up in flames.  The hapless Fleming, who had been standing directly behind Gable at "ground zero", went missing for six weeks and was later discovered in a traveling circus, where the amnesia-stricken director was performing nightly as "Stinko, the Chicken Geek." 

When asked about the incident later by famed gossip columnist Louella Parsons, an insouciant and unrepentent Gable gave his customary smirk and remarked: "Frankly my dear, I still don't give a damn."  With that, he threw back his head with a resounding belly-laugh.  Everyone else joined him in laughter, there was a freeze-frame, and the closing credits rolled.  And folks--that's Old Hollywood for you! 

(originally posted at