Thursday, January 27, 2011


I don't know about you, but my town is full of extremely confusing and sometimes downright ridiculous traffic signs.  It's gotten to the point where I'm afraid to try and go anywhere in my car.  I don't know how anybody ever gets anywhere with all of these stupid signs full of conflicting or confusing directives that seem as though they're designed to drive me totally insane. 

Take, for example, these "STOP" signs that you see everywhere.  Just last week I gaily hopped into my car, happily looking forward to a nice trip to EZ Mart to buy some of those really sugary donut sticks that taste so good with milk.  But before I've even gone half a block, I run into a "STOP" sign.  Dutifully, I stop the car like I'm supposed to and wait.  A minute goes by, then two.  Nothing happens.  I must have sat there at that intersection for two friggin' hours waiting for that stupid "STOP" sign to change to "GO."  But noooo, it was stuck on "STOP."  Doesn't the city hire people to go around and check up on these things? And I know I'm not the only one who was miffed, because there was a long line of people behind me, honking their horns in frustration.  I finally just turned around and went home.  No delicious, sugary donut sticks for me that night, darn it...and all because of some stupid sign.

Well, yesterday I hopped into my car again, this time not quite as gaily as before due to my earlier traumatic experience, and headed out in the other direction because that's where Dog Food City is.  They have this new brand of dog food there called "Dog Food" that's a lot cheaper than the name brands, and my dog seems to like it pretty well after it's been sitting in her bowl for about three days.  Anyway, there's no stupid "STOP" sign at the other end of the block, thank goodness, but there is a big, yellow "YIELD" sign. 

Okay, I've seen enough King Arthur movies to know what that means, so I stopped and got out of the car and held my hands up to show that I wasn't holding a sword or a lance or anything.  "I yield to thee!" I cried loudly to whomever could hear me.  Mrs. Wilson was out watering her lawn across the street and gave me a funny look, but she's always been a bit "off" so I blithely ignored her.  I don't know if there are still knights like in the King Arthur days, especially since I never see any hanging around the "YIELD" sign, but there must be somebody hiding somewhere, keeping watch.  So after I figure I've yielded to them long enough, I get back in the car and drive away.  It's a little scary, but so far nobody's tried to challenge me to a joust or anything, so I guess I'm doing it right. 

Whoever designs some of these stupid signs must be off his rocker, in my opinion.  One day I was driving along and passed a sign that said "NO U TURN."  Okay--text speak is irritating enough when it's used online, but on an official traffic sign?  You'd expect the city to hire people who can spell entire words, and speak proper English no less, to make these things up.  So now I'm wondering:  do they assume that I'm going straight and want me to turn?  As in, "No!  You turn!"  Or is this an inarticulate way of saying "You can't turn"?  I almost broadsided a turnip truck trying to figure the damn thing out. 

I finally decided the sign was telling me I couldn't turn, so I ended up driving straight to Fort Worth, which is, like, almost two-hundred miles away on the Interstate.  And wouldn't you know it--as soon as I got there, I came right up to another friggin' "STOP" sign.  Well, long story short, I sat there for another two or three hours with a whole bunch of other people behind me honking their horns at that damn sign until the police came and towed my car away.  I ended up taking a bus back home, which ate up all my shopping money, and by the time I got there Dog Food City was closed anyway. 

Some signs are just downright insensitive and mean.  There's an elementary school a couple of blocks from my house, and I guess it's where they stick the not-so-bright kids in town because right out on the street next to the playground there's a sign that says "SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY."  I just don't understand why the city would find it necessary to announce this to anyone who happens to drive by.  Those poor little kids deserve to be judged the same as anyone else, without some big sign telling everybody how "slow" they are. 

Another sign that I find equally offensive is the one right before you get to my friend Bill's house.  Now, Bill may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, and in fact he's a little flaky at times.  But I certainly don't see why the city in all its supposed wisdom felt compelled to stick a sign on the way to his house that says, in big, black letters, "DIP AHEAD."  Who decides these things anyway?  The mayor?  Some committee of self-appointed "dip assessors"?  And to think this is what's being done with our tax dollars these days.  I told Bill he ought to move, but he said they'd probably just move the sign, which is just about right.

The one that bothers me the most, though, and infringes on my civil rights more egregiously than any other, is that idiotic "NO PARKING ANY TIME" sign.  You'd think that by now I would know better and avoid it, but every once in awhile I forget and pass right by it without thinking.  So for the rest of the day, or at least as long as my gas holds out, I have to just keep driving around.  At least I can go through the drive-thru at Jack-In-The-Box and get something to eat, since this doesn't really qualify as "parking", but the rest of the time I have to stay mobile in order to avoid getting a ticket. 

If I time it right, I run out of gas close to my house so I don't have to push my car very far to get it back into my driveway.  But I just don't see what good it does the city or anyone else for me to have to go through this whole pointless ordeal in the first place.  The last time I was pushing my car home a cop drove by real slow, obviously on the prowl for parking offenders, but before he could say anything I screamed, "I'm not parking!  I'M NOT PARKING!"  He kept on going but he gave me this weird look all the same, like I was nuts or something.  They're all in this together, the dirty rats.  And how the hell did he know that I drove by that stupid sign anyway?  It's creepy.

Oh yeah, and just today I got pulled over for going down a street that had a "ONE WAY" sign on it.  Well, duh...I was only going one way.  But this clueless cop couldn't seem to get that through his thick skull, so he gave me a ticket.  And when I started to turn around and go the other way, he screamed, "NO U TURN!"  I yelled back, "OKAY, I'M TURNING, I'M TURNING!"  The big doofus must've chased me all over town after that with his lights flashing and his siren going full blast.  I would've stopped, too, but I passed by that damn "NO PARKING ANY TIME" sign again and I didn't want to get another ticket. 

Luckily, he ran out of gas before I did, so after I got done pushing my car back home, I called the police department to register a complaint of "police harrassment", and they told me to stay right where I am until they send someone out to my house.  I'm waiting for them right now, and when they get here, I'm gonna give them a piece of my mind but good.  So for now, anyway, it looks like I win, ha ha. 

(originally posted at

Sunday, January 16, 2011


Madonna was driving by my house one day, when suddenly her car had a flat tire.  Since her cell phone had just been eaten by a gorilla (true story--Google it), and she didn't know how to fix a flat tire herself, she marched right up to my house and banged on the door.  I guess she figured there must be some peon in here who knew how to do drudge-type crap like that!

I opened the door and gasped in surprise.  "Madonna!" I cried.

"Yesss," she hissed with an expansive eyeroll, weary of forever being recognized and adored.

"Darn," I said, disappointed.  "I thought you might be the mailman with my sea monkeys." 

Madonna looked at her watch and tapped her foot.  She didnt have time for such nonsense!  "I have to be at some big-time showbiz thing that I'm supposed to be doing on MTV!" she exclaimed.  Actually, I'm just paraphrasing what she said, since I can't remember exactly what the thing was that she was late for.  But I do recall thinking that it must be a humdinger of a thing!

She jabbed her index finger toward her car, which was parked at the curb in front of my house.  "The tire is flat," she announced.  This was apparently my cue to spring into action!

I decided to try and inject a little levity into the situation.  "Well," I quipped, suppressing a sly smile, "at least it's only flat on the bottom.  ONLY FLAT ON THE BOTTOM!  HAAAAA HA HA HA HA HARRRR!"  I stood back and waited for her to appreciate my witticism and join in the laughter.  Then, I would be able to brag to everyone that me and Madonna were buddies and had shared the gift of mirth.

Instead, Madonna was instantly stricken with an intense, blazing rage that prompted her to scream like a banshee and hurl herself against my screen door, clawing at it like a caged baboon.  "I'LL KILL YOU FOR THAT!" she shrieked.  "GRRRAAAARRRRR!!!"

"MADONNA!  CONTROL YOURSELF!" I urged, trying to restore order to the situation.  Obviously, she wasn't used to not having her commands obeyed at once, so I decided that I'd better humor her.  "Okay, I will fix your tire," I lied.  "Just let me go tools."  I closed the door and locked it.

"You'd better hurry up, you little TWERP!" came her voice from behind the door.  Figuring that she would simply give up and go away after awhile, I sat back in my recliner with a big bowl of cheezy corn and started watching reruns of "The Lucy Show" again.  Lucy and Viv were currently up on the roof trying in vain to put up a TV antenna.  It sure was funny! 

I laughed and laughed, until suddenly there came a deafening crash that shook my entire house.  Looking out the window, I saw that Madonna had found an axe in my garage and chopped down one of the trees in my front yard, sending it crashing into the house.  She was now in the process of chopping down another one.

Opening the window, I shouted indignantly, "Hey!  Stopping chopping down my trees!"

"FIX MY TIRE!" she bellowed between chops.  The second tree wavered tenuously with a loud creaking noise and then came down on my house with another deafening crash, almost going through the roof this time.  She scampered on to the next tree, which was even bigger than the first two, and started chopping again.

Alarmed, I ran to the phone and dialed 911.  "State your emergency," came a voice. 

"Madonna is in my front yard, chopping down trees!" I screamed into the phone.  "She's trying to cave my house in because I won't fix her flat tire!"

"Madonna...the singer?" the voice asked.

"Yes!" I affirmed.  "HEEELLLLP!" 

At that moment, I heard the ominous sound of wood splintering.  I ran to the window and looked out, and sure enough, the huge tree was swaying, getting ready to topple.  Madonna stood back, laughing, dancing around with the axe upraised and doing those fist-pumping "YES!" things.  But to her dismay, instead of crashing into my house, the tree fell the other way and landed on her car, smashing it like a pancake.  Instead of a flat tire, now she had a flat car!

"YAAAAAAAA!!!" she screamed, beside herself with naked fury.  Before I knew it, she had leapt onto my front porch and was chopping the door down.  The head of the axe broke through and Madonna stuck her head through the hole, her face contorted in a grinning rictus of insanity.  "HEEEEERE'S MADDY!!!" she screeched.  Using the only defensive weapon presently at my disposal, I hit her in the face with a banana cream pie.

Suddenly, the UPS truck pulled into the driveway.  It was my sea monkeys!  Madonna took one look, screamed, and started charging toward the truck with her axe, still spluttering as the banana cream pie oozed down her face.  The UPS guy saw what was coming at him and dived into some bushes with a squeal of terror.  Madonna jumped behind the wheel, backed up, and peeled out down the street in a cloud of burning rubber, crashing through mailboxes and trash cans.  I could still hear her insane shrieks of triumphant glee as she rounded the corner on two wheels. 

"Well, there go my sea monkeys," I said ruefully. 

The UPS guy staggered to his feet, dazed.  "Was...was that Madonna?" he wheezed.

"Yeah, she has some big-time showbiz thing to get to," I replied.

(originally posted at

Friday, January 14, 2011


I love cats, so I hate Jerry the mouse.

Of course, the original, Academy Award-winning MGM/Hanna-Barbara "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are among the greatest cartoons ever made. I used to thoroughly enjoy watching them, and I would laugh hysterically at their antics. But in recent years these cartoons have become almost intolerable to me because of their blatant anti-cat racism.

The entire basis for the humor in these cartoons is seeing Tom, the cat, suffer pain and abuse. At the same time, we're supposed to side with Jerry, the mouse, and think that he's wonderfully cute. Well, have you ever had mice running around in your house? If you did, I'll bet you didn't go "Awww...isn't that cute?" Especially if you had just slaved over a hot stove all day to lay out a big, elaborate banquet for your guests and some rotten mouse climbed right up onto the table and started wolfing down your turkey legs, stomping through the potato salad, and wading around in the Jell-o.

Why do people side with Jerry against Tom? Tom is only doing his job. Actually, Tom would rather be stretched out in front of the fireplace, sawing some logs. But because of Jerry constantly rampaging through the refrigerator or cavorting all over the dinner table, with no regard whatsoever for anyone but himself, Tom is forever being pressed into service by his owners and ordered to "catch that mouse." In fact, he's frequently threatened with being thrown out into the snow if he doesn't.

So what usually happens? Jerry ends up stretched out luxuriously in front of the fireplace, gnawing on a turkey leg or a hunk of expensive cheese or sipping a bowl of creamy milk through a straw, while Tom stares longingly through the window in the snow with icicles hanging off his face, and we're supposed to go "Awwwww, isn't Jerry cute." Not me. I want to terminate that stinking mouse just as much as Tom does. Terminate...with extreme prejudice.

Let's face it--most of us would much rather have a cat living in our house than a mouse. Why? Because mice are vermin, that's why. Cute little Jerry gnaws holes in the walls, spreads germs and disease, and craps wherever he feels like it. Sticking big eyelashes and a jolly bowtie on the sorry little bastard doesn't change this one whit. If you saw Jerry running around in your Thanksgiving dinner, you'd be after his ass with a sledgehammer whether he was wearing a friggin' bowtie or not. Or you'd be pointing at him and screaming for your cat to "KILL! KILL! KILL!" Because cats in your house are a good thing. Mice are not.

Tom is often depicted in these cartoons as pure evil. Sometimes he narrows his eyes, rubs his hands together, and cackles just like Snidely Whiplash as he plots against the innocent little Jerry. Have you ever seen a cat do this? I haven't. Tom is also shown inviting his low-class alleycat friends into the house for wild parties while the owners are away. I've had inside cats for decades and I've never caught any of them doing this. Oh yeah, and of course Tom's friends are all a bunch of no-good, destructive alkies, while Jerry's friends are all--you guessed it--"cute." KILL! KILL! KILL!

I would love to be able to enjoy the great old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons the way I used to before I finally became enlightened to this horrific injustice. But I can't--it's just too horrific. Like I said, these cartoons are infused with blatant anti-cat racism that is just as offensive in its own way as those "Slap the Jap" cartoons from World War II. Instead of laughter and delight, they now fill me with rage and consternation. Instead of enjoying them, I now find myself on my knees in front of the television with my trembling fists raised to the heavens, screaming "NOOOOOOOOO!!!" When my neighbors hear this, they think, "Oh, my god--he's either being attacked by home invaders, or he's watching 'Tom and Jerry' again." Well, Jerry--cute little Jerry--is a home invader. And he deserves to die horribly.

(originally posted at

Saturday, January 8, 2011


"What the hell do you mean, 'who's Larry Storch?'"

"I mean I don't know who the hell Larry Storch is!  Who the hell is Larry Storch?"

Infuriating, isn't it?  If you're like me, and find yourself in this situation at least once a day, you can understand why there are so many sudden, unexplained attacks across America every day.  Chances are, it's someone who knows who Larry Storch is attacking someone who doesn't know who he is. 

Here's an example that may sound woefully familiar to you: several years ago I got set up on a blind date, and I gallantly called the young lady up in advance to verify the time and place where we'd meet--which, by the way, was a Denny's on Wilton Boulevard, since I wanted to impress her.  She asked me what I looked like, and I told her (again, wanting to impress her) that I resembled actor Larry Storch. 

"Who's Larry Storch?" she inquired. 

"What the hell do you mean, 'who's Larry Storch?'" I screamed, a volcanic eruption of blazing hot fury erupting like a million geysers from every fiber of my tortured being. 

"I mean I don't know who the hell Larry Storch is!  Who the hell is Larry Storch?" she persisted, incredibly unaware of her own utter stupidity.

"What are you, incredibly unaware of your own utter stupidity or something?" I shrieked, kicking the glass walls out of the phone booth that I was standing in and repeatedly smashing my body into the frame until the whole thing fell over into the street with a resounding crash.  "ARE YOU SOME KIND OF A TOTAL F**KING IDIOT?  GRRRRRRR!!!  By the way, that's the Denny's on Wilton Boulevard, not the one next to the bowling alley on Burton Street."

Well, she never showed up.  She was probably too embarrassed by her own utter stupidity to show her face, and you can hardly blame her, but she could at least have stopped by my house later for the obligatory blind-date sex that I have come to expect over the years.  I've never actually had sex on a blind date, of course, but I have come to expect it.  Anyway, it's just as well, because I found out later that she looked more like Larry Storch than I do. 

I guess one of the reasons that women who look like Larry Storch don't know who he is might be that people are reluctant to tell these women that they look like Larry Storch.  But that's still no excuse for never having heard of him.  Anyone who's ever watched an episode of "F Troop" or "Ghost Busters" should not only know who he is, but should in fact consider him to be one of the greatest human beings who ever walked the face of the earth, next to Robert Loggia and Ben Gazzara.  They should also know who Forrest Tucker is as well, since he co-starred in both of those series with Larry Storch. 

Well, I brought all of this up at a political fundraiser that I attended several years ago, in an attempt to liven up what I considered to be some pretty boring chit-chat amongst a gaggle of pseudo-sophisticates who were standing around sipping drinks and tittering a lot.  When the mayor's wife gaily inquired, "Who's Forrest Tucker?" I poured my drink in her face.  As I congratulated myself for my restraint, another total moron--I think it was the mayor--chimed in with, "How dare you!  And 'Ghostbusters' was a movie with Bill Murray in it, not a television series!" 

Again I held my temper, and responded by merely flinging the hors d'ouevres table over, drenching several people with caviar and other gooey, expensive treats.  But then, just as I was returning to my usual casual demeanor, I heard a voice say, "Yeah, and who the hell's Larry Storch?"  The next few moments are still a blur in my memory, but the next day there was a picture of me on the front page of the newspaper in which some quick-thinking photographer had managed to catch me in mid-air as I hurled myself at the governor with the crazed look of a kabuki dancer. 

My interest in politics continued when I later attended the Carter-Ford debate and, after furiously waving my hand for several minutes, managed to get called upon to ask the presidential candidates a question.  When the guy held the microphone up to my face I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and asked, "How do you feel about Larry Storch?"  A perplexed Jimmy Carter smiled uncertainly and asked, "Who's Larry Storch?" 

Just as I was about to charge the stage and hurl myself at him, Gerald Ford responded confidently, "Larry Storch is the greatest actor who ever lived.  Perhaps even the greatest human being who ever lived."  Banging the podium to emphasize each word, he added, "!" The audience erupted with unrestrained cheers and applause! Well, I did, anyway.  And I sure as hell voted for Gerald Ford that year.  Jimmy Carter won, though, and, as you might expect, my extensive campaign to have Larry Storch's Birthday declared a national holiday was totally ignored by the government of the United States of America for the next four years.  Talk about malaise.  That, and possibly the Iran hostage situation as well, resulted in Carter losing his bid for re-election.  Take that, Carter!  Betcha know who Larry Storch is now!  BWAH-ha-ha!!!

Well, I've cut down on my attacks in recent years.  Maybe because of the wisdom and maturity that come with age, or maybe because I was getting beaten up a lot.  But the realization that attacking people because they don't know who Larry Storch is might not be a good thing to do finally came to me as I was discussing future attacks with my trusted consigleri, Tom Hagen.  Tom, not a wartime consigleri, is often the voice of reason in contrast with my unrestrained hostility, as can be heard in the following exchange...

TOM: Now, former President Carter and the Governor of Texas are on the run. Are they worth it? And are we strong? Is it worth it? I mean you've want to attack everybody?

PORFLE: I don't feel I have to attack everybody, Tom. Just people who don't know who Larry Storch is, that's all. Now, are you gonna come along with me in these things I have to do or what? Because if not, you can take your "F Troop", your "Ghost Busters", and your "Dean Martin Celebrity Roast" 'em all in for Adam Sandler movies.

TOM: Why do you hurt me, porfle? I've always been loyal to you. I mean, what is this?

PORFLE: You're right, Tom.  I should stop attacking people who don't know who Larry Storch is.

TOM: Well, you should try to cut down, anyway.

(originally posted at

Tuesday, January 4, 2011


Back when I was a teenager growing up in Howdyville, our resident ape expert was a pleasant old fellow by the name of "Apes" O'Malley. He lived on a beautiful, rustic ape farm about half a mile out of town, where his apes had plenty of room to play and take long nature walks. Some days I would get off the school bus near his house and drop in to watch him teaching his apes things like basket weaving, astronomy, and truck driving.

On this particular day, I knocked on his front door and an ape answered. "Is Mr. O'Malley home?" I asked.

The ape let out a jovial laugh. "Sure, and 'tis me!" Apes said, taking off his ape head. The new ape costume he'd just devised was super convincing. "Come on in, lad!"

We went into the kitchen, where an ape dressed in a frilly apron poured me some lemonade. This ape's name was Lemonape, because making delicious lemonade was his specialty. I drank the whole glass down in one long gulp. Sure enough, it was the best lemonade I'd ever tasted that was made by an ape.

I let out a long, resounding belch, and Lemonape got scared and jumped out the window with a shriek. Apes laughed and waved it off. "He'll be back in time for his soap operas," he said. "I've more important things on me mind, laddie." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Would ye be interested in seein' giant apes?" he said in a low voice. "Me special...RADIOACTIVE giant apes?"

"Nah," I shrugged. "I have to go home now and mow the lawn. Or my dad won't give me my two dollars and I won't be able to go to the moving picture show this weekend." Yes, those were the "good old days", when kids really knew how to have fun!

"That's okay," said Apes. "You'll probably be seein' them soon enough as 'tis. For you see, I've already released them, ha ha, all forty of 'em." He danced a little jig, which looked funny since he was still wearing his new ape suit. "They're be destroyin' the whole town any time now."

"APES!" I cried, aghast. "Why? WHY did you do that?"

"Oh, I guess I just went a little crazy," he said with a weird giggle. "Don't we all go a little crazy now and then?"

"Well, yes," I admitted. "But with most of us, it doesn't involve giant, radioactive apes."

Apes was considering this when suddenly we heard all kinds of sirens coming from the direction of town. He smiled brightly and clapped his hands. "That'll be me apes!" he chirped. "Already on a rampage of terror and destruction, bless 'em!" He scampered over to the TV and turned it on. A news bulletin was showing live images of the giant, radioactive apes smashing their way down Main Street. One of them started jumping up and down on City Hall, reducing it to a useless pile of kindling, while another kicked over the toy store and stomped on it, ruining Christmas for all the youngsters of Howdyville.

But one question still burned in my mind. "Why are they doing this, Apes?" I asked. "I thought you only raised peaceful apes!"

"Oh, I got 'em good and mad before I let 'em loose," said Apes. "I told 'em that people are evil, and that the whole town is evil, and that EVIL MUST BE DESTROYED!!!" Apes had suddenly worked himself into a state of extreme frenzy, shaking his arms over his head like an actual ape. It was clear to me that he really believed what he'd told his oversized super-apes--that Howdyville and all the people in it were EVIL!

"Apes, you need to get ahold of yourself!" I commanded, rapping him on the nose with a wooden spoon that I'd found on the kitchen cabinet. He stopped short, blinking his eyes, and all at once his head seemed to clear. "Saints preserve us!" he said in a sorrowful voice. "Whatever have I done?"

"You've unleashed giant, radioactive ape disaster upon the town and its citizens, Apes!" I said, pointing to the TV. At that moment there was a horrifying shot of a giant ape trying to have sex with Howdyville's leading Ford Lincoln-Mercury dealership. In the background, two more apes were playing soccer with the Old Folks' Home. The lethal radiation that their mutated bodies emitted had already wilted much of the town's decorative flora, and the paint was melting off scores of historic buildings.

Apes held his head in his hands and bawled like a baby. "I dinna mean it!" he cried. "I was only tryin' to create special fun apes for the people to enjoy...and suddenly, me neighbor's dog was tellin' me to unleash the apes on the human race!"

I looked out the window. There, sitting in the front yard, watching the house, was Biff Wilson's dog, Jethro. Damn that dog! I thought. This was all his doing!

Lemonape had returned and was tending to the distraught Apes, pouring him some refreshing lemonade and microwaving a couple of burritos for him. I grabbed the nearest tape recorder and hastily scrawled a message on a piece of paper. "Here!" I said, shoving the paper into Apes' hands and holding the microphone up to his mouth. "Read this!"

Moments later I was speeding toward town in the mustard-yellow 1964 Volvo that Apes used to drive to Piggly-Wiggly on Sundays. I screeched to a halt in front of the football stadium, raced upstairs to the broadcast booth, and plugged the tape into the public address system. The apes were already smashing their way into the stadium by that time, stomping all over the bleachers and wrecking the beautifully-manicured playing field with their huge ape footprints. Another few seconds, and I would be smushed by one of those huge ape feet!


The giant radioactive apes instantly ceased their destruction of the town and headed off down the road toward Biff Wilson's house. They tore it up but good--in no time there was nothing left but a splintery smudge--and they stomped on his vegetable garden and all his trees, too. Then they used his barn as an outhouse, rendering it and the entire surrounding area uninhabitable for the next 57 years. Biff Wilson was never seen again. His dog, Jethro, is thought to have escaped and made his way to a more populated area. Some believe he is now Jay Leno's dog. Others think he may have gone to Hollywood and is behind several of the more notorious celebrity feuds such as Eminem vs. Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan vs. Hilary Duff, and "Screech" vs. "Horshack."

Apes O'Malley was held responsible for the massive destruction and put on trial. He was found guilty on all counts, despite his "I just went a little crazy" and "the dog told me to do it" defense, and was sent to the notorious Alcatraz prison, where he became known as "The Apeman of Alcatraz." During his second year of incarceration he made a daring escape attempt escorted by a group of apes in guard uniforms. They were almost to the prison gates when the smell of bananas from the cafeteria drove the faux guards nuts. Apes O'Malley was returned to his cell with an extended sentence, while the apes were rehabilitated and allowed to continue working as guards.

My indirect role in the events at Biff Wilson's house, thankfully, went unnoticed. Since I didn't get blamed for anything, and the apes didn't destroy my house, I pretty much developed a near-sociopathic ambivalence toward the entire incident. "All's well that ends well", as they say. The giant radioactive apes died horribly of horrible natural causes soon after the rampage, and now form The Great Howdyville Ape Landfill. All the other apes on Apes O'Malley's ape farm ran away and are still roaming the countryside, weaving baskets and serving lemonade to terrified campers.

(originally posted at

Saturday, January 1, 2011


Here's a couple of things a lot of people don't know about the classic Bruce Willis action flick DIE HARD. One, it really happened. Two, John McClane, the NYPD cop portrayed by Willis in the film, wasn't by himself during this amazing adventure because I, too, was there. That's right--I have totally been cheated out of my rightful place in cool action-movie history by being left out of that stupid movie. So now, at long last, I have decided to set the record straight and recount the thrilling details of my incredible exploits during the great Nakatomi Tower hostage crisis so that the world will have yet another reason to admire me for how awesome I am.

What happened was, I had gotten out of the elevator on the wrong floor during my search for the secret office of a fly-by-night back-alley bikini waxing technician named Wilbur Cranflanflan. I wasn't really interested in getting a bikini wax, but I'd just lost a bet with a friend of mine who insisted that there were only nine Bradys in "The Brady Bunch" (including Alice), while I was certain that there were at least five or six hundred.

I mean, who knew that they reused the same ones for every episode? You don't reuse the same hypodermic needle when you're giving out flu shots, and it seems only logical to me that the safety requirements for proper sterilization should extend to the individual Bradys as well. But apparently Sherwood Schwartz didn't share my concern, so, long story short, I was obliged to get a bikini wax from this Wilbur Cranflanflan, who, despite his silly name, had been highly recommended to me by my personal trainer, Biff.

As it turned out, I was in the wrong building anyway, but I noticed that there was a party under way when the elevator doors opened and, party animal that I was in my reckless youth, I quickly jumped in and started to mingle. People began staring at me right away, which I attributed to both my stunning good looks and the fact that I wasn't wearing any pants due to my impending bikini wax. "Please try to control yourselves, girls," I said modestly. "There's only one of me to go around." Wary of the growing sexual tension roiling within the female inhabitants of my vicinity, I slipped into an office and came face-to-face with Detective John McClane, who was walking around on the carpet barefoot, making fists with his feet. "Fists with your feet," he muttered with amusement.

I held up my right hand in the traditional Apache greeting. "How, Fists With Your Feet," I said. "My name is porfle, but my Native American name is 'Dances Like Jeff Goldblum.' Are you waiting to get a bikini wax, too?"

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted from the main ballroom, followed by piercing screams! When I finally stopped screaming, McClane (as he preferred to be called, I discovered later) grabbed me by the collar and we ducked into a nearby stairwell. "Terrorists!" he cried. "I have to stop them!"

"And I have to find Wilbur Cranflanflan!" I added breathlessly as we ran upstairs to a floor that was still under construction. McClane paced around nervously, trying to decide what to do next, while I gaped in awe at all the cool power tools that were just laying around waiting for me to play with them. There was even an official orange hardhat for me to wear! I barely noticed when McClane picked up a nearby phone and started trying to contact the police, because I was in the process of hefting a massive circular saw that I'd just flicked on and was sawing my way through several stacks of expensive imported lumber along with various items of brand new office furniture.

"CONSTRUCTION WORKER PORFLE ON THE JOB!" I screamed in giddy delight over the ear-splitting din as the air was filled with billowing clouds of sawdust. Momentarily distracted by McClane's frantic attempts to make himself heard over the racket, I sawed my way right through one of those fancy boardroom tables and neatly bisected the telephone. McClane stood there dumfounded as the severed cord dangled from the receiver he was holding to his ear. But before he could thank me or whatever he was going to say, there came the sound of footsteps quickly approaching the room. It was the terrorists!

McClane dived under a table. "DUCK!" he shouted.

"WHERE?" I cried, glancing around. That's just what we needed in a fix like this, I thought--some stupid duck flying around!

At that moment, a huge, blonde German guy with a machine gun leapt into the doorway, his face twisted with rage. I wheeled around in surprise and let go of the circular saw, which flew across the room and landed right on the guy's foot. He barked in pain and started hopping around on his other foot, unleashing a stream of German cuss words that sounded even dirtier than the American ones, while McClane seized the opportunity to run up behind him and hit him over the head with a large potted plant. The German guy fell back against the wall and slid to the floor, the plant still perched decoratively on his head.

A sudden thought struck me. "Omigosh! What if THAT'S Wilbur Cranflanflan?"

McClane glared at me, trying to catch his breath. "Who the hell's Wilbur Cranflanflan?"

"He's the guy that this whole thing is all about!" I shot back, rolling my eyes. Then, while a puzzled McClane processed this information, I began to formulate a plan. We would crawl around in the air ducts and climb up and down the elevator shafts until we found a way to blow up the whole building, and then everything would be okay. I quickly relayed this plan to McClane, who gaped at me in sheer disbelief. I think my cool plan had totally astounded him!

Suddenly, a cruel but snidely sophisticated voice came from behind us. We spun around in unison to find a tall, dapper gent with a Van Dyke beard backed by a gang of vicious-looking henchmen with machine guns. "So," he said to McClane in an oily European accent, "you must be the 'cowboy' who has been running around trying do you say it...'throw a monkey wrench' into my nefarious scheme."

McClane stood up straight and coolly met the man's gaze with an insouciant smirk. "And you," he said slowly, relishing the moment, "must be Wilbur Cranflanflan."

The man's smug look wilted. "No, I'm Hans Gruber," he said uneasily. "Who the hell is Wilbur Cranflanflan?"

"There," I volunteered, pointing to the unconscious guy with the potted plant sticking out of his head. "That's Wilbur Cranflanflan."

"No, he isn't," Gruber frowned. "That's my henchman, Karl."

"Well," I shrugged, "if it isn't you, and it isn't that guy, then it must be one of these other guys." I indicated the henchmen standing behind him. "Okay, which one of you guys is Wilbur Cranflanflan?"

The henchmen glanced around guiltily at one another for a few moments, then turned to Gruber and shrugged. "We're not sure, boss," one of them admitted.

"What do you mean, 'you're not sure'?"

"Well," he said sheepishly, "we don't know what this Cranflanflan guy looks like, and--"

"Okay, wait," Gruber said, waving them off with an impatient look. "I am becoming tired of this game." He pointed at me and McClane. "Kill them both. Now."

They all raised their machine guns. This was it. I had to think fast.

"FOOD FIGHT!!!" I screamed.

In the momentary confusion that settled over the group, I grabbed what appeared to be a picnic lunch bag out of Gruber's hands and began to throw its contents at them. "Yippie-ki-yay, melon farmers!" I cried. Hans Gruber recoiled, eyes wide with terror, as the bag's contents came flying straight toward him.

"MY DETONATORS!" he shrieked.

The explosion took out the entire floor and blasted every window on all four sides of the building to smithereens. Black smoke churned from the gaping blast holes while shattered glass rained down on the street below. The shock wave could be felt for several blocks.

By some insanely unlikely freak of scientific happenstance, I was totally unharmed by the blast. Some physics professors refer to this rare phenomenon as the "Sub-Atomic Shield of Stupidity", while others blame it on an ancient Mayan curse passed down through the ages by living mummies. As for McClane, the explosion blew him into an air duct, which he had to crawl around in for several hours until he finally fell down an elevator shaft.

Hans Gruber and his henchmen, of course, were declared missing and presumed dead--that is, until they turned up a few years later in the small town of Miller's Crotch, South Dakota, delivering singing telegrams in gorilla suits. They all had amnesia and remembered nothing of their former lives save for the mysterious name "Wilbur Cranflanflan", the mere mention of which sent them screaming hysterically up trees and down manholes.

Anyway, you can see how markedly different Hollywood's version of the events is from what really happened. They added a lot of stuff to make it more exciting, but more importantly, they totally ignored my daring and heroic actions during the crisis. The only explanation that I've been able to come up with is that they simply couldn't find anyone great enough to play me in the movie. One good thing did come out of it, though--after miraculously surviving the explosion, I no longer needed that bikini wax.

(originally posted at