PORFLE VS. YOU

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:  Hmmm...it 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 Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. BILLIONAIRES

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PORFLE IS: "ON HER MAJESTY'S STUPID SERVICE"

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 Andersonvision.com)