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