PORFLE VS. THE BEE GEES

(This was written back when Robin was still with us, so it is dedicated to Robin.)



You know those old-fashioned go-carts with lawnmower motors on them that kids used to ride up and down your street, making such a nerve-wracking racket? Well, the Bee Gees are riding them around inside my house right now.



See, I went to EZ-Mart today to buy some wheat bread. I loved white bread when I was a kid, but now it just tastes all gummy and bland. Wheat bread, on the other hand--now that's tasty stuff. Thank goodness my adult palate can appreciate things like wheat bread, Brussels sprouts, and artichokes.



And if you ever make me a sandwich, leave the crusts on, please. In fact, I even eat the heels on a loaf of bread, and they're ALL crust. On one side, anyway. I wait for the rest of the bread to run out and then make a special, celebratory "heel sandwich." Sometimes it's baloney and cheese, sometimes it's smoked turkey. My goal is to make a heel sandwich out of every kind of sliced lunch meat there is.



Now when I was a kid, of course, things were different. I hated the heels. To me they were something you threw out in the front yard so you could watch birds and squirrels eat them. Or you gave them to your dog if it was the kind of dog that will eat anything. But the thought of actually eating those concentrated slabs of crust myself was unthinkable.



"That's the best part," Mom and Dad would always say, but they always said stuff like that. Come to think of it, they always said the worst part of anything was the best part. If you told them that you loved camping out in the woods except for when grizzly bears attacked, ripped you to pieces, and then ate you alive, they would've said, "That's the best part."



Sorry for rambling. I'm just trying to think of anything else besides the skull-splitting din of go-cart motors attacking my eardrums as the Bee Gees continue to tear through my house like wild animals.



What I meant to say while ago when I mentioned going to EZ-Mart was that I neglected to lock the front door when I left. So when I got back home I discovered that the surviving Bee Gees--Robin and Barry Gibb, as you probably well know (Maurice having passed away in 2003)--had just let themselves in like they owned the place.



At least they had the decency to open the door instead of just breaking it down with their go-carts. But that's small compensation for the outrage of having them rip-roaring their way into my house and using it as some kind of insane go-cart speedway. My carpet has tire tracks all over it now, especially where they've skidded out around the corners, and my cat is terrified. It'll be at least a week now before she comes out from behind the refrigerator.



"Why MY house?" I keep screaming as they zoom by, but they just ignore me. It looks and sounds as though they're having the time of their lives. I'd think that guys with their kind of money could find other ways to have fun, or at least find somewhere else to do it. I don't know if they chose my house for a particular reason or not.



It's probably just random--but then again, it wasn't that long ago that I went outside to find Phil Collins running around my house in his underwear, screaming "ZOOOOOM!!! I'M A ROCKETSHIP!!!" until he collapesed from exhaustion and was carried away by two guys in a van with the words "Phil Collins Rocketship Retrieval Service" printed on the sides. But at least he wasn't on some kind of motorized vehicle, and he stayed outside, so Phil Collins wasn't anywhere near the nuisance that these Bee Gees are.



Sheesh, how old are these guys now? They should be doing dignified stuff at their age. Don't they have a formal dinner party or sophisticated club to go to like other celebrities? Why are they racing around my livingroom and kitchen area and up and down my hallway on go-carts, laughing their heads off and screaming like banshees?



Robin just crashed into my dinette set--it's kindling. Looks like I'll be eating all my meals on a TV tray from now on. "Smashing!" he exclaimed as he zoomed out of the kitchen--ha ha, very funny, Robin. Meanwhile, Barry just did a two-wheeler into the bathroom, and there's a racket coming out of there that I shudder to think about.



Oh, here he comes again--now he's wearing my best bath towels, one as a Superman cape, another as a turban, screaming "I'm Swami Man!", and his go-cart is decorated with toilet-paper streamers. It's the expensive kind, too...double-ply. And he's unrolling two mega-rolls of it as he goes, trailing them all over the house.



I'd call the police, but what would I tell them? "Help, the Bee Gees are riding go-carts in my house."



Well, while my attention was diverted by Barry, I see that Robin Gibb just hopped off his go-cart and used my coffee table and an overturned recliner to form a makeshift ramp, and it's pointed right at the front livingroom window. Apparently, the Bee Gees are planning to top off their evening's frivolity with a thrilling stunt.



And here they go--Robin, evidently the most reckless and thrill-hungry of the two, is in the lead with Barry crowding his rear bumper, and they're thundering up my hallway at full speed, gaining incredible momentum as they bear down inexorably upon the ramp, and now Robin charges up the 45-degree angled surface with mindless abandon and plunges through the window with a blood-curdling crash amidst a shower of broken glass.



Barry flies through the air right behind him and they both land on my front lawn at full speed and sail off into the night, singing "Nights On Broadway." I used to sorta like that song, but now I'll never be able to listen to it again without thinking of this night, and how the people singing it are totally insane whackos.



I just went into the kitchen to make a sandwich and found out that the Bee Gees raided my refrigerator, too. After scarfing down all my baloney and cheese, they ate all my Brussels sprouts and artichokes as well. And the wheat-bread heels I was saving for tonight? Gone.



Thank you, Barry and Maurice Gibb, for not only totally wrecking my house with your go-carts, but also using the last of my baloney and cheese and wheat-bread heels to make heel sandwiches to fuel your irrational, terrorizing behavior. If it was your intention to make me dislike you as much as Space Ghost does, then mission accomplished, Bee Gees...mission accomplished.

PORFLE VS. QUENTIN TARANTINO

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



He has never cast me in any of his movies.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

PORFLE PRESENTS: "MR. CLAY'S LABORATORY: THE DAY I MET ANDREW 'DICE' CLAY"

One day I was out for a walk, and I got really thirsty. So I went up to a house to ask for a drink. The mailbox said "Andrew 'Dice' Clay" on it, so when a man answered the door I asked, "May I have a drink from your water hose, Mr. Clay?"



He was standing there in a bathrobe and flip-flops, and he had a really big, black, oily hairdo. There was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he was holding a floor lamp. "Knock yourself out, meatball," he replied, so I said "Thanks!" and ran over to the water faucet and turned it on.



As I was getting a drink out of the hose, he came outside and stood there looking at me. Between gulps of water I asked him, "Why are you carrying that big lamp around, Mr. Clay?" He said, "It's broke, and I'm tryin' ta fix it, idiot. But maybe I should just shove da whole f***king thing up your a**hole instead." Then he laughed, and it sounded kind of like "TUH, huh-huh."



(P.S. You may have noticed that I've had to censor some of the language! Holy smoke, did this guy like to use cuss words!)



Well, I didn't know what to say to that. He sounded mean and he looked kind of like a bad guy from "77 Sunset Strip" or something, so I turned off the water faucet and said "Well, thanks, Mr. Clay" and started to leave. But he said, "Wait a minute. I want you should see something." I didn't want to, but I followed him inside anyway. He led me down into the basement and held out his hand like he was really proud of what was in there. I looked around, and there were a bunch of naked guys along the walls in these big glass tubes, who looked like they were asleep. When I took a closer look, I found out that all of the people looked exactly like Mr. Clay.



"Dese are my clones," he said in a really proud voice. "When da time is right, I'm gonna unleash dem all on the world and take ovah. TUH, huh-huh." When he said that, I looked around the room again and realized that it was a laboratory, just like in the Frankenstein movies. And it was at that moment that I also realized that Mr. Clay wasn't just some normal guy, but was really like a mad scientist or something!



"Right now," he said, pacing around me, "you're probably thinking about notifying the FBI, and tellin' dem about my evil scheme for world domination. Well, you better not, because if you do--" Then he aimed the floor lamp at a potted plant that was in the corner and pressed the "on" switch. A crackling beam of light blazed from its tip and incinerated the potted plant instantly. It wasn't really a floor lamp at all--it was a disintegrator ray gun! It only looked like a floor lamp to fool people!



He started to point the ray gun at me, and I got really scared. So I kicked it real hard, and the "on" switch must've gotten jammed because the disintegrator beam went haywire! Mr. Clay tried to hold the ray gun still but things were either incinerating or blowing up all over the room. One really big machine with flashing lights on it blew up, and Mr. Clay screamed, "No! Not da control panel! Da clones haven't been programmed yet--" Suddenly the doors on all the big glass tubes sprang open, and the clones starting lurching out of them with blank looks on their faces.



"Now look what ya done, ya f***ing mook!" he said. One of the clones muttered, "Ya f***ing mook", and then they all starting saying it. They began to lurch toward us with their arms outstretched, saying "Ya f***ing mook", and Mr. Clay shouted, "Let's get outta here! Dey're gonna kill us!" Well, he didn't have to tell me twice! We ran up the stairs as fast as we could and out the front door. I looked around, and the clones were lurching out the front door, too, and out into the street. There must've been about a hundred of them. And somewhere between the basement and the front door they must've found some cigarettes, because they all had lit cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.



Me and Mr. Clay ran and ran, and some of the clones came after us, while the others started lurching after everyone else who was walking by or out mowing their lawns and stuff. Up till then, it had been a mostly normal day in the neighborhood, so the people were pretty horrified to see a bunch of naked Andrew "Dice" Clays coming after them saying "Ya f***king mook, ya f***ing mook." Old lady Wilson was just passing by in a housecoat and fuzzy slippers, walking her dog, when one of them caught up to her. She screamed, but it seemed more interested in the dog. In fact, it took the leash away from her and started walking the dog itself. The dog, a French poodle named Milkshake, went nuts to find that instead of Old Lady Wilson, it was suddenly being walked by a big naked guy who was lurching after it like Frankenstein. But the clone pressed inexorably onward down the street as Milkshake yapped and leapt frantically at the end of his leash.



Another clone came up behind Mr. Shapiro, the retired bank president who lived across the street and enjoyed tinkering in the yard on weekends, and grabbed his lawnmower away from him. It started mowing the lawn as he looked on, aghast. But instead of properly mowing it in a back and forth pattern, it simply went in a straight line onto the next lawn, and the next, until it had mowed a path all the way down the street and around the corner. Mr. Shapiro ran after it to try and get his lawnmower back.



"Hey, Mr. Clay," I said as we were running along. "I don't think they want to kill people at all! I think they just want to do what the people are doing." But when I looked over, Mr. Clay wasn't there. I turned around and saw that he had run out of breath several yards back, and had been overtaken by four of the clones. But instead of killing him, they hoisted him up on their shoulders and started carrying him around. I could see a broad smile cross his face, as though he thought the clones were honoring him as their rightful master, and he basked in their adoration. "TUH, huh-huh," I could hear him say, right before the clones dumped him into the back of a cement mixer that was parked by the curb and turned it on. The big round container began to twirl and churn the thousands of pounds of cement inside it as Mr. Clay's screams echoed from within, and one of the clones climbed into the truck and drove it away.



I realized that I had run all the way out of the neighborhood and into a small business district, and the rest of the clones that had come after us were lurching into laundrymats, bowling alleys, and strip malls. I could hear all sorts of terrified screams coming from inside as the clones started taking things away from people and doing what they were doing. Bowling balls crashed through plate glass windows. Large washing machine motors groaned horribly from the weight of a number of clones that had set them on "spin" and climbed inside. Three more clones suddenly burst through the front door of a sporting goods store driving golf carts, still chanting "Ya f***ing mook" and chasing people around. The rest of them lurched into various parking lots, got into different vehicles, and drove away. It looked like most of them were headed downtown.



That night, I turned on the evening news to see if there would be a story about the Andrew "Dice" Clay clones that were running around all over town. But instead of the regular anchorman, one of the clones was sitting at the "NewsCenter" anchor desk with some papers in its hand, looking into the camera and saying "Ya f***ing mook, ya f***ing mook."



I found out later that Mr. Clay's house had exploded, burned down, and then exploded again, and that he had finally been found in the back of the cement truck when it eventually ran out of gas somewhere outside of Cincinatti. There was a picture of him in the paper, encased in a large chunk of cement with just his head sticking out as a bunch of guys with hammers and chisels were trying to get him out. The headline read, "Once-Famous Comedian Enjoys Spotlight Again", but it didn't look to me like he was enjoying it much, and I never did see any spotlight unless they were talking about that ray-gun lamp. Anyway, next time I go for a walk, I'm going to take one of those plastic squirt bottles of water with me for when I get thirsty, because you never know when some kind of goofy stuff like this might happen again.  

PORFLE PRESENTS: EVERY EPISODE OF THE ORIGINAL "STAR TREK" IN ONE SCENE

CAPTAIN'S LOG, STARDATE 29.43.01:

While transporting much-needed medical supplies to planet Regula IV, which is being ravaged by a deadly plague, I've ordered the Enterprise into an uncharted sector of the galaxy in order to save time.



McCOY: "Well, Jim, the rest of the crew have had their quarterly physicals. Now are you going to come quietly, or do I have to have a security team drag you to sickbay?"



KIRK: "Not now, Bones. I...feel...we may be in danger."



SPOCK: "'Feel', Captain? Logically, your human emotions are hardly a reliable indicator of--"



CHEKOV: "Kepten, an alien wessel is approaching!"



KIRK: "On screen. Uhura, open a channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



KIRK: "Uhura, open another channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



SPOCK: "No response."



SULU: "All scans negative."



KIRK: "Hmmm...to be or not to be. That is the question."



SPOCK: (wry half-smile) "Shakespeare, Captain?"



KIRK: "Tactics, Mr. Spock. Do we fire phasers now...or wait. For. A. Response."



McCOY: "Blast it, Jim! I'm a doctor, not a waiter!"



SPOCK: "Really, Doctor. Your emotions will be your undoing."



McCOY: "Why, you green-blooded, pointy-eared --"



KIRK: "Gentlemen. You can argue later. If. There. Is. A. 'Later.' Sulu, lock phasers on target and stand by."



SULU: "Phasers locked."



YEOMAN RAND: "Captain, I have your afternoon dietary supplement--"



KIRK: "Not now, yeoman! Meet me in my quarters at 0500 hours. Uhura, open a channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



BEAUTIFUL ALIEN AMBASSADOR: "I love you, Kee-Urk!"



KIRK: "Not now, Empress Adora! Meet me in my quarters at 0600--"



SPOCK: "Sir, we are being held in a tractor beam."



SULU: "Hull pressure readings at 80 percent...90 percent...off the dial."



CHEKOV: "AAAAAAH!!! AAAAAAAAAAH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"



KIRK: "Chekov! What's the matter?"



CHEKOV: "I beet my wittle tonk, Kepten!"



KIRK: "Sickbay, send a medical team to the bridge! Sulu, get us out of here!"



SULU: "Aye, Captain!"



KIRK: "No, I 'Captain.' You 'Sulu.'"



UHURA: "Captain, I'm...frightened."



SPOCK: "We can't break free. Hull temperature approaching critical levels. Warp engines super-heating."



KIRK: "Scotty! You have thirty seconds to fix those engines or we're all dead."



SCOTTY: [on intercom] "Ach, me poor bear'ns! We canna take mooch moor o' this poundin', Captoon! Me bonny ship'll explood lack a pub-crawlin' bogus frat wi' a snootful o' green --"



UHURA: "We're being hailed, Captain."



KIRK: "Open a channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



KIRK: "Enterprise to alien vessel. Your actions are harmful to us. If you don't --"



ALIEN: "SILENCE! YOU HAVE ENCROACHED UPON OUR DOMAIN! YOUR SHIP WILL NOW BE CAPTURED AND YOUR CREW ENSLAVED!"



KIRK: "Computer...initiate self-destruct sequence."



SPOCK: "Oh, fu**."



[commercial break]

PORFLE'S FUTURE MOVIE CAREER

If I ever become a famous movie star, I'm going to change my name to something cool, like "Breen Crudflop." So if you ever see a movie sometime in the future with Breen Crudflop in it, that'll be me. Unless, of course, someone steals my cool movie star name before I get a chance to use it, in which case you'll only be seeing a Breen Crudflop impersonator. So if you ever see someone like Morgan Freeman or Robert DeNiro in a movie, but they're billed as "Breen Crudflop", it means they have stolen my cool movie star name.



If I ever become a famous pornstar, then I will change my name to something mildly suggestive yet tasteful, such as Pecker McGoo or Weenis von Testicles. You have to be really careful in choosing a pornstar name because if you eventually cross over into mainstream films, you don't want your pornstar name to be an embarrassment. Traci Lords managed this because her name sounds okay as a regular movie star name. But more obvious porn names such as Busty Funbags, Lotta Gash, Wang Chung, Peter O'Toole, or even Horatio Goatblower might prove awkward if you're auditioning for a part in the next Merchant Ivory production.



That's why I would go with something appropriate enough for porn yet neutral enough to fit right into the mainstream. I can see it now: "Pecker McGoo IS James Bond 007." Or perhaps: "Merchant Ivory presents a Kenneth Branaugh film, LAST SUNSET AT HILLCREST MANOR, starring Anthony Hopkins, Helen Mirren, and introducing Weenis von Testicles as 'Lord Mountbatten.'" Whew--now that's practically dripping all over the place with class. Eat your heart out, Hugh Grant!



You may be saying to yourself: "Huh?" But believe me, the right name is hugely important to us future movie legends. That's why I have several other backup names just in case somebody like Brad Pitt or Jude Law steals "Breen Crudflop" out from under me. Names that sound cool and sexy, yet distinguished, and befitting my lofty status as a great actor. Names like:



Smelford C. Melnflebber

Herschel Suzuki

Fendick Swern

Sullivan Fitzchickens

Dick Sargent

F. Murray Frankenstein

Norcroft "Slappy" Butts

Beaufort Shmeck

Vincent M. Roosternuts



As you can see, any one of these names adorning a marquee would have frantic ticket buyers stampeding into movie theaters faster than a herd of cheese-crazed bagel thieves. Of course, my leading lady would have to have an equally impressive movie star name, so I would insist that she change it before being allowed to share billing with me. In anticipation of this, I have taken the liberty of creating beautiful new movie star names for some current actresses for when they're lucky enough to co-star with me in one of my upcoming movies. For example:



Winona Ryder's horrible-sounding name will be changed to "Arnetta Wilfrink."



The bland "Angelina Jolie" will blossom into the exotic "Schmelda von Goines."



Dame Judi Dench's new, even more distinguished name will be "Dame Alfredine Squirtypants."



Meryl Streep will enjoy a surefire career boost as "Fritzi Ogreton."



The downright offensive-sounding "Hilary Duff" will upgrade to the sassy "Nutragena Fugnertz."



Perennial favorite Barbra Streisand will bask in renewed glory as "Rushetta McLimbaugh."



Jennifer Lopez will charm audiences all over again with the name "Jubilina Porkstuffer", which can be shortened to the hiphop street name "J-Pork", or "Porky From the Block."



And Halle Berry's star will shine even brighter than ever when she becomes "Lady Ms. Maxine Alligator-Intestines."



I know all of this wonderfulness seems too much to hope for, but even now I'm starting to make my dreams come true by taking a mail-order correspondence course from The Vin Diesel Academy of Fine Acting and Indoor Plumbing. Just last week I sent in my final exam video, in which I enacted Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights" in its entirety while installing a beige, low-rise, one-piece porcelain power toilet with an elongated base and dual flush capacity (known as "The Turdinator"), and Vin himself awarded me with a solid B-minus and a special "Buttcrack of the Month" notarized certificate. He also said that, with my skills, I should soon be "flush" with offers! I'm assuming he meant, like, from Hollywood!

PORFLE VS. LOS FRIJOLES

As much as I love Mexican food, I will never eat at Los Frijoles again. "Los frijoles", for those of you who aren't bilingual like me, means "the beans" in Spanish. Well, that place certainly is "the beans"! Here's what happened...




My brother came by the other day and took me out to eat, which is great because I love to eat out for free. We both love Mexican food--or "Tex-Mex", to be more specific--so we decided to try the new place, Los Frijoles, that just opened up in the building that used to be Pizza Inn before it went out of business. Why did Pizza Inn go out of business? Beats the hell out of me. I mean it's pizza, for Pete's sake.



Anyway, it was all nice and festive-looking inside, but something seemed off. I don't know what it was. Just a kind of vague feeling. We were shown to a table by a Mexican guy named Vince. He was a heavy-set individual with dark, curly hair and a scar down his left cheek. "You want I should bring youse summa doze, ehh, chips and crap?" he asked in a thick voice.



"Yes, please," I answered politely. Vince grunted in acknowledgement, and then did something I found quite unexpected. Instead of walking away, he flew upward like a big helium balloon and disappeared through a rectangular aperture in the ceiling. It slid closed as soon as his feet had cleared it.



I looked at my brother to see if he'd noticed this, but he was busy scanning the menu. I shrugged and cautiously attributed it to my excitement over being in a new restaurant. Before I could say anything, Vince suddenly reappeared at my side with a tray containing a basket of crispy tortilla chips and a bowl of hot sauce.



"You want I should put deez in your stomach for you?" he asked. I didn't know what he was talking about, so I merely mumbled something neutral. Vince took this as a "yes" and then a blank look came over his face. The chips and hot sauce slowly disappeared from their containers. At the same time, I could feel something in my stomach, as though I'd just eaten. When the chips and hot sauce were gone, Vince flew upward like a helium balloon again and disappeared through the ceiling. This time, the action was accompanied by the sound of a slide whistle.



I looked at my brother to see if he'd noticed any of this, and to my surprise he was still gazing at the menu. "Is your menu a magic TV set?" he said at last. "A magic TV set with exactly what you want to see more than anything in the whole world on it? Mine is." He flipped it around excitedly so that I could see, too. I leaned forward and squinted. It was just a menu with food and beverage selections printed on it.



"I don't see any--"



"I want to be in it," he said wistfully, returning his rapt attention to the menu.



Vince popped in from out of nowhere again, startling me. He was holding a tray heaped with two deluxe Mexican dinners, side dishes, and drinks. "Here is your food," he announced.



"But, we didn't order--"



"You want I should put dis in your stomach for you?" Vince asked in a dull monotone. The blank look began to settle over his face again.



"No!" I said hastily. "I want to eat my food, not just have it magically appear in my stomach!"



With a slow nod, Vince put what appeared to be a Civil War-era cavalry bugle to his lips and blew a resoundingly off-key note that made me grit my teeth. Suddenly, the food all turned into squirrels, chipmunks, and beavers. They hopped down off the tray and onto the table, skittering around excitedly before taking their proper places and turning into plates of food and glasses of drinks again. One of the beavers ran around the table for a few extra moments, stopped, sang the "Los Frijoles" radio jingle, and turned into a complimentary platter of beef nachos.



"Let's get out of here," I said urgently to my brother.



"No," he said, his eyes fixed on the menu. "I want to stay here forever...and ever...and ever."



"What about you?" Vince asked me in his usual monotone. "Do you want to stay here forever and ever and ever?"



"I certainly don't," I said resolutely. "I want to leave right now and never, ever come back."



With this, Vince flew upward through the ceiling again--for the last time, as it turned out. I never saw him again. The food and drinks turned back into squirrels, chipmunks, and beavers, and ran away. The chips and hot sauce that were in my stomach disappeared and I was hungry again. I looked over at my brother and he was regarding his menu with a disappointed look.



"Hey, my menu isn't a magic TV set anymore. Did we eat?"



"Yes, it was very good," I lied. "Let's go."



Needless to say, I didn't leave a tip. Nor did I wait for a bill, since the food had all turned into small forest animals and run away. As I passed the front counter, I saw a paunchy, middle-aged guy whom I assumed to be the manager standing next to it.



"What the heck's the deal with that Vince guy?" I asked.



The manager regarded me with shock, his eyes wide as saucers. "Vince?" he said incredulously, his voice quavering with fear. "VINCE? Why, the last time someone named VINCE worked here was...A HUNDRED YEARS AGO!!!"



"This place hasn't been here a hundred years," I said.



"Yeah well, it sounds scary and stuff," he shrugged. "Actually, Vince is my wife's nephew. If I don't let him work here, she withholds her sexual favors from me."



I kicked him in the balls. "Withhold that, asshole," I said, grabbing not one but two free after-dinner mints on my way out.

PORFLE VS. HAWAIIAN PIZZA

I have never eaten a Hawaiian pizza, but I hate them anyway. The very thought of a pizza with pineapple chunks on it makes me want to barf all over Arianna Huffington's head just so I can hear her scream "VAT FOR YOU DOO DAT!!! VAT VAT VAAAAT!!!" and "FOR VHY ISS YOU TROW OP ONTO MEIN HEAD!!! VAAAAA!!!" Every time I hear Arianna Huffington talk, I keep expecting Eb to saunter in and ask "What's for supper, Mrs. Douglas?" Eb would probably like Hawaiian pizza, too, or at least Hawaiian hotscakes, but I'm not so sure he'd still like it if I barfed one all over his head.




A surefire indication of how horrible Hawaiian pizza is would be to examine some of the historical figures and other famous idiots who have loved Hawaiian pizza. For example, Adolf Hitler loved Hawaiian pizzas so much that he once said, "Bring me a Hawaiian pizza right now, or I will invade Poland." Nobody could come up with a Hawaiian pizza at that particular moment, so sure enough, he invaded Poland. And in Poland, it is now illegal to eat Hawaiian pizza or to even like Hawaiian pizza, which is why there are so many Polish immigrants in Hawaii. Of course, there are other reasons why they go there, but Hawaiian pizza is always number one on the list whether they or the United States government will admit it.



Hawaiian pizza is a catastrophic culture clash on a platter. Pizza is an inherently Italian food item, and you just don't usually think of Italy and Hawaii at the same time unless there's something contagious going around. Try to imagine Vito and Sonny Corleone walking around on Waikiki Beach in pinstripe suit jackets and swim trunks and snorkles. Vito would stroke his chin with the back of his hand and croak, "Ehh, Santino...go and get me another chi-chi drink and some of that pizza with the pineapple chunks on it" and Sonny would shout "HEY POP! I sure do love that f**king Hawaiian pizza!" and Vito would grab him by the lapels and growl "Never let anyone outside the family know what you're thinking again!"



Virgil Solozzo would overhear this, of course, and think, "Hmm...Sonny's hot for my Hawaiian pizza franchise deal" and try to force the Corleones to back his scheme to open up a chain of Hula Huts in New York, New Jersey, and, for some reason, Utah. And then Fredo would waddle up in swim fins, a giant snorkle, and a Speedo, and yelp "Hey, Pa! Hey, Sonny! You don't even hafta go to the JOHN around here! You can just PEE IN THE OCEAN!" Vito, Sonny, and Fredo would all throw their heads back and laugh, there would be a freeze frame, and the closing credits would roll.



I know what you're saying right now: "But, Porfy-Poo...Hawaiian pizza gives me a tingly and not-altogether-unpleasant sensation in my BUTT!" Well, I can't argue with that. What I can do, though, is to quote a famous scientist who has dedicated his entire life to diligently investigating this phenomenon: "Oh, my god! I've wasted my entire life! I could've been doing something important...what the hell happened! Hawaiian pizza? WTF?" I hope you can understand my point a bit more clearly now.



Hawaiian pizza is bad for you, bad for me, bad for our country at this time. But most of all, it's bad for the children. "I believe the children are our future" Whitney Houston once informed us in song. Which is a load of crap, because by the time the future gets here, the children will all be grown-ups. Hey, if the children are so smart, let's put them in charge of the government for awhile and see how well they handle things.



Oh boy, it's National Lollipop Day! Wow, the stock market just crashed! Hey, the entire rest of the world just attacked us and took over while the three branches of our government were out playing with kitty cats! Yes, the children are stupid. I say we feed them all the Hawaiian pizza they want until they explode.



If, after everything I've just said, you still insist on liking Hawaiian pizza, then here's my special personal recipe for homestyle Hawaiian pizza that you can make yourself.



1. Make some pizza dough

2. Shove it up your a**

3. Get some pineapples

4. Shove them up your a**

5. Dance around naked in your front yard until you get arrested

6. Enjoy!

PORFLE PRESENTS: "O.J., THE WOLF MAN, AND LARRY KING"

Once, while Larry King was flyin' around

With his jet-propelled rocket pack, high o'er the ground

He could see the Wolf Man from his aerial position

Sneaking up behind some guys who were fishin'.



Larry King's Spidey-sense was activated

Battling monsters kept him motivated

Quick as a flash, he swooped onto the scene

Just as the Wolf Man ate Charlie Sheen.



In the next split second, Larry King did mourn

To avenge Charlie Sheen, his next mission was born

As the Wolf Man approached the remaining victim

Rescuing him was Larry's new dictum.



From the corner of his eye, Larry King started glimpsin'

The other guy's face--it was O.J. Simpson

It seems he'd grown tired of football and golfin'

And was currently trying to reel in a dolphin.



Suddenly, almost, not quite but nearly

Larry began to see it all clearly

O.J. and Wolf Man together had planned

To eliminate Charlie Sheen from our land.



And now, as the Wolf Man devoured the corpus

And O.J. continued to fish for a porpoise

From out of the sky, like a vulture on wing

Came the force for revenge known as Larry King.



The Wolf Man attacked, but Larry was faster

A skip to the left averted disaster

Then O.J. let loose with a swing of his pole

Which Larry King dodged with a shoulder roll.



Again came the Wolf Man, this time with a leap

As O.J. retreated and hopped in his Jeep

But Larry, quick-witted, reached into his crotch

And pulled out a silver-trimmed flask full of scotch.



The Wolf Man got drunk as he gulped it all down

While O.J. peeled out--he was headed for town

So Larry bent over and lit a huge fart

The resulting explosion was right off the chart.



The engine and paint job were fried in the fire

As the terrible heat quickly melted each tire

And O.J.'s clothing, of course, was consumed

So naked he fled, to avoid being doomed.



He jumped in the water, and splashed like a guppy

While the Wolf Man, sloshed, danced around like a puppy

And Larry stood back with a satisfied smile

For all was now well--well, at least for awhile.



Then they all fished for dolphins, till each of them scored

They saddled them up, to avoid getting bored

And they rode them away 'neath the dawn's early bling

O.J., the Wolf Man, and Larry King.

PORFLE VS. BABIES

Ever notice how stupid babies are? Ask them a question, any question, no matter how easy, and they just answer "Gah-gaaah" or something. Give them an IQ test, and they'll start chewing on it. I mean, they don't know anything.




My cat is smarter than babies. I ask my cat, "You wanna eat?" and she goes "Meow!" Ask a baby if it wants to eat, and chances are it'll just drool at you or start crying. Heck, tell a baby it just won a million dollars and it starts crying. Give a baby the entire set of high-def, CGI-enhanced original "Star Trek" episodes on Blu-Ray, totally free of charge, and the only thanks you'll get is "WAAAA-HA-HAAAAA!!!"



What good are they? Just say "pass me the salt" at the dinner table, or something equally simple, and they look at you like you were a warthog sitting on a bidet. Or make a simple request like "pardon me, but would you mind putting the cat out?" and you might as well be a giant dog dick in a Howdy Doody costume for all they care.



Oh sure, they don't know how to walk yet--they'll learn one of these days, just as soon as they get around to it. Right. I don't remember all the way back to when I was a baby, but in the earliest memories that I do have, I was walking around. So I don't buy this "I don't know how to walk yet" crap.



And then there's the whole "going to the bathroom in your pants" thing. What's that all about? I mean, the biggest, dumbest doofus you know doesn't stand there pounding out a log in his shorts while waiting for the bus. Even Gomer Pyle knew enough not to just let fly with a big geyser of wee-wee while Sergeant Carter was screaming at him. But babies? They never even heard of such quaint societal restraints. As long as someone dutifully keeps cleaning up after them, it's blast-off time.



Babies are like trees--they just aren't any use until they get bigger. What good is a one-foot-tall tree? "Great shade, huh?" your neighbor might proudly remark about his new tree. "No, Jim," you'd be forced to truthfully inform him, "your stupid one-foot-tall tree does not provide any shade at all, you incredible moron." Then you might suggest that he try to climb it, or pick some apples or pecans off of it. See what he does then. If he's still out there by nightfall trying to do something useful with his stupid one-foot tree, call the police.



But that's exactly how people are about their babies. They'll invite you over to their house just to show you their baby, and they'll say something like "Great baby, huh?" The only honest answer would be, "Great? What the hell's it good for, Buttwheat?" or "Forget the freakin' baby--when did you get this cool exer-cycle?" But of course, we're not allowed to say truthful things like that. We're just supposed to wave at the baby and say, "Gootchy-goo!" while girning like maniacs.



Babies don't even make good doorstops, because they keep crawling away. If crawling were a useful activity, babies would be invaluable. But the last time "crawling" was a profitable occupation or an Olympic event or something like that was waaay, waaay back in, like, never. And if you try to train a baby to walk on two legs, forget it. Just by observing your attempts from across the room, your dog will be walking around the house on its hind legs like a champ while the baby's still scuttling about under the coffee table and banging its head on the legs. It's as though the word "duh" was invented just for them.



Of course, baby-defenders will ultimately pull the "cuteness" card on you. "Babies are CUTE!" they'll shriek, tearfully aghast at your monstrousness. Well, that's a matter of opinion. When it comes to nude centerfolds, for example, even Burt Reynolds was cuter than some dumb baby would be. Sorry, but "cute" and "babies" just don't go together. Unless you're the baby's sweet old granny, and you're already halfway off your rocker anyway.



Of course, if you have a baby yourself, then please disregard everything I just said. Your baby is cute. Really, really cute. It looks just like you. Gootchy-goo!

PORFLE'S KIDS

Here's my idea for a sitcom that I'm currently pitching to all the major networks. It's called "Porfle's Kids" and has a really cute and socially-relevant premise that I think will appeal to both kids and adults.




Basically, it's about a lovable but irresponsible bachelor named Porfle who suddenly finds himself raising three adorable, irrascible orphan boys--one white, one black, and one "other" (I haven't decided yet between American Indian or Amish). I, myself, will be portraying the black kid. Some have suggested that I should play Porfle, but I just don't think I'm right for the role. Here, in fact, are my proposed casting choices...



PORFLE: Bea Arthur

SPANKY (white kid): Yaphet Kotto

D.J. JAMMY JAMZ (black kid): me

OTHER: either Ben Kingsley or Hulk Hogan

MAILMAN: Paul McCartney

BIFF, THE FUNNY NEIGHBOR: Russell Crowe



Sounds too good to be true, right? But if you want to impress the network executives, you have to have more than just a killer premise and an incredible cast--you must also come up with a sample script in order to convey a reasonable idea of how funny and heartwarming the show will be. So here's a scene from my "pilot" script for the show, which I use to impress the network executives during my presentation. And before long--fingers crossed--you'll be seeing it on your very own television set!



INTERIOR: KITCHEN: DAY



PORFLE, in a frilly apron and chef's hat, is cheerily cooking breakfast while the kids, SPANKY, D.J. JAMMY JAMZ, and OTHER are sitting around the table.



SPANKY: Hey Dad, when do we eat?



PORFLE: I thought I told you to shut up.



D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: Yo, Dad, there are rabid wolverines in my bedroom.



PORFLE: (incredulous) So?



D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: Well, I was thinking maybe you could call Animal Control, and--



PORFLE: Egg Catch!!!



The boys spring to their feet and hold their plates up as Porfle flings fried eggs at them with a spatula. Each of them catches an egg and sits down to eat. The last two eggs fly over their heads just as BIFF, THE FUNNY NEIGHBOR appears at the back door. The eggs strike him in the eyes and dangle there like goggles.



PORFLE: Ha, ha! Looks like somebody has egg on his face! Right, kids?



OTHER: That's not funny, Dad. You could've injured--



PORFLE: Shut up. What in tarnation do you want, Biff?



BIFF: (wiping off the eggs) Somebody burned my house down last night. The police say it's arson. You boys wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?



The boys all look at PORFLE.



PORFLE: (innocently) Hey, I was indexing my circus porn collection all night.



SPANKY: But, Dad--I saw you running around the backyard with your pants on fire.



PORFLE: It's called "friction", son. If you'd bothered to become a Boy Scout, you'd have learned all about stuff like that.



D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: It don't sound like you was rubbin' two sticks together to me!



PORFLE: Shut up. Biff, get the hell out of my house before I sic the rabid wolverines on you.



BIFF: You haven't heard the last of this, you...you bastard!



PORFLE: Cover your ears, kids! He's using cuss words!



BIFF: Damn you, Porfle! Damn you to hell!



PORFLE: Aaargh! Get 'im, kids!



The boys fly out of their chairs like wild animals and attack BIFF, dragging him kicking and screaming through the basement door and down the stairs. The sounds of power tools and screams can be heard.



PORFLE: (resumes cooking) Well, that'll keep the little bastards busy for a while.



The front doorbell rings. PORFLE answers the door and finds the MAILMAN standing there.



MAILMAN: Your latest shipment of circus porn has arrived, sir.



PORFLE: (grabs mailman's lapels) EGAD! Swiggity suh-WEEET! WOOF! WOOF! Ow-WOOOOOO!!!



The MAILMAN flees in terror. PORFLE retires to the rumpus room, dragging the huge package behind him as jaunty circus music fills the air and we FADE OUT.

PORFLE MEETS ARNOLD VOSLOO

Remember Arnold Vosloo, the guy who played "Im-Ho-Tep" in those recent "Mummy" movies? If you do, then you can probably understand how easy it is to become totally, irrevocably obsessed with him to the point of sheer, gibbering insanity.




First of all, there's that name--something about it seems to compel the mind to repeat it over and over, relentlessly, during every waking hour and most of the sleeping ones, too. I, myself, have gone days on end thinking nothing but the name "Arnold Vosloo." People ask, "How's it going?" and I respond, "Arnold Vosloo." Or they say, "Isn't that your car that's on fire over there?" and, without even looking, I intone "Arnold Vosloo." It's almost as though I can't get that name out of my mind.



Then, of course, there's that face, that Arnold Vosloo face. He looks kind of like a cross between Paul McCartney and, oh, I don't know--Frankenstein. If Arnold Vosloo robbed a bank and you were a witness, you wouldn't have any trouble identifying him. "It was Arnold Vosloo," you'd tell the police, and they'd look at you funny and ask, "You mean the guy who played 'Im-Ho-Tep' in those recent 'Mummy' movies?" and you'd say, "Well, that's one way of referring to him" and they'd ask the obvious follow-up question: "What's another way?" and you'd answer, "Well, he's also the guy who looks like a cross between Paul McCartney and Frankenstein" and they'd call in a sketch artist. Preferably one who knew what Arnold Vosloo, Paul McCartney, and Frankenstein looked like.



Anyway, my main reason for mentioning Arnold Vosloo is to tell you about the time I actually ran into him one day at EZ Mart. I walked in to get some Honey Buns and there he was, standing at the check-out counter paying for some coffee and a used DVD of MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING. Bells and whistles sounded in my brain like a thousand fire alarms, and my Terminator-Vision processed the visual information I was receiving and began flashing the words "CONFIRM POS IDENT: ARNOLD VOSLOO" in my eyeballs.



I threw up my hands and screamed, destroying a display of "Brady Bunch" cigarette lighters with my left hand and knocking a little old lady backward into the ATM machine with my right. Arnold was so startled that he splashed the large container of scalding hot coffee that he was paying for down his pants. "YAAAAAA!!!" he shrieked, dancing around. He looked just like Im-Ho-Tep reacting in righteous anger at some infidel who had encroached upon his sacred temple or something, except for the way he was fanning his crotch with his hands and screaming, "MY NUTS!!! MY BURNING NUTS!!!" I couldn't recall that line from any of the "Mummy" movies, but then again I spent most of the second one in the bathroom because of those tainted chili dogs.



By this time the counter guy was already calling the police and I'd begun to calm down, so I collected myself and approached Mr. Vosloo in a calm and respectful manner. Unfortunately, I then tripped over the old lady and launched myself at him as though I were swooping in for the kill, emitting what may have been misinterpreted as some kind of "war whoop" or something. Anyway, Arnold Vosloo screamed again and grabbed a handful of those extra-long Slim Jims, swinging them back and forth in a defensive motion.



As the counter guy started to ring them up I crashed into Mr. Vosloo and we both went sailing over a rack of Hostess Ding Dongs and into the frozen desserts case. The exhilarating blast of frosty air, in addition to the fact that his ass had lodged in a two-gallon container of Peach Ripple sherbet, caused him to assume a rather humorous expression. I think he also found it somewhat distressing that I now had a number of Klondike Bars stuck to my face, which may or may not have caused me to resemble some kind of crazed Yeti. At that point, perhaps inappropriately, I asked him for his autograph.



Well, it turned out he wasn't really Arnold Vosloo after all. His name was Finster Bellflower, and he was a mortician from Burtsell, Arkansas. I happen to have passed through Burtsell, Arkansas a number of times, and I wouldn't have suspected that they even had their own taxidermist, much less a mortician. He happened to be both, which had resulted in a few rather embarrassing mix-ups over the years. Fortunately, the Rutherfords kind of enjoyed having their Uncle Harold stuffed and mounted over the fireplace in a dynamic leaping pose that made it seem as though he were pouncing on his prey.



The downside of all this is that I didn't find out that it wasn't really Arnold Vosloo until I'd already ordered a thousand custom T-shirts that said "HA-HA, I MET ARNOLD VOSLOO AND YOU DIDN'T--SUCKA!!!" My self-congratulatory local TV commercial had already aired a number of times as well, and the grand testimonial ball I was holding for myself at the VFW hall was in full swing with a roomful of winos whooping it up on free booze.



After receiving a surprise phone call from Mr. Vosloo's attorneys, it was my sad duty to mount the podium and make the announcement. "I'm sorry everyone," I said in a grave voice. "It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you all that I didn't really meet Arnold Vosloo after all. It was just some mortician from Burtsell, Arkansas named Finster Bellflower."



One of the drunken revelers stopped, peered groggily up at me, and slurred, "Who the hell's Arnold Vosloo?" I leapt off the stage like a screeching condor in heat and attacked, sparking a riot that resulted in the VFW hall burning down and a SWAT team in full battle gear rounding everyone up with excessive force. I then sued Arnold Vosloo for causing the whole thing, which should pretty much set me up for life if I win.



After I'm rich and famous, I'll marry Monica Bellucci and we'll name all our kids Arnold Vosloo, and when he comes over for Sunday dinner every week we'll look back and have a good laugh about the whole thing while all the little Arnold Vosloos run around playing cowboys and mummies, and I'll finally be able to wear those T-shirts.

PORFLE VS. PEOPLE WHO DON'T REALIZE HOW GREAT I AM

One of the most wonderful and admirable things about me is that I don't allow my vast superiority over everyone else in the world go to my head. In fact, my practically super-human humility is almost as legendary as my utter greatness.




Just the other day, I was regailing my lucky friend Bob with robust tales of how much better I am than he was, when suddenly he interrupted with, "Pffft! You really think you're 'hot (beep)', don't you?"



Needless to say, this outburst was rather unexpected. "Why, of course not," I said, taken aback. "It's only my utter perfection that compels me to tell the truth rather than insult your lesser intelligence by denying or falsely downplaying my extreme greatness."



Of course, anyone with the slightest iota of my vast mental capacity would immediately see the total logic of this statement and wholeheartedly agree. But, sadly, Bob lacked such insight and remained sullen and resentful. I patiently explained to him that for me to try and convey such things to a creature of his lower mental stature was akin to him attempting to communicate in a substantive and meaningful way with a retarded tree sloth. Satisfied that my analogy was clearly understandable and my reasoning beyond reproach, I happily waited for him to burst into giggles of joyful enlightenment. Still, he doggedly persisted in regarding me with a dull, jealous petulance.



Finally realizing that any further attempt to reason with him would be utterly futile, I regretfully brought my shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher to bear and blew Bob to smithereens. It was really loud for a moment, and the echo reverberated throughout the countryside for several seconds. But afterward came a sweet, blissful silence. Birds began to chirp gaily in the trees--"is that a titwillow?" I thought, cocking an ear--and from somewhere off in the distance came the comfortingly familiar sound of rabid dogs viciously attacking a group of schoolchildren who had been cavorting on the playground between classes.



I smiled as their distant screams wafted around my ears, along with the horrendous, throaty growls of the mindless canines. "Goodness, how distressed they sound!" I said to myself, shaking my head in amusement. It occurred to me that if I simply rotated my head approximately fifteen degrees to the left, I would have a clear view of the distant carnage, which might prove momentarily entertaining. But, it was beneath my notice. I was too busy observing a nearby flock of quacking ducks waddling by a pond and wondering what they would look like if they all had Al Gore heads.



Using a mere fraction of my astounding intellect, I learned the ducks' language simply by listening to a few seconds of it. "Hello, ducks," I said cheerily. "Are you surprised to hear a human being talking to you in your own duck language?"



"We sure are!" quacked one of the ducks, clearly the spokesman for the group, as the others flapped their wings in agreement. "Wow--you must have an astounding intellect!"



"Oh, ha ha," I blushed, embarrassed. "Well, yes--it's actually quite mind-boggling. Say, have you ever wondered what it would look like if you all had Al Gore heads?"



"We sure have!" the duck exclaimed. "We were just thinking about that when suddenly our attention was diverted by those rabid woof-woofs attacking that flock of human fledglings!" All of this, of course, was conveyed by a rapid-fire series of quacks that only I could interpret.



"I noticed that as well," I quacked, suddenly tiring of the exchange. Using only the parts from my transistor radio, I hastily constructed a makeshift time machine and transported myself backward in time five minutes so that I could avoid ever meeting those boring ducks. There was a flash of sparkly white light, and when my vision cleared, I was standing there talking to Bob once again.



"Pffft! You really think you're 'hot (beep)', don't you?" he blathered, stupidly unaware of everything that had just transpired.



"Oh, not really," I replied modestly, glancing at you, the reader, with a sly wink. "But I do have my moments...in time."



"What the hell's that s'posed to mean?"



Patiently, I explained to him what had recently occurred, including the part about the ducks and the time machine, as several children ran past us screaming in abject terror with frothing, rampaging rabid dogs hot on their heels. Presently I realized that I was talking to my friend in duck language and that he hadn't comprehended a single one of my eloquent quacks. So, in lieu of repeating myself, I regretfully brought my shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher to bear and blew Bob to smithereens again.



Since then, I've relived that series of events repeatedly and blown Bob to smithereens over a hundred times. I'll stop doing it one of these days and let Bob live, but I just haven't gotten tired of it yet. The look on his face when that missile comes screaming out of the launch tube is priceless. And, over time, I've even grown increasingly fond of the ducks. One thing you gotta say for them--ducks recognize greatness when they see it.



As for the children, I'm actually considering calling Animal Control in advance to ward off the rabid dogs before they get a chance to attack. I know what you're thinking--and yes, I humbly agree. That's just the kind of incomprehensibly wonderful person I am.

PORFLE VS. PROGRESS

Progress is determined to get on my nerves. I think it was invented by devious, psychic pranksters with the foresight to know that someday it would drive me nuts. They must have been cavemen because progress started way back in the caveman days with the invention of the wheel. Or maybe even before that, depending on whatever cool stuff may have been invented before the wheel, like aftershave or bean bags. I'll further address this issue a bit later.




Anyway, progress is making my computer dial-up connection seem really lame. Everybody else is downloading the crap out of everything that's chunk-barfed onto the internet these days, while my screen freezes up whenever I try to access my own farking blog. And forget trying to see anyone else's page, because they're all packed to the gills with a bunch of colossally dumbass YouTube videos.



Everything that can possibly be recorded by moving picture cameras is ending up on YouTube--dogs farting at blast furnaces, fat people diving into vats of boiling wolf urine, baby's first "F-bomb"--and everybody seems to find it impossible to resist embedding links to all of this worthless bullshit all over every forum or profile they run across, turning the entire internet into a virtual cow-poop minefield for anyone on dial-up.



Whenever I click on a forum topic now, it isn't a regular post with text in it anymore, it's a freakin' YouTube video and someone's gushing "Hey, check out this funny azz video! LOLZ!" and I'm thinking "Great! I'll get back to you on how awesome it was around, oh, NEXT WEEK because that's about how long it'll take me to download the thing, DUMBASS!!! I HATE YOU!!! GRRRRRRR!!!"



"Hey, check out this hilarious new Chris Crocker parody!" the horror continues. "It's somebody's two-year-old kid who doesn't even know who the hell Chris Crocker is, and he's in front of a sheet Mommy hung up in the bathroom, screaming 'Weave Bwitney awone!' like Mommy told him to! YAHHH ha-ha!"



"Great!" I scream. "I'll just devote the next TWO FRIGGIN' YEARS to downloading the STUPID, LAME-ASS PIECE OF CRAP VIDEO, YOU BRAIN DEAD MORON!!! KILL KILL KILL!!!"



So, I suspect that psychic cavemen invented aftershave, because cavemen didn't shave--they just had incredibly long beards like ZZ Top--and thus they would have to have been psychic to have invented something that neither they nor anyone else had any possible use for yet, as logic would seem to dictate. I don't know what ingredients they might have used to make caveman aftershave, but I suspect that one of them might indeed have been wolf urine, which is known to naturally possess rather bracing properties.



Known, that is, to people in Finland since the dawn of the Finnish caveman era. I don't know why people in Finland have always seemed to know this, but it's a fact. In fact, it's a "Finnish Fact", part of the "Finnish Facts" series of informative TV spots brought to you by the Finnish Department of Information, Tourism, Alcohol, Firearms, Nuclear Submarines, and Wolf Urine. These TV spots are highly educational and are great for kids who hope to someday wage futuristic laser war against vast hordes of invading Seth Green robots.



And, of course, cavemen of all nationalities (except Belgians) seem to have invented bean bags at roughly the same time, just as everyone seemed to invent breathing and going to the bathroom pretty much simultaneously for obvious reasons. You know those games where you toss the bean bags and try to flip over the tic-tac-toe tiles until you get three X's or O's in a row? Cavemen invented those, because they were still too stupid at the time to invent more complicated stuff like zeppelins. If cavemen had somehow invented zeppelins our entire history would have been different, or at least there would have been a whole lot more zeppelins in it. Which is another reason why progress sucks.



Progress has made my cassette tape collection pretty much obsolete, and my cassette tape collection is a hell of a lot better than my CD collection, that's for sure. I have tons of great music on cassette tapes, but so far my CD collection consists of stuff like the soundtrack to "Titanic", the Brady Bunch's greatest hits, and some dusty old Al Stewart CD that I found in back of an abandoned car which doesn't even have "Year of the Cat" on it, for Pete's sake.



Of course my cassette tape players are all breaking down and I'm embarrassed to buy a new one at Wal-Mart because I'm afraid the clerk will point and laugh at me. So when I finally do begin to catch up with everyone else on this CD thing they'll already be obsolete themselves and people will be listening to music that comes out of futuristic electronic buttplugs or something. "Hey, listen to this great song coming out of my ass" people of the future will say to me. I'm sorry, but no matter how much I love "Sgt. Pepper" or "Dark Side of the Moon", I don't want to hear them coming out of some fat guy's ass.



"Hey, check out this awesome subwoofer when I bend over" he'll urge. It will become increasingly difficult to politely decline such invitations. "Whoa, listen to 'Freebird' echoing through my lower intestine!" At some point, entire theater-quality home stereo systems will be available as rectal implants, and people will fart "Star Wars" prequels or have the climactic humans-vs.-machines battle from MATRIX:REVOLUTIONS blasting out of their sphincters. You'll have to follow them to the bathroom just to hear how the movie comes out. And if they have diarrhea, the Burly Brawl could blow out the plumbing on your entire block.



DVD progress should stop right now. It's good enough. I have my cheap DVD player, a bitchin' DVD collection, and a big-screen TV. I'm all set. If progress screws that up, I'll be really mad. But sure enough, they keep inventing newer crap to replace what I've already bought. HD, Blu-Ray, blah blah blah. It's just like the fashion industry--they just keep arbitrarily changing stuff because they want you to keep buying new stuff before the old stuff wears out.



How sharp of a TV image do we really need? It'll just keep getting sharper and sharper, until finally a single split-second closeup of Arnold Schwarzenegger or Harvey Keitel will make our eyeballs explode. But by then they'll probably have invented futuristic TV eyeballs to replace your regular eyeballs, and Vin Diesel will be right there inside your head with his shirt off. I don't know about you, but I don't want Vin Diesel inside my head with his shirt off. So as far as progress is concerned, I am definitely drawing the line at TV eyeballs.

PORFLE VS. KARL CHILDERS

SLING BLADE is one of my favorite movies, so I thought it would be fun to interview the main character, Karl Childers. I thought it would be cute, too, and I love to do cute things. But most of all, I thought it would be funny, because I think I'm so-o-o-o funny. ("Funny ha-ha", that is!)




Sometimes people ask me, "You think you're funny, don't you?" and I say, "Yes!", and they say, "Well, you aren't." Boy--those people sure are stupid!



Anyway, I went to the "nervous hospital" where Karl lives and sat beside him in the dayroom as he stared out the window. Sometimes I would hold up two fingers behind his head and wiggle them so it looked like he had insect antennae or rabbit ears or something, and he never even knew it, ha ha. As you can tell from the tone of my questions, I decided to be confrontational and pretend that I hated Karl so that our conversation would be more interesting, sort of like Katie Couric does whenever she interviews Republicans.







ME: Karl, I've decided to be confrontational and pretend that I hate you so that our conversation will be more interesting, sort of like Katie Couric does whenever she interviews Republicans. How do you like that, you big, fat, egg-sucking fruitcake?



KARL: Mmhhh. I don't reckon I care fer it too much, mmm-hmm. I don't recall I ever sucked on no eggs, neither.



ME: (mocking tone) "I don't recall I ever sucked on no eggs, neither." Ppphhhff ftthhh, ha ha.



(Karl grunts and then looks down and shakes his head slightly, as though that will help him understand my behavior.)



KARL: You ort not to talk to me thataway.



ME: Oh, I'm sorry, Karl. Not--ha ha. Tell me...have you ever thought about joining the space program and becoming an astronaut?



KARL: Mmhhh...I don't reckon I ever studied on that, no sir. I don't b'lieve I'd care to go up in one of them rocket ships inta outer space, mmm-hmm. I might git stuck up thar and not be able ta come back down fer quite a spell.



ME: Why would that be bad, you poodle-gargling moron?



KARL: Mmhhh. Wouldn't be no mustard'n biscuits up thar in outer space, I reckon. I believe I might not be able to breathe too well up thar neither.



ME: Have you ever met anyone famous, dickhead?



KARL: Well sir, there was that little ol' gal that wrote fer the school newspaper, she done interviewed me about my his'try and whatnot. And then there was that feller name-a Jerry Springer, I b'lieve he's a mite famous, mmm-hmm. He wanted me'n Miz Wheatley and that Doyle Hargraves to go on the TV and be on his show. Mmhhh.



ME: Did you? Karl? Karl? Hello?



KARL: Well, Miz Wheatley needed the money they was a-gonna give 'er fer it. Her'n her boy Frank's poor, so I done it, mmm-hmm. Her'n Frank went out thar on the stage first, a-talkin' about her boyfriend Doyle and how mean he's been ta her'n Frank, and then they called me on out thar, so I went out'n told ever'body about my his'try and whatnot.



ME: What happened next, Gorilla Nuts?



KARL: Mmhhh. Well, then that Doyle come a-runnin' out madder'n a wet hen and jumped on top of me, and I had ta hold 'im off till some big fellers come up'n pulled us off'n one another. While they was a-holdin' Doyle back, Frank started in ta kickin' him in the legs and Miz Wheatley was a-hollerin' at him about what a (beep) he was, and how he (beep) her'n Frank and (beep) (beep) his warty (beep) till it fell off. And that Doyle come back'n and hollered about how she was a (beep) who (beep) (beep) the (beep) in (beep) and (beep) until (beep) (beep) dinosaurs (beep) a forklift (beep) (beep) (beep) the Green Bay Packers.



ME: How did you feel about that, you humongous, slobbering jerk-off on waterskis?



KARL: Well, I didn't see how she coulda done all them things he said she done, and her a-workin' two-till-eight at Hoochie's Dollar Store plumb near ever' day. But what really got me riled up was when he started a-talkin' about Frank. Me'n Frank's friends. He likes the way I talk.



ME: Really? I think it sucks hamster titties. So, what did Doyle say about Frank?



(Karl shifts uncomfortably and rubs his hands together. He makes several grunting noises.)



KARL: Well, he said Frank wasn't no 'count as an actor, and that there Haley Joel Osment coulda done his part a lot better, mmm-hmm. Well sir, I just seen red. I hollered back about how Haley Joel Osment woulda been miscast in that part, mmm-hmm, and how he done all right in that dead people pitcher with that Bruce Willis feller but he woulda stuck out like a sore thumb a-playin' a boy from Millsburg, Arkansas. And then that Doyle said fergit Haley Joel Osment, that there Dakota Fanning woulda done a better job in the part, too. Well, I reckon that done made me madder'n I was afore. So I takened the lawnmower blade--



ME: You had a lawnmower blade with you?



KARL: Yes sir, that Jerry Springer wanted me ta show the folks what a whiz I was a-fixin' lawnmowers'n whatnot, so he had me fix his lawnmower fer 'im right out there in front'a ever'body. So I takened the lawnmower blade--some folks call it a lawnmower blade, I call it a...well, I reckon I call it a lawnmower blade, too, I don't reckon there's too many different names fer lawnmower blades, mmm-hmm--and I hit Doyle upside the head with it. Then I hit 'im another good whack and plumb near cut his head in two. Mmhhh.



MICH: Ach du lieber. Was dann geschehen ist, Herr Dumbkopf?



KARL: Well, that Jerry Springer feller was fit ta bust. Come ta find out, I don't reckon he minded too much what I was a-doin' to Doyle. He started jumpin' up'n down and a-hollerin' about how he was a-gonna beat Oprah. I don't know what that Oprah done to him, but he sure aimed to give her a good beatin'. And them other folks started a-hollerin' his name over'n over. I think it musta been his birthday or somethin'. Then one of 'em stood up and said how I had done kicked that dawg ta the curb. Well, it musta been somebody that looked like me 'cause I ain't never kicked no dawg. I've kilt me a few folks, but I don't b'lieve the Good Lord'd want me to go around a-kickin' dawgs, mmm-hmm. Anyways, Jerry finally simmered down and give what he called his final thought to ever'body. It was somethin' on how folks ort not ta be mean ta one another, and if you're mean enough all the time then somebody's liable ta cut yer head plumb near in two with a lawnmower blade. I think he was a-talkin' about what I'd just done ta that Doyle.



ME: Of course he was, you mind-boggling asskite. And that's when they put you back in the "nervous hospital"?



KARL: Yes, sir.



ME: And what about Frank? Is he really as amazingly stupid as he looks?



KARL: (becomes visibly agitated) Don't you say nothin' about that boy. Fact of business, I ain't a-gonna be interviewed by you no more.



ME: Okay. Oh, would you like some 80% pure Colombian cocaine?



KARL: Cocaine makes me a mite nervous when I snort it, mmm-hmm.



ME: Oh. Well then, I'll just let you get back to disarming that nuclear bomb before it goes off.



KARL: All right, then.

PORFLE: BIG HOLLYWOOD MOVIE MOGUL

I was sitting in front of the TV one day, watching some DVDs that I'd rented such as DOCTOR ZHIVAGO and TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, when suddenly a thought occurred to me. "Why, I could make movies that are ten times better than these!" I said to nobody in particular. Glorious visions of me as a famous and beloved Hollywood movie mogul began to dance through my head. I could see myself sitting in one of those director's chairs with a megaphone, wearing a beret and sunglasses, smoking a big cigar, and ordering people around on the set of my latest colossal hit movie.




"I'll do it!" I resolved. "I'll become a legendary film auteur and make really big blockbuster movies that will sweep the Oscars!"



Bounding out of my chair, I ran into my bedroom to get dressed but discovered that all of my clothes were in the washing machine, soaked. I'd forgotten to put them in the dryer! Thinking fast, I flung open the closet door and whipped out the only thing left hanging on the rod--a Godzilla costume that I'd worn the previous Halloween. Putting it on, I coolly appraised myself in the mirror.



Except for the head and the tail, it looked pretty much like regular clothes--at least, the "regular" kind of stuff those screwballs in the fashion industry are coming up with these days, ha ha! But just to make sure, I hastily scrawled a sign that read "DON'T BE AFRAID--I AM NOT REALLY GODZILLA" and pinned it to my chest. This sort of quick problem-solving ability would serve me well in the film industry!



I was so happy that I positively skipped out the front door, my large Godzilla tail waggling jauntily. I was halfway down the street before I realized that I would need some kind of a plan for becoming a successful filmmaker, and that simply leaving my house and skipping happily down the street would only suffice as "phase one." The second phase, I reasoned, would involve getting enough millions of dollars to pay for my movie and all the state-of-the-art special effects and big-name stars that I wanted to pack into it. So, with a renewed resolve, I veered onto Wilton Boulevard and skipped merrily to the First National Bank of Howdyville.



Both the customers and bank tellers began to scream when I entered, which reminded me that I was wearing a Godzilla costume. In order to allay their fears, I skipped even harder and more merrily while pointing to my sign. My tail swung around and knocked over an old lady with a walker, sending her crashing into a potted plant, and then took out some displays loaded with pamphlets which drifted around the room like a blizzard of big rectangular snowflakes.



Spotting the office of the bank's president, a distinguished older gentleman named Mr. Barrymore, I made my way past a swarm of people who were scrambling over the furniture and each other in a blind panic trying to get away. "Read the sign, read the sign!" I screamed, pointing furiously with both claws, but the thick Godzilla head only muffled my loud exclamations and made them sound like "RAAAAR!!! RRRAAAAARRRR!!!"



Mr. Barrymore's office was enclosed by thick, sparkling glass walls, which offered him a panoramic view of the bank while still allowing him some privacy. He looked up from some papers and, with a sudden expression of alarm, saw me skipping inexorably toward him. In my haste to get into his office and begin the process of securing a loan towards the production of my grand film debut, I tripped over an errant baby carriage and, with a hearty scream, crashed through the glass wall of Mr. Barrymore's office in a deafening explosion of jagged crystalline shards. The terrified man threw himself into the farthest corner and shrank into a trembling ball as I lumbered to my feet. "RAAAAAAR!!! RRRRAAAAARRRR!!!" I exclaimed, waving my arms and jabbing my claws at my chest, unaware that the sign had fallen off several minutes earlier.



Well, to make a long story short, a few minutes later Mr. Barrymore and I were seated comfortably on either side of his handsome mahogany desk, discussing the terms of my loan. It had taken a bit of explaining of course, but he soon understood the logical reason for my Godzilla costume and gathered that my business with him was both important and historic, seeing that the town of Howdyville had never produced a world-famous Oscar-winning filmmaker before. After washing down a couple of prescription pills, Mr. Barrymore nervously asked me how much money I would need.



Rubbing a claw under my chin, I thought about it for a moment. Considering the huge epic I had in mind, it would have to be a lot! Speaking very loudly and enunciating my words carefully in order to be fully understood, I said, "I'm going to need about a hundred million dollars, Mr. Barrymore." He began to protest, but I silenced him with a raised claw. "I know, I know. That's an unrealistic amount. Ridiculous, even. I just realized it myself as I was saying it." Mr. Barrymore nodded, grateful that I had come to my senses and saved him the trouble of explaining my foolishness to me.



"Yes," I continued, "considering the enormous scale of my project, and the fact that I'm going to be competing with spend-crazy bozos like James Cameron, it would be foolish not to ask for at least 200 million dollars--perhaps even 300 or 400 hundred million dollars."



After a prolonged coughing spell and some more pills, Mr. Barrymore carefully explained to me that, with both my house and automobile as collateral, the most he would be able to loan me would be roughly in the neighborhood of thirty dollars. This, of course, forced me to recalculate the scale of my project considerably. Why, a budget that low would be exhausted almost by half simply from paying Jack Nicholson's salary! And I obviously wouldn't be able to afford the entire Royal Philharmonic Orchestra for the musical score which must now be composed by someone other than John Williams. Most likely, I mused, by my neighbor Biff, who had a marginal working knowledge of the wax flute.



"Well, Mr. Barrymore," I said importantly, rising to my feet and shaking his hand, "it has been a pleasure doing business with you. And, in return for bestowing upon me this relatively generous loan, I'd like to offer you a small part in my movie."



He brightened a bit, flattered. "Oh? That sounds very interesting. What is it going to be about?"



"It is going to be about giant, radioactive roosters," I announced proudly. "With terminal flatulence. In fact, I was thinking of offering you the role of the main rooster--the one with the most terminal flatulence. If you don't object to auditioning, of course."



Later, as I skipped home with my twenty dollars (Mr. Barrymore had knocked another ten off my loan for some unexplained reason) I passed an Arby's and realized that I hadn't eaten all day since breakfast and lunch. At first I only planned to sacrifice a miniscule amount of my movie budget, but my growling stomach demanded more and more until I had eaten my way through the entire amount. Which in these inflationary times came to only four or five regular roast beef sandwiches with as much free Horsey Sauce as I could squeeze onto them. Plus a small drink.



When I got home, I just sat there in my Godzilla suit for a few hours, lacking the motivation to take it off, and watched THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. As Charlton Heston's "Moses" thrust his staff toward the Red Sea and the mighty breath of God blew the swirling, churning waters apart, the urge to make a movie that was ten times better than that returned in full force. I didn't have any money, so I dug around in the bottom of my closet until I found my old video camera from the early 80s.



Then I went outside and taped my dog Buddy walking around the yard for awhile, hoping that she would have some kind of fascinating adventure that millions of people would pay ten or fifteen dollars apiece to see. But all she did was bark at a squirrel and take a whiz on some daffodils. Maybe, with the right marketing, I could sell it as one of those art films.