PORFLE VS. SPAM

(This is an old one, so when I talk about "this new spam" it's really the old spam.) 

I don't understand why this new spam is filled with such ridiculous-sounding names and absurd nonsense phrases.  I just got one on Yahoo! mail from a sender named Buford Hendrix, containing a lame sex site link and the message:

forger melodiously
disgustful nonpopery

What the hell is that supposed to mean?  I engage in nonpopery every day, and so does everyone else I know since I don't happen to know any popes.  What possible extreme of wanton nonpopery could one possibly engage in for it to be described as "disgustful"?  As for the other thing, it's nice to tell someone to do things melodiously, but "forgering" doesn't really lend itself to melodiousness.  It isn't even a friggin' verb, for Pete's sake.  It's like saying "rhinoceros discreetly" to someone and expecting them to do it.

Oh, and while I was on the dictionary website looking up "forger" to see if there was any possible way to use it as a verb, I also decided to look up "nonpopery" to see if it really meant what I thought it did.  Well, it isn't a word, either.  "Popery" refers to "the doctrines, practices, and rituals of the Roman Catholic Church" and is described as an "offensive" term.  But there's no reference to nonpopery, probably for the same reason there aren't words like nonclownery, nonbrainsurgeonery, or noncrackwhorery. If you aren't acting like a clown, a brain surgeon, or a crackwhore, there simply isn't any need for there to be a word for it.  People just don't point at other people and exclaim, "Wow!  Get a load of that amazing display of nonpopery!  Take a picture, Harry."

I'm going through my current backlog of Outlook Express spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, fan letters, marriage proposals, spam, spam, spam, and spam right now, and the first thing I see is a message from someone named Iorgo Gamaliel with the topic line, "Muscovy diffractometer see flageolet consume sowbelly advisee."  Okay, no human being could have invented that line.  It must've been churned out by some computer that has been set on "silly."  And I don't know why this is supposed to get me all excited to open this particular message, read it, and click on or purchase whatever it's promoting.  I don't think I really need a Muscovy diffractometer right now, and I'm not sure I'm interested in anything a sowbelly advisee would have to say while being consumed by a flageolet.  Personally, I think Iorgo Gamaliel must be some kind of a nut.

Another message, from a Cletus Mungo, promises "babe gushing Santiago Souza."  Okay, I don't want to see a babe gushing Santiago Souza.  If I wanted to see a babe gushing something, it sure as hell wouldn't be Santiago Souza.  It sounds like either a Mexican wrestler or some kind of spaghetti sauce.  Anyway, it strikes me as something a gynecologist would have nightmares about.

Here's one: "Sexy chortlers Russian beauties."  Hmm...come to think of it, chortling is kind of sexy.  I'd pay to see some Russian beauties chortling, as long as it costs, like, a nickel.  But I kinda doubt if whatever shitty website this is promoting has a nickel membership level.  Along the same lines, another subject line reads "Sexy overcapitalized Russian beauties."  Oh my god, I think I'd pay a whole dime to see that.

Ed Schneider--and who could refuse an offer from a stranger named Ed Schneider?--proclaims "implacable Frigidaire bernadine illusionary district childlike architect christy checkup."  Ed, it's taking a monumental effort of willpower to keep me from throwing my life's savings at you just to find out what the hell that means.

Palmer Vanderbilt says, "I'd love to meet you, I am ANGELICA."  Well, who are you--Palmer Vanderbilt or ANGELICA?  I wouldn't mind meeting someone named Palmer Vanderbilt, just to kick him in the balls.  But if I did, ANGELICA would probably beat the crap out of me.

Finally, Imelda Mokienko offers to show me "gorgeous European hoattie gets drilled hard."  Well, thank you, Imelda.  Nothing like a gorgeous hoattie getting drilled, especially if she's European.  And hard, too.  I just can't watch porn anymore unless someone gets drilled hard.  The harder the better.  I was watching some porn with the guys the other day, and I remember saying, "You know, this is pretty good porn, but I just don't think that hoattie is getting drilled hard enough.  Don't you have anything with harder drilling in it?" and one guy said "How about 'Drill Hard' starring Bruce Weenis?" and I said "Oh, boy!  Yay!"  I didn't really--I'm just being sarcastic.

PORFLE'S SMART HALLOWEEN IDEA

Well, with Halloween fast approaching again as it always does roughly this time of year, I was sitting around trying to think of some fun things to do to celebrate. I really had my "thinking cap" on as I sat watching INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS for the 739th time, when suddenly it occurred to me that a really fun Halloween thing to do would be to kill Hitler!

I quickly realized, of course, that it was too late to do that, and then I was proud of myself for realizing this so fast instead of wasting a lot of valuable time trying to act upon my impulsive idea like I did last Halloween when I tried to save the Titanic from sinking and got sued by James Cameron.

That was the day I discovered a valuable lesson in life: no matter how bad you really, really want something, you can't always get it because James Cameron is just waiting to crush your dreams because he's so mean. He'll probably sue me for libel just for saying that, too, so I'd better go ahead and retract it right now and say that James Cameron is nice. Really, really nice. (WINK!)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "CHOW YUN-FAT CAT!"

For those of you who don't quite understand what I've done here--basically, I have taken actor Chow Yun-Fat's head and placed it on the body of a dancing kitty cat!

PORFLE PRESENTS: "MY RUMINATIONS ABOUT VIN DIESEL"

One day, Vin Diesel suddenly appeared in my mind unannounced and hijacked a rumination I was having about Harvey Lembeck. So, consequently, here are some of my thoughts about Vin Diesel.

I have noticed that Vin Diesel has a human body. He is anatomically similar to most, if not all, human beings, in that his body functions in the same way that most human bodies do.

Vin Diesel has a head. Like most humans, his head is on the end of his neck. Human evolution seems to favor this location for the head.

Vin Diesel does not use barking as a means of communication, as dogs and seals do. I have noticed that he uses a form of human language instead -- specifically, English. He could probably simulate barking, but it is unlikely that he would be able to communicate with dogs or seals in this way, or at least not in any substantive detail.

Vin Diesel portrays fictional characters in movies. Someday, perhaps, he will portray actual historical figures, such as Benjamin Franklin or Millard Fillmore. It would be interesting to see a movie about Millard Fillmore that was advertised with the line, "Vin Diesel IS Millard Fillmore."

Vin Diesel cannot swallow an adult rhinoceros. If you have a photograph of him doing so, it has probably been photoshopped.

Vin Diesel has never hosted "Masterpiece Theater" on PBS. If he ever did host this show, many television critics would probably have a knee-jerk reaction such as the following: "Vin Diesel as host of 'Masterpiece Theater'? What an inappropriate choice for PBS to have made."

If they ever make a movie about the life of Vin Diesel, I do not think that Vin Diesel would be a good choice for the title role. I think that it would be more interesting to cast someone like Paris Hilton or Ron Howard as Vin Diesel. Vin Diesel himself could portray his mother, Mrs. Diesel. This would be more likely to garner him a major acting award.

If you were one of Vin Diesel's scalp hairs, it would be a hollow and meaningless existence. Every time you tried to grow past his scalp-line, he would simply shave you off. Then you would just sit around waiting to try again, knowing that when you did, he would shave you off again. What if his scalp hairs gave up and stopped trying to emerge from his head? They would probably build up around his skull until his head began to expand. Then one day the pressure might cause an explosive blast of hair from both of his ears, causing him to sport dual ear-Afros.

Thank you for allowing me to lend voice to my thoughts about Vin Diesel.

PORFLE VS. TELEMARKETERS

One day, the phone rang as I was eating a bowl of popcorn and watching a Roy Rogers movie.  Being the basically decent person that I am, I answered it, and immediately some guy started in with a breathlessly smarmy sales pitch.

"HI!  Don't hang up!" he barked.  "I have a special offer just for you!"

"Oh, yeah?" I shot back.  "Well, I have a special offer just for you--SHUT UP!"

Satisfied that I had put the idiot in his place, I started to hang up.  But then I discovered that my scathing putdown hadn't even fazed him.

"For a brief time only, you are eligible to receive a grand prize!  But don't delay!  Respond today!"

"Listen, stupid," I retorted.  "If you don't shut up right now, I won't delay--in KICKING YOUR BUTT!"

Well, it was as though this colossal turd couldn't even hear me.  In fact, he didn't even pause to listen while I was talking.  Boy, that made me so mad.

He just kept on blabbing away.  "You can choose between two great offers--ten thousand dollars in cash, OR...an all-expenses-paid weekend vacation on beautiful Lake Schwartz, deep within the heart of the scenic Shmendrick Mountains!"

Ah-HA!  So that's what it was--one of those scams where they offer you a vacation somewhere and you have to go to some kind of seminars or take a tour of a bunch of real estate they're trying to unload or something.  "I'll bet there's no way I'm going to be able to choose that ten-thousand dollars instead," I cunningly deduced.  And I was also firmly convinced that this "beautiful" Lake Schwartz was probably some mosquito-infested swamp with bloodthirsty hillbillies running around in the woods. 

With all this mental ammunition locked and loaded, I geared up to let this guy have it with both barrels.  "I'll bet that stupid lake is just some mosquito-infested--"

"You're probably wondering how we can make such an amazing offer to you at this time!" the guy interrupted.

"No, I'm not!" I countered.  "I couldn't care--"

"Of course you are!" he affirmed.  "Well, it's because we here at Feldman-Shapiro Industries Of America Incorporated (Limited) are in a position to offer you with no money down for a limited time only and totally without any hidden fees or obligations whatsoever this one-time-only deal of a lifetime of such incredibly astounding proportions--"

"SHUT UP!!!"  I screamed.  "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUT UUUPPPP!!!"

"--that you will someday be telling your grandchildren about--"

"I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP!!!"

"--from the luxurious comfort of your very own three-story mansion on the shores of the beautiful Lake Schwartz--"

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!"

That did it.  For an undetermined period of time, I lost my mind and went on a rampage.  Only by observing the aftermath later on could I begin to piece together what I had done during that time.  Apparently, I had grabbed a can opener, opened up several cans of whole-kernel corn, blackeyed peas, string beans, and spinach, found a bottle of Elmer's Glue, and created a huge mosaic of David Hasselhoff naked on horseback on my livingroom wall.  I had also fried three dozen eggs "over easy" and sailed them like Frisbees at a crudely-drawn target with the words "Jolly Egg-Toss Game" scrawled over it in Cheese Whiz. 

I still can't explain why I was wearing a rather shameless tube-top/miniskirt combo and some of those clear platform heels, or why my dog Buddy was also wearing the exact same outfit.  And to this day, a drunken Alec Baldwin keeps calling me in the middle of the night, blubbering, "Why, Babs?  Why won't you return my calls?"

Well, needless to say, the whole thing has forever tainted my enjoyment of watching "Night Rider", "Baywatch", or "The Roy Rogers Show."  And I can't even look at Alec Baldwin anymore without thinking of fried eggs and, for some reason, Twizzlers.  So whenever the phone rings these days and it's a telemarketer, I just politely--yet firmly--tell them that those hillbillies out at Lake Schwartz are going to have to find somebody else to squeal like a pig, and hang up. 

PORFLE VS. WORK

If there's one thing I hate more than anything else in the whole world, it's work.  Okay, I don't hate it quite as much as terrorism or distributing free bestiality porn to every fifth customer at Disneyland.  Or getting killed.  But I hate it a lot, more than just about anything else, including pictures of Larry King in a Speedo.  Just writing this paragraph was work, and I hated it. 

When I was a kid, my dad always bugged me to mow the lawn and trim the hedge and all sorts of other tiring, strenuous chores.  Why the hell would I want to do those things when I could be lying around the livingroom under the air-conditioner, watching TV?  It was stupid and thoughtless to expect me to do anything else.  Phrases like "earning my keep" and "pulling my weight" popped up now and then, but I blithely ignored them.  This line of reasoning was, of course, ridiculous.  I "earned my keep" simply by existing--by being me, wonderful me. 

"What--you think the world OWES you a living?" I've often heard.  Well, yes.  This may not apply to others, and in fact I don't really think it does.  Other people SHOULD work, because if they didn't, I would be deprived of most, if not all, of the essential goods and services that are required to amuse me and occupy my leisure time in fun and interesting ways.  Somebody has to drive the truck that delivers the TV and other entertainment items which provide me with hours of viewing enjoyment.  Someone has to labor in the fields and factories to produce the tasty food and beverages that I consume.  And since the world owes me these and so many other things, which I so generously repay with my very presence, a considerable amount of work must be performed by others in order to provide them.  This is a system that has operated successfully for decades, and I see no reason to risk changing it now.

Some have questioned my apparent lack of what they quaintly refer to as a "work ethic."  I usually don't hear them, thank goodness, but occasionally I put the porn DVD on "pause" so I can go into the kitchen to get a delicious snack of some kind, and snippets of their dull bleating about work filter through.  "Work ethic?" I repeat quizzically, considering the implications of such a concept with ill-disguised disgust as I deftly create a delicious baloney and cheese sandwich with mustard and pickles on toasted wheat bread.  "Why in the tin-plated, coal-burning hell would I want to have one of those?" 

They blather something about how doing a hard day's work makes one "feel good."  Well, that's just poppycock.  Work doesn't make me feel good--goofing off and being a total slacker makes me feel good.  Great, in fact.  Nothing gives me that glorious "top o' the world" feeling more than reaching the end of a long day, looking back, and realizing that I have done absolutely nothing productive whatsoever.  Sure, maintaining this level of inactivity can be rather tiring at times.  But it's a "good tired."

Well, I've written five whole paragraphs so far and I think I've earned a well-deserved rest.  But I do want to say one additional thing before I head for the recliner, grab the remote, and do what I do so well, which is nothing.  I often think about all the people who are even now working away to provide me with sustenance and entertainment, making it possible for me to indulge in a totally sedentary and non-productive lifestyle, and it behooves me to point out that a word of "thanks" is in order.  But really, there's no need for you to thank me.  My reward is simply knowing that my wonderful presence provides so many people with the inspiration to "keep up the good work!"