PORFLE VS. MUSTANG SALLY

I hate any song with the words "Mustang Sally!" in it. It's always sung by some guy with a guitar who fancies himself a storytelling troubador whose job is to mesmerize a roomful of people at a party with his stupid "story song" while he makes goofy facial expressions and "acts out" the various characters in the song. This is especially true when he belts out the phrase "Mustaaaang SALLY!" I don't know why this is supposed to sound so cool and get everybody so excited about his dumbass song, but it is.




Who the hell is "Mustang Sally" anyway? Does she drive a Mustang? Does she look like a horse? And why should we have the slightest interest whatsoever in what goes on in her worthless life while she's scuzzing her way through some moronic "story song"? Just because some doofus songwriter somewhere put the words "Mustang!" and "Sally!" together one night while he was at home drinking alone and then concocted a stupid story for her to take part in, we're supposed to all gather round any idiot who wields a guitar and croaks it out after we're already too smashed to realize what an extravagantly horrifying waste of several precious minutes of our lives it's going to be.



But even worse than this is when the self-appointed entertainer in question, who is invariably some creepy bastard you wouldn't be caught dead associating with under normal circumstances but is now a "star" all of a sudden, has penned a song of his own which is just like the "Mustang Sally!" song but has different names that he's come up with himself, such as "Paraquat Patty" and "Munchies McDougall." And, god help us, chances are he will "talk-sing" the song like the charismatic, divinely gifted storyteller that he is while making eye contact with everyone as he holds them in his magical musical spell one at a time.



"Now Paraquat Patty..." he'll talk-sing while mugging like a brain-addled goon and strumming his cheap guitar, "and Frisco Fatty... ducked into an alley with Heroin Hattie." There's always an alley in these songs, by the way, mainly because "Mustang Sally!" rhymes with "alley" and not much the hell else, and the word has to be included even though it doesn't rhyme with "Patty" or "Fatty" because alleys are one of the cool places that the cool wasted lowlifes in story songs hang out in.



And what happens in that alley--oh my, is it ever entertaining and funny and hip and cool, not. But Mr. Superstar will perform this wretched artifact of his own Shrinky-Dink brain as though he were Woody Guthrie serenading some noble rail-riders around a bubbling cauldron of hobo stew instead of just a bunch of dizzy stoners strewn across somebody's livingroom furniture or vegetating in lawnchairs in the backyard surrounded by bongs and beer cans.



The really, really embarrassing part, though, is when, one by one, these fickle stoners begin to lose interest in the increasingly boring story song, which goes on forever because the derp who wrote it thought it was an epic that would hold listeners in rapt attention till the very last note, and they start getting visibly restless. The Entertainer will notice his fans glancing listlessly around the room, wishing he would shut up so they could go back to having fun, and start to talk-sing louder. "SO, COUGH-SYRUP KATIE..." he'll bark like a TV that's suddenly been turned up too loud, setting everyone's nerves on edge.



Even worse than this, his mugging facial expressions will get broader and more extreme, his eye contact more intense and intimidating, even when various people actually begin conversing amongst themselves about their day or what they saw on TV that afternoon or how freaking boring this clown's interminable song is.



And when enough people have bailed out on his stupid story song, which is only about halfway over by now and still has lots of drugs 'n' booze adventures about Paraquat Patty and Frisco Fatty to recount, he'll zero in on the last hardy listener who still feels a moral obligation to suffer through the rest of the song till the bitter end (it's usually some nice blonde girl who is smiling politely while secretly wishing she were dead), and jolly well make them suffer through it till the bitter end. Meanwhile, the happy hophead party has loudly resumed around them and Paraquat Patty and her friends can go straight to hell as far as they're concerned.



And so, whenever you're at a party full of drunks and stoners and some self-styled songster grabs an acoustic guitar and looks like he's about to utter the words "Mustaaaang SALLY!" or a reasonable facsimile thereof, you should all immediately attack him, tie him up, gag him, and fling him kicking and screaming into the nearest dumpster behind a supermarket or fastfood restaurant somewhere. Because if you don't, he and Mustang Sally are going to buzz-kill your poor, helpless party right back to the Stone Age.
 

PORFLE VS. SPRING!!!

Spring!  When a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.  That's the best time to whack him over the head with a club and lock him in a closet.  "Think about something else, young man!" you yell through the door.  "You're just asking for trouble with all this 'lovey-dovey' crap!"  Don't forget to feed him at least once a day, and make sure he's getting a life-sustaining amount of oxygen in there.  You're already in enough hot water as it is without hanging a murder rap around your neck. 

Actually, my thoughts do turn to love every spring.  I think about how much I love to hate spring's big fat guts.  To me, spring means the return of hot weather, bugs, and bird crap all over my car.  It also means that summer is just around the corner, and I hate summer even more than I hate spring.  "But, porfle!" you would protest if, for some reason, you actually cared.  "Spring is a magical time of beautiful flowers and lush greenery, and the lovely, lilting music of birdsong!"  Well, here's my answer to that--my dog's butt.  Enjoy!

Birds would be a lot more wonderful to have around if they would simply learn to shut the hell up more often.  Think of the times you've tried to sleep a little later than usual, but you kept getting blasted awake by a bunch of birds sitting around in the trees chirping their freakin' heads off.  What the hell are they saying to each other?  It's probably just stupid pointless chit-chat like "Boy, that fat, slimy earthworm really hit the spot" or "Lookit that dumbass down there washing his car" or "FYI--I've got the urge to mate and I'm rarin' to go!  YEE-HAAAA!" 

"SHUT UP!!!" I scream out my window.  "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUUT UUUUUUP!!!"  Invariably, there's some old fart in a fishing hat out watering his lawn or something and he thinks I'm talking to him.  "No, YOU shut up!" he yells back indignantly. 

"I wasn't talking to you!" I shriek at the top of my lungs.  "I was talking to the BIRDS--DUMBASS!"  I love totally winning an argument like that.  Sure, it destroys the poor guy, but he asked for it by getting involved.  Besides, just knowing that he's out watering his stupid lawn while I'm trying to sleep ticks me off.  For all I know, all of those birds making such an insufferable racket might be talking about him.  "Hey, check out the old fart in the fishing hat!  Let's crap on his head!"

Of course, I don't want to give the impression that I don't like birds, because I do.  Birds have saved me an awful lot of money on cat food over the years.  And they make wonderful targets, too.  In fact, anytime you're stuck for something nice to say about anything, you can always say, "Well, it makes a dandy target."  This is especially true of things like Muppets, Paris Hilton CDs, or Carrot Top.  "Fun to shoot at" and "explodes in a pleasing fashion" are other positive ways of describing certain things so that you sound nice. 

But this doesn't work with spring, because you can't shoot at it or blow it up.  You can make it the "target" of caustic, extremely witty barbs as I've done, but that doesn't bother it a bit.  It just keeps barging into your life every year and sitting on your face and braying "HEE HAW!!!" like a donkey.  Only it's an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys.  That's why, whenever someone starts gushing about how wonderful spring is and then asks me how I feel about it, I always tell them:

"Spring is an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys."



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. GLADYS KNIGHT AND THE PIPS

Once, back when I was managing a small nightclub called "Porfle's Playpen" on the south side of Chicago, I was fortunate enough to book Gladys Knight and the Pips for a solid week of what I was certain would be big, big, blockbuster business.  It wasn't every day we had big, big big-name entertainment like that on our stage.  Usually it was people like Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods or Neil Sedaka, or the guy who played Sam Drucker on "Petticoat Junction."  Sure, they're fairly well-known, but nobody wants to see them naked. 

Not that they ever actually got naked, but you know how people are--they hear that a certain celebrity is going to be performing somewhere, and they show up in hopes of seeing them naked for one reason or another.  That's why so many people really went to see Elvis during his declining years--they were hoping his pants would fall down or that tight costume would explode right off of his body or whatever, and they'd get to snap a picture of naked Fat Elvis.  It's also why so many people used to watch "The Golden Girls."  They were hoping, due to some incredibly unlikely but still slightly possible turn of events, to see naked Bea Arthur. 

Anyway, Neil Sedaka was onstage the night I found out over the phone that Gladys Knight and the Pips were confirmed for the following week.  I felt celebratory, so I indulged in something that was rare for me, which was to run out onto the stage and rip Neil Sedaka's pants off.  Then I signalled to Fred, who worked the canned music and lighting effects up in the booth, and he pressed the red button, which released several gallons of water onto Neil's head.  One moment he was in the middle of singing "Laughter In The Rain", and the next moment he was standing there in nothing but a red spangled speedo with little candy canes all over it, dripping like a wet hog.  It was like some kind of horrifying "Flashdance" outtake.  Several of my customers started to throw up, especially the ones who happened to be eating cottage cheese.   

"I hate you!  I hate you!" Neil screamed as he ran offstage, crying.  But it was his last night anyway, so I felt lighthearted and optimistic.  Then, suddenly aware that I might possibly have raised the ire of some of my patrons--especially the Neil Sedaka fans--I gaily announced, "Free club crackers for everyone!"  This seemed to placate the goofy bastards.

Well, the weekend passed slower than molasses on Al Gore's ass, but at last Monday came and it was time for Gladys Knight and the Pips to begin their engagement.  I didn't greet them when they arrived to set up, since back in those days I thought I was better than everyone else and felt it beneath my sanctified magnificence to actually associate with lesser human beings, which included the entire human race except for Ben Gazarra, Robert Loggia, and, of course, Doris Day.  But I did make sure to be sitting at my special private table when the show started, basking in my own greatness and ready to be entertained. 

As the lights dimmed and Gladys Knight and the Pips sashayed onstage, wave after wave of pure excitement washed over my body.  It was just like that time I took a shower.  Fred flicked the switch and the first sweet strains of the pre-recorded "Midnight Train to Georgia" backing track began to waft over the audience.  Gladys assumed her position at the mike to enthusiastic applause as the Pips danced in unison behind her.  I looked around at all the happy-faced customers--or "pigs" as I jokingly referred to them back in the day--who had just lined my pockets with wads of sweet, sweet cash and were even now shelling out top dollar for day-old food that the cafeteria down the street sold to me for practically nothing every night instead of throwing it out.  All was right with the world.

Suddenly, I sensed something was amiss.  Gladys was singing "I'm leavin'...on that midnight train to Georgia" just as beautifully as ever.  Two of the Pips were harmonizing the words "she's leavin'...leavin' on that midnight train" and dancing with their trademark precision choreography.  But the third pip was a different story.  Not only were his movements dreadfully erratic and non-choreographed, but the only sounds coming from his mouth were things like "ZZZRRRKKKK" and "SSSSKKKRRRTT."  As the song drew to a close, I arose from my seat and slowly made my way onto the stage.

"Thought you could pull one over on me, didn't you, Gladys?" I said, hands on hips.

"Huh?  What are you talking about?" she replied, trying to use the old "innocent act" on me.

"Oh, nothing," I remarked nonchalantly.  "Except that one of your so-called 'pips' seems to be, in actuality...A ROBOT!!!"

Her eyes went wide.  "CURSES!!!" she screamed, realizing that the jig was up.  Leaping from the stage, she grabbed a hanging light fixture and swung over the crowd, landing like a cat near one of the exits.  I sprang into hot pursuit.  An off-duty cop rose to stop her, but she gave him a vicious karate chop to the Adam's apple and grabbed his gun.  I dove over the bar and snatched the double-barrelled shotgun from beneath it.  Gladys ducked behind the cop's overturned table and fired.  I returned with a double blast of buckshot that took out the jukebox.

"YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!!!" she shrieked, crashing through the front window.  I sprang from behind the bar and was out the door just in time to see her scurrying up the steps of a huge petroleum storage tank next door to the club.  She turned to exchange fire with me again as several police cars converged on the scene, sirens blaring. 

When she reached the top, she could see that there was no escape.  Laughing maniacally, she emptied her pistol into the tank and raised her arms in victory as flames began to rise out of it.  "TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!!!" she screamed right before the tank erupted into a massive, earth-rattling explosion that could be seen for miles. 

After that, of course, I made it a point to check all further performing acts for robots before allowing them into my club.  Which paid off, too, when the freakin' Partridge Family tried to pass off a "Danny" robot on me.  And there's no telling how many robots had already performed in the club before I was on the lookout for them.  I still have my suspicions about Jose' Feliciano--that incident with him bursting into flames and his head falling off during "Feliz Navidad" is starting to make a little more sense to me now. 

As for Gladys Knight--well, don't ask me how, but, against all odds, she somehow survived that night.  In fact, there she was hosting "The Midnight Special" on NBC the very next Friday night.  The Pips all looked like real people this time, thank goodness, but I'm pretty darn sure Wolfman Jack was a robot. 


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)
(thanks to Stripcreator.com for the pic)

PORFLE'S "HOLLYWOOD BABBLE-ON"

When you come right down to it, there's nothing in this whole wide world that's more fun and entertaining than looking back at the magic that is Old Hollywood.  And if you disagree with that, then you're just plain stupid!  So let's turn back the clock and revisit the legendary land of make-believe, shall we?  We'll begin with some memorable movie quotes that should evoke the proper mood of golden-hued nostalgia and set our course for Memory Lane... 


"Hey" -- James Caan, "The Godfather"

"The"  -- Marlon Brando, "On The Waterfront"

"My" -- Claudette Colbert, "Cleopatra"

"It's" -- Sylvester Stallone, "Rocky"

"But" -- Judy Garland, "The Wizard of Oz"

"You" -- Joe Pesci, "Goodfellas"

"Instead" -- Meryl Streep, "Sophie's Choice"

"Now" -- Gregory Peck, "To Kill a Mockingbird"

"Or" -- Ben Kingsley, "Schindler's List"


Ha ha, oh boy, does that ever bring back some golden memories.  And now, here's one of those delightful stories from Old Hollywood that may be true, or it may be apocryphal...but if it isn't true, it should be!


"THAT'S AWE, FOLKS!"
 
As the story goes: During the crucifixion scene in the star-studded production of THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD, John Wayne played the Roman centurion who delivered the famous line: "Truly, this man was the Son of God."  Unhappy with the first couple of takes, director George Stevens asked Wayne to try the line again, only this time with "more awe." 

Wayne considered Stevens' advice carefully and, during the next take, dramatically intoned the line "Truly...this man was the Son of God"--and then exploded.  The blast took out three soundstages and killed the entire cast, including a thousand extras, and the resulting inferno destroyed most of what was known at the time as "Little Israel", which was also used in such films as ABBOTT AND COSTELLO STAY HOME and THREE GUYS AND SOME SPINACH. 

Wayne had given the line "more awe", all right!  Missing in action after the explosion, he was discovered three months later in Hackensack, New Jersey, managing a small boutique under the name "Beaufort Shmeck."  The famous actor had no memory of the incident, but was later said to often wake up in the middle of the night screaming, "Gah, prunes!!!"



Wow!  What a story.  That Old Hollywood sure had its share of incredible anecdotes that entertain and astound us to this day.  And here's another one, this time involving popular comic actor Don Knotts during the filming of his classic comedy THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN.


"OH, YOU KNOTT-Y BOY"

It seems Don had an unforeseen problem during the big sex scene in which he and co-star Joan Staley are rolling around "buck-nekkid" and covered with molasses in the back of what, unbeknownst to their characters, turns out to be a float in the city's Founders' Day parade.  Well, Don and Joan are having furious "X-rated" sex all the way down Main Street before their characters realize they're being watched by hundreds of shocked townspeople, in what is to be one of the comedy highlights of the film.  Suddenly, Don stands up right in the middle of a take and shouts, at the top of his voice:  "Hey!  I forgot that this is supposed to be a G-RATED movie!" 

Whoops!  Sure enough, while writing the screenplay, the fact that THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN was meant as a wholesome family film had totally slipped Don's mind.  It was only after he'd had sex with former Playboy centerfold Joan Staley approximately sixteen times that this crucial bit of information finally dawned on him.  The scene was then hastily re-written to place Don and Joan's characters (tastefully clothed, of course, and not having sex) at a Chamber of Commerce picnic in honor of Don's character "Luther Heggs."  Attaboy, Luther!

Don later would jokingly refer to the incident as "that funny old slip-up where I accidentally had sex with Joan Staley sixteen times."  Ha, ha--it sure was a humorous mix-up, all right!  But not as humorous as the fact that during filming of Don's next movie, THE RELUCTANT ASTRONAUT... the same mistake happened again!  This time Don inadvertently had sex with attractive co-star Joan Freeman a whopping THIRTY-FIVE TIMES before he remembered that the film was intended for general audiences.  (Sounds like that particular "astronaut" wasn't quite "reluctant" enough!)  The doubly-embarrassed Knotts later admitted:  "It was all my own bone-headed fault, no doubt about it.  I just need to pay more attention while I'm writing those darn screenplays."


And now, here are some more fun movie quotes.  See if you can remember these from your favorite blockbuster films:


"This" -- Vincent Price, "The Ten Commandments"

"I've" -- Jean Harlow, "Grand Hotel"

"Unless" -- Ronald Colman, "The Story of Mankind"

"Because" -- Rock Hudson, "Giant"

"What" -- George Kennedy, "Cool Hand Luke"

"If" -- Fay Wray, "King Kong"


Hoo-boy, you never know what those famous stars are going to say in their classic films!  And finally, here's a terrifying tale from the mist-shrouded mysteries of Old Hollywood's voluminous vault of apocryphal anecdotes.  It's an unnerving urban legend that's reluctantly referred to by the denizens of Dreamland as..."Rhett Butler's Fart."  (Parental discretion advised.)


"BREAKING 'WIND'"

It was during the filming of one of Hollywood's most memorable scenes, as Victor Fleming directed Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh in the unforgettable climax to GONE WITH THE WIND.  All that was left was for Vivian, as Scarlett O'Hara, to breathlessly implore a departing Rhett Butler:  "Rhett, Rhett!  If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?" and for Gable, as the roguish Rhett, to deliver his immortal comeback: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."  Whew...now that's movie history in the making!

There was just one catch...Clark Gable had eaten beans for lunch.  And not just the ordinary portion, but bowls and bowls of them.  It seems Gable was a bean fanatic, known to down a dozen cans in one sitting when the craving was at its peak, and right before the fateful scene was to be shot he had gobbled a record fifteen cans of "Old Faithful" Extra-Strength Ranch-Style Beans while guzzling an entire gallon of Grade A whole milk and six quarts of tutti-fruitti ice cream.  Thus, Gable's innards were positively roiling as Vivian Leigh fed him the line that prompted his historic retort. 

"Rhett, Rhett!" Leigh dramatically intoned.  "If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?"  Without missing a beat, Gable twisted his ruggedly handsome face into that familiar roguish smirk and confidently proclaimed: "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."  FRRRRRRRRRRT!!! 

The horrendous fart blasted the seat out of Gable's pants and took out thousands of dollars worth of scenery, setting it on fire, while the ghastly stench swept instantly throughout the soundstage like a full-scale gas attack.  Cast and crew who were caught in its wake dropped like flies or stood petrified on the spot. 

Vivian Leigh's hair turned white as she sagged backward and crashed through one of the mansion's front windows.  Paint melted and dripped down the backdrops used to represent the scenery surrounding Tara before they, too, went up in flames.  The hapless Fleming, who had been standing directly behind Gable at "ground zero", went missing for six weeks and was later discovered in a traveling circus, where the amnesia-stricken director was performing nightly as "Stinko, the Chicken Geek." 

When asked about the incident later by famed gossip columnist Louella Parsons, an insouciant and unrepentent Gable gave his customary smirk and remarked: "Frankly my dear, I still don't give a damn."  With that, he threw back his head with a resounding belly-laugh.  Everyone else joined him in laughter, there was a freeze-frame, and the closing credits rolled.  And folks--that's Old Hollywood for you! 



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: "AIRPORT '11"

PORFLE PRESENTS: "HORSE ATTACK!!!"

I don't go to the movies very often anymore, but last week I was having my house sprayed for fleas and needed a place to hang out for a couple of hours.  Since I no longer frequent pool halls and videogame arcades as I did in my younger days, the movie theater seemed to be my best bet.  Unfortunately, there was hardly anything playing besides Best Picture nominees, so I decided to take in a film I'd never heard of with the colorful title of HORSE ATTACK!!!

As I sat through the coming attractions, deftly applying several little packets of mustard and relish to the lukewarm, semi-cooked hot dog that I'd purchased for five bucks from an indifferent snack bar attendant, my imagination ran wild at the thought of the impending horse attack that would be assailing my senses in mere minutes.  Of course, your standard horse attack probably wouldn't be all that exciting, but with three exclamation marks in the title, HORSE ATTACK!!! promised to be a humdinger of a film. 

Little did I know that only a few months earlier, a pre-release screening of HORSE ATTACK!!! for the head of Imperial Studios had been less than successful.  A particular bone of contention came in relation to, not surprisingly, the big horse attack sequence.  The setting was a typical city street with ordinary people walking to and fro about their daily lives, when suddenly Natalie Portman leapt into the frame, pointed, and screamed, "HORSE ATTACK!!!"

"NOOOOOO!!!  YAAAAAAA!!!" bellowed another woman, played by fellow Oscar-winner Sandra Bullock.  She dropped her grocery bag, which had celery greens and an egg carton sticking out of the top just like grocery bags in movies always have, and ran away in stark terror.

The rest of the players began to scurry and hop around, flailing their arms and screaming at the top of their lungs.  "HELP!!! HELP!!! THE HORSES ARE ATTACKING US!!!" cried the film's director in his usual cameo role.

Frantic neighing and clippity-clop sounds filled the air as the characters on the screen rolled around in their death throes.  Sprawled between the sidewalk and the curb, a look of inutterable anguish on his face, Morgan Freeman croaked a dying lament in his distinctive voice.  "We...had no... warning...(gurgle)"

Then the camera panned to the right to reveal Jeff Goldblum standing there, assessing the situation.  "Horses...horses..." he was muttering to himself, making a series of eccentric hand gestures.  "Let's just stop for a minute and think about these...horses.  Where do they come from?  What do they want?  Now, if we could...discern...the answers to these questions...then...then...we'd have something." 

"Stop the projector!" boomed a commanding voice.  The screening room went dark, then was illuminated by the overhead lights.  Studio executive J. Warner Wanger turned in his seat to face the film's producer, Feldmar Burrito, who asked, "Is there a problem, J.W.?"

"Well, I do have a question," said Wanger.  "Where are the horses?"

"Horses?" Burrito responded, perplexed.  "What horses?"

"The horses that are supposed to be attacking everybody!" Wanger shot back.  "Where the hell are they?"

"Oh!" said Burrito, finally understanding the meaning of Wanger's words.  "Well, unfortunately, we ran out of money for special effects."

"What do you mean, you ran out of money?"

"CGI is expensive, sir.  Why, these days, just a single digital horse costs upwards of--"

"I know how much it costs!" Wanger cut in, irritated.  "So, why not use real horses?"

"Real horses?" asked Burrito, confused.  "Is there such a thing?"

"What do you mean, 'is there such a thing'?  Of course there's such a thing!"

"You mean, like, on some other planet?"

"No, no!" Wanger sputtered, not quite understanding the question.  "Right here on earth.  Horses are indigenous to earth!"

"THEY ARE?" Burrito marveled.  "WOW!  I thought they were just some kind of imaginary creatures whipped up by special-effects technicians for all those Westerns and Robin Hood movies and whatnot!"

"Don't forget NATIONAL VELVET," added a junior executive.

"Shut up!" said Wanger.  "Listen, Burrito--there's no way we can release this picture without horses it it.  Why, we'd be the laughing stock of Hollywood!  A horse-attack movie without any horses!"

Burrito thought about it for a minute, then snapped his fingers.  "I've got it!  We can stick a title card at the beginning of the movie, telling everyone to IMAGINE the horses!"

"IMAGINE the horses?" echoed Wanger.  "But...that's ridiculous!"

"Sorry, J.W, but it's either that or get rid of Portman, Bullock, Freeman, and Goldblum.  Well, maybe not Goldblum.  His mom wrote the screenplay." 

"And THE BLACK STALLION," added the junior executive.

"SHUT UP!" spat Wanger.  "Hmmm...'imagine' the horses.  Maybe this'll work after all.  We can tell people it's like a brand-new kind of 3D or something."

"Movies of the mind...IMAGI-MOVIES!" gushed Burrito, squirming in his seat.  "It'll be the greatest film innovation since...since that thing they invented where you could hear people talking and horns honking and stuff!"

"You mean 'sound'?"

"YES!  YES!  SOUND!" screamed Burrito.  "IMAGI-MOVIES WILL BE BIGGER THAN SOUND!"

And so, a few months later, there I was sitting in the theater watching HORSE ATTACK!!! and imagining the horses during the actual horse-attack scenes.  I heard a little kid on the next row ask his parents if he could go to the bathroom, and they told him to just imagine he was going to the bathroom.  Then I looked over and spotted a young couple sitting there imagining that they were making out instead of actually making out.  I tried to imagine that the hot dog I'd just eaten didn't give me gas and that HORSE ATTACK!!! didn't totally suck, but it was no use. 

I found out later that movie concession sales, where theaters actually earn most of their profits, were plummetting across America because patrons were imagining that they were eating popcorn and hot dogs and stuff instead of buying them.  Pretty soon, people simply started staying home and imagining that they were at the movies. 

This began to carry over into all other areas of popular entertainment as well, with millions of people avoiding concerts, video games, TV shows, live theater, sporting events, brothels, and even restaurants, and cavorting instead within a mental wonderland of their own imagining.  This lasted until studio executives put out a press release announcing that imagining things was "out of style", causing panicked theatergoers to rush back to the movies in droves.  

Well, believe it or not, I purchased HORSE ATTACK!!! when it was released on DVD, because the box promised extra nude scenes not included in the feature version.  It turned out the bonus footage consisted of Morgan Freeman applying medicated ointment to his left buttock after being bitten by a horse.  So I guess HORSE ATTACK!!! got the last laugh after all--the old "horse laugh", that is! (wink)



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

Thanks to Stripcreator.com for the image!

PORFLE'S OBSCURE MOVIE FACTS

Ah, Hollywood...that most mysterious of places.  Its dark secrets are legendary, its mysteries deep and often disturbing.  Even its fruitily fraudulent and fictitious fables of fanatastic fickle fate are frankly fascinating when foisted as fact. 

Here, then, are some of Hollywood's most tantalizing tales, titillatingly touted as truth, yet fabulously fabricated--and ribbed--for your pleasure...



"A VIN-VIN SITUATION"

Currently languishing in production limbo is a film biography of Vin Diesel entitled OUR VIN HAS TENDER GRAPES. 

Interestingly, he wouldn't be playing himself.  "I do not think that Vin Diesel would be a good choice for the title role," reveals writer-director Al Gore.  "I believe that it would be more interesting to cast someone like Paris Hilton or Haley Joel Osment as Vin Diesel." Vin Diesel himself would instead be portraying his mother, Mrs. Diesel, which insiders have already deemed likely to garner him a major acting award. 

When asked for his own opinion on this unique casting choice, Vin remarked:  "I like hot dogs."



"SCHLOCK-BUSTER"

Legendary comedian Buster Keaton was once hired by a studio known as Big Historical Pictures to write, direct, and star in an epic film about former president Millard Fillmore. 

During filming, however, Keaton was struck on the head while performing a stunt and forgot what the movie was supposed to be about, subsequently turning in a raucous comedy entitled ME WHAT HUH? OH HA-HA POTATOES.  Big Historical Pictures, which had already spent thousands printing up posters proclaiming "Buster Keaton IS...'Millard Fillmore'", retaliated by hiring an artist to replace the words "Millard Fillmore" with the words "a dumbass"  and distributing the altered posters to movie theaters, airports, train stations, and elementary schools throughout the United States and Canada, effectively ending Keaton's movie career. 

The aborted ME WHAT HUH? OH HA-HA POTATOES project was then augmented with footage newly shot by William Beaudine and transformed into a prestige vehicle for George Arliss entitled MARS NEEDS HAMSTERS.  Arliss' career never recovered, although nobody noticed and he went on to star in several more films as Edna May Oliver.



"BORIS TO TEARS"

Legendary horror film bogeyman Boris Karloff...was a woman. Born Wilma Henrietta Pratt, she first pretended to be a man in an attempt to win the lead role in a stage production entitled "Blarney on the High Seas." After landing in Hollywood, her desire to reveal her true gender as "Doris Karloff" was thwarted when the role of Elizabeth in FRANKENSTEIN went to Mae Clarke, forcing the tearful young actress to audition as the Monster instead.

In 1966, she welcomed the chance to reveal her true appearance to the world as "Mother Muffin" on the TV series "The Girl from U.N.C.L.E."



"SHA-KA-REE"

The role of "Star Trek"'s Captain James T. Kirk, which made William Shatner an instant star, almost went to...Sean Connery.  "I thought it might be a lark," the distinguished actor revealed to us over a late lunch of spaghetti and meatballs under glass in the Parisian Room at Toots Shor's.  "Wear a silly costume...shoot a ray gun...have sex with a few birds done up in green paint and sparkles.  I was tired of playing Bond." 

Things got a little real, however, when Connery discovered that he would be expected to wear a toupee.  "I was tired of balancing a rug on my head," the chrome-domed actor admitted while casually tucking into a rich dessert of banana split under glass.  "When I proposed doing the part sans hairpiece, they laughed at me.  'Whoever heard of a bald captain?' they jeered.  Well, I was proven right after all, wasn't I?  I mean, just look at the bloody 'Love Boat.'  So, I wished the next chap jolly good luck and hoped he didn't mind wearing the damned thing." 

When asked by the producers if he would consider playing a different role on the show, Connery offered a dismissive reply.  "'Listen', I told them," the stuffed actor recalled while contentedly passing after-dinner gas in Toots Shor's exclusive Flatulence Room, "I said, 'Tell you what--why don't you create a new character with ears like a jackrabbit, no emotions whatsoever, and hair like Moe Howard of the Three Stooges, and then get some unknown Jewish chap from Canada with a funny name to play him.'  Then I told them all to 'live long and prosper' on my way out the door.  Never did find out what become of their silly little space show."



"SCREAM-OF-CHICKEN SCOOP"

Although Universal Pictures successfully kept most of the rumors under wraps, insiders still whisper about the apparent curse of evil that plagued production of the supernatural comedy-thriller, THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN.

Filming began under a cloud of unease when director Alan Rafkin mysteriously misplaced his megaphone and was forced to shout instructions to the cast and crew, which by the end of the shoot had resulted in a painful sore throat. The missing item was later discovered in a pawn shop in Philadelphia. "To this day," Rafkin once told friends, "I sometimes I wake up screaming...still screaming at Reta Shaw to get away from the craft services table and back to the set."

More ill fortune, seemingly from beyond, continued to stalk the soundstage. Charles Lane, as malevolent bad-guy lawyer Whitlow, reportedly showed up to work for days at a time in a good mood. "He had a sort of lilt in his step," recalled co-star Robert Cornthwaite with a shudder. "Happy, whistling little tunes...and, God help us, smiling. It was ghastly. Finally, several of us had to physically hold him down and show him nude photos of Jim Begg on horseback just to snap him out of it."

The worst, however, seemed reserved for hapless star Don Knotts, who appeared to be the center of whatever evil forces hung over the set. Lurene Tuttle recalled: "One day, between scenes, Don was playing mumblety-peg with Skip Homeier, and something distracted him for just a moment, and the next thing you know, Skip was dead." Added Ellen Corby: "Donny felt terrible about it. He hadn't accidentally killed anyone since 'No Time For Sergeants', but that had only been a couple of extras from the mess hall scene."

She continued: "Well, the casting people had a dickens of a time scrounging up another Skip Homeier before we fell behind schedule. But luckily a group of anthropologists in Uruguay had just stumbled upon a tribe of wild Homeiers in a jungle somewhere and captured one of them alive. Oh, he was wild--much wilder than the other one. Don eventually had to kill that one, too, when he attacked him during the typesetting scene." Homeier's part was then completed by a double who was shot from behind, when Don Knotts' gun accidentally went off while he was cleaning it.

But the most horrific misfortune was yet to come. A distraught Dick Sargent explained: "I was there the day Don bent over to pick up an errant script page and split his pants. One moment he was happy, joking with Joan Staley about what a world-class rack she had, and then..." He mimicked the blood-chilling sound. "It was a gaping rip, right down the seat of Don's pants, and...Joan saw his underwear. She tried not to laugh, but that just made it worse. Pretty soon everyone was laughing...Joan, me, Jesslyn Fax, Nydia Westman...even Burt Mustin, who wasn't even there that day. And that's when the infamous 'Ghost and Mr. Chicken Death Curse' began. Don killed us all--tracked us down like a rabid timber wolf, eyes blazing with blood lust, and slaughtered us all in our sleep."

When later questioned about this startling accusation by his trusted family lawyer, Tom Hagen, Don Knotts was coldly dismissive. "I never felt as though I had to kill everyone, Tom--only my enemies. Now, are you going to go along with me on these things that I have to do? Because if not, you can take your wife, your kids--and your mistress--and move them all to Las Vegas."


(Thanks to Ted Newsom for the "Obscure Movie Facts!" idea.)
(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)