"What Jim Wants To Be" by Porfle Popnecker

 

 

 One day, Jim suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair. "I think I'll join the clergy," he said resolutely.
 

His friend Bob, sitting across the desk from him, shook his head. "Sorry, Jim. You're an atheist. That automatically disqualifies you from being in the clergy."
 

Jim's brow knitted. "It does?" he said, disappointed. "Entirely?"
 

"I'm afraid so."
 

Jim thought for a long moment, then brightened. "I know. I'll be a rabbi. That's it. I'll be one of those rabbis."
 

Bob shook his head. "Sorry again, Jim, but the old 'atheist' thing applies there as well."

"Darn!" Jim exhaled. "Well, what doesn't it exclude? What in the name of...well, you know...does it NOT exclude?" Then he snapped his fingers. "I know! I'll be a...a dinosaur hunter!"
 

Bob shook his head. "Nope."
 

"Dinosaur trainer? Like, in a circus?"
 

"Nope," Bob repeated.
 

"Dinosaur veterinarian? Dinosaur chef? Dinosaur baby-sitter?"
 

"Nope...nope...nope..." Bob countered, adding, "Dinosaurs are extinct, Jim."
 

Jim threw up his hands in total defeat. "Well then, what in the heck-darn, cotton-pickin', macaroni-munchin', gosh-all git-out CAN I be?"
 

Bob looked up from his copy of "Proust For Dummies" and grimaced. "Jim! You're President of the United States! That's a pretty big deal! What the heck more do you want to be?!"
 

Jim's face went slack. "President of the United States? Is that good?"
 

"Well," Bob replied. "Historically, it's something an awful lot of people have aspired to. In fact, many consider the President of the United States to be the most powerful man in the world."
 

"And that's good?"
 

"Well, it isn't NOT good."
 

"Hmm," Jim said, considering the words 'it isn't NOT good' while stroking his chin. "So I'm the President." Then he brightened, snapping his fingers. "Hey! Is that why we're in the White House right now? And is that why we're in the Oval Office right now? And is THAT why I'm sitting at this big desk right now?"
 

Bob rolled his eyes ever-so-slightly, not wishing to make Jim feel dumb. "Yes, Jim. Right, right, right. On all counts, right."
 

"Wow," Jim marveled. "I musta forgot.  You know...about aspiring to be President and all. And, uh...about running for President and all. And being in those, err, 'debates' and all."
 

"And winning by a landslide and all," Bob added.
 

Jim smiled. "Gosh! That IS pretty good! I guess I'll be happy now, Bob! Huh, Bob! Happy!"
 

Bob nodded, relieved. "Yes, Jim. You should. Yes, yes. Good. Yes."
 

"Happy President!" Jim cried. "Happy President of the United States!" Then he had another sudden thought. "Hey, maybe I could be President of the United States...AND a rabbi."
 

"Nope. The 'atheist' thing."
 

"Darn! How about President of the United States and a dinosaur hunter?"
 

"Nope. The old 'dinosaurs are extinct' thing."
 

"Drat! That old thing again!" Then a sudden thought hit him again, making only the second one that week. "Bob," he said tentatively. "What's an 'atheist', anyway?"
 

Bob explained it to him, slowly and carefully. Jim tilted his head. "I'm one of those?" he said. 
 

"Yes," said Bob.
 

"Well...do I HAVE to be?"
 

With a dull, resigned head shake, Bob said, "No, Jim. You don't have to be."
 

"Yippee!" Jim cheered, jumping out of his chair and dancing around the Oval Office. "Now I can be anything! ANYTHING!" 
 

He stopped short, his mental gears clicking a tad. "Except a dinosaur hunter. Dinosaurs are extinct. But, anything else. Anything else! ANYTHING ELSE! YAAAAY!"
 

At the World Summit Meeting later that day, the most important dignitaries from around the globe were astonished when the President of the United States skipped merrily to the podium and addressed the assemblage, both those in person and those watching by the millions on television, with the following feverishly excited news announcement:

"I CAN BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND ANYTHING ELSE!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "ANYTHING! ANYTHING ELSE! CLERGYMAN! RABBI! DINOSAUR HUNTER!"
 

A small voice came from one of the middle rows. "Dinosaurs are extinct, Mr. President."
 

"SHUT UP!!!"

 

 

 

PORFLE PRESENTS: "TALES FROM THE OLD CRACKER BARREL"

 

TALES FROM THE OLD CRACKER BARREL
by Porfle Popnecker

 

(Note:  I got tired of writing this story after awhile so I gave it an abrupt, anti-climactic ending.

One morning, I was so happy that I bounded out of bed, crashed through the window next to my bed, and fell two stories into one of those really prickly thorn bushes.

I got up, ran back inside,jumped back into bed, and then bounded out of bed again, only this time being careful to bound out of the other side of the bed that didn't have a window right next to it. I landed on my skateboard, flew screaming across the room, and crashed through the window on the other side of my bedroom.

This time I landed on top of my Dad's incredibly expensive foreign sports car and blew out both the front and rear windshields while caving in the top so completely that it smashed into the steering wheel and set the ear-piercing horn blaring.

I sat there, dazed, amidst the ruins of Dad's car, and thought about what had just happened. "I could've been more careful getting out of bed just then," I chided myself. "If I'd only practiced more restraint, none of these unfortunate things would have occurred. Or, at least, they would have been considerably less likely to have occurred."

Just then, the car's radio came on by itself and there just happened to be an important news bulletin coming out of it. "Important news bulletin!" a strident voice announced. "Today's government directive is that horses are now dogs! Repeat...HORSES ARE NOW DOGS!"

"YAAAY!!!" I screamed, hopping down off the wreckage and practically flying into the house. I ran into my parents' bedroom where they still slept soundly, and leapt onto their bed, causing them both to elevate a good two feet with their limbs flailing before flopping back onto the mattress, dazed.

Shaking his head, Dad looked at me angrily. "What's the meaning of this?" he grunted. Then a sudden realization seemed to settle into his mind. "Oh, right," he mumbled. "It's you. Never mind. Why did I even ask?" For a second, it looked as if he might start to sob.

Perceiving that a more calm and rational demeanor was now required of me, I gathered myself and spoke softly and slowly. "Dad," I said, almost whispering, "how many horses do we have?"

Dad was visibly puzzled by my question, but knew that there was no use in trying to sort out my motives for asking it. "Why, we have many horses. We live on a horse ranch, after all. We have an entire herd of horses."

I smiled, maintaining a calm exterior while bursting like fireworks on the Fourth of July on the inside. "Dad," I said, suppressing my excitement. "Did you know that horses are now dogs?"

This time he had to ask. "What...? What the hell do you mean? Why are you--"

I grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed into his face with all the sheer intensity I could muster. "HORSES ARE NOW DOGS!!! HORSES ARE NOW DOGS!!! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS??? DAD!!! IT MEANS WE HAVE A WHOLE HERD OF DOGS!!! I'VE WANTED A DOG MY WHOLE LIFE, AND NOW WE HAVE A WHOLE HERD OF DOGS!!! DOGS, DOGS, DOGS!!!"

Mom, who in her half-sleep had barely followed the conversation thus far, staggered out of bed and ran to the back window to see if something had happened to their precious horses, upon whom our very livelihood depended since Mom and Dad ran one of the leading horse ranches in the state. Peering out with her eyes squinted, she said, "Why, there's nothing wrong with those horses--"

"DOGS!!!" I screamed. "There's nothing wrong with those DOGS!!!" With that, I tired of my verbal exchange with the 'rents and ran outside, clambering over the back fence and running out into the pasture amongst my wonderful new pets. I was surrounded by dogs!

Picking up a stick, I hurled it across the field. "FETCH!" I screamed at the nearest dog. "Fetch the stick, boy! Fetch! FETCH!"

The big dog merely neighed at me in alarm and ran away, its tail swishing like a giant tassel. I ran and retrieved the stick, then tried to get up a fun game of fetch with the other dogs.  One by one, they all merely neighed in alarm and galloped away, just like the first one.

I sank to my knees in the tall, dewy grass of that wide, rolling pasture and wept. Or at least I pretended to weep. I was really just squeezing out some fake "crocodile" tears designed to make the dogs feel sorry for me and come back and want to play fetch. But it didn't work.

"What do I do now?" I thought to myself. My new dogs were defective! Should I set the house on fire? Should I steal a forklift and drive it through my neighbor's ten-million-dollar mansion and into the swimming pool in his backyard? Or were there other, even more effective things I could do in the form of a protest against such an unjust fate?

Then, it happened. A rare, once-in-a-lifetime lucid thought, one which contained a precious spark of rationality, made its way warily into my head. It was as if the voice of a wise old sage had somehow wafted into my brain. It spoke to me in a calming fashion that I heeded with keen attention.

"Horses are not dogs," the voice said. "That was just one of those dumb jokes that morning radio deejays come up with. If you'd just listened to the rest of the broadcast, you'd have heard him say he was only kidding about horses being dogs now."

"Oh," I said dejectedly, regretting my failure to hear the deejay's explanatory disclaimer. "Well then, I guess all I have are a herd of plain old horses. Instead of dogs, that is."

"No," said the voice. "You don't even have a herd of horses anymore. You chased them all away."

Realizing that there was no use in putting it off, I tromped back into the house and into my parents' bedroom, where they were still lying there in shock. "I chased all the horses away, Dad," I announced. "The 'horses are dogs' thing turned out to be a false alarm. So now, we don't have any horses OR dogs."

"Well then, we're ruined," said Dad, the realization settling over his face like a shroud.

"Yeah," I affirmed. "Well, I guess I'll mosey on down to the general store. Looks like I've finally got a dandy yarn to tell around the old cracker barrel."  

And that, my friends, is how I became known as the most thoughtless, impetuous, delusional, and potentially dangerous person in the whole town. Maybe even the whole county.

THE END 

PORFLE VS. STAND-UP COMICS

Hiya, folks--thanks for coming to my show. I'm really glad to be here. Come to think of it, I'm really glad to be anywhere, because if I wasn't, it would mean that I didn't exist.

 Hey, ever notice how people eat when they're hungry? That's messed up. I think people should eat when they're thirsty. And have sex when they're hungry. And drink when they're horny.

 I was looking at my feet the other day and noticing that I have ten toes. Why ten? I don't get it. Ten toes. Why not twelve? Why not twenty? Or fifty? Why not a thousand toes? And while I'm thinking about it, why aren't people born with unicycles between their legs? Huh? Crazy.

 I think that babies should be taught to ride motorcycles before they learn how to walk. Not little baby-sized ones, of course--that would be ridiculous. I'm talking about real, full-sized Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Choppers, full-dressers, like, hogs, whatever. This probably wouldn't be any kind of advantage in the baby's development or anything, but it would be interesting to watch. And you could set up ramps for them so they could try to jump over stuff. Just imagine the YouTube videos. "Ha, ha, here comes baby"--crash.

 Relationships...hoo, boy. I lived with this chick once, it was a nightmare. Sure, I tried to be Mr. Nice Guy, but she was never satisfied. Like, she kept insisting that I should let her live INSIDE the house. I'm like, "What? Who's gonna bark at prowlers? I can't afford to feed a dog." And she didn't share my love for Easter Egg hunts, either. Even though I tried to make them more fun by replacing the Easter Eggs with my used underwear for her to wash after she found them all. You'd think, "fun"--right? She just didn't get it.

 You know what I like? Ice cream. I like to shove it in my underwear. Like, about two, three gallons, you know? Pack it in there, right around my goodies. Makes me feel like an ice cream cone...like a human ice cream cone. Walk around in the park and say to people, "Hey, you--come lick the human ice cream cone." Anybody tries to mess with you, you just fly away. You know, like Superman.

 I tried being one of those birthday party clowns for awhile, but it didn't work out. I was Ku Klux Klown. I'd burn a cross in front of the kids, you know, dance around it chanting "white power", stuff like that, but like, funny. Then I'd make funny balloon animals. It got to where nobody would hire me after a few times. I think it might've been because of the balloon animals. Kids today just have a shorter attention span.

 And hey, what about this political situation in the world today? Is it nuts or what? Huh? Am I right? I can't believe some of this stuff going on. I look at the paper and think "wow." Just, "wow." Freaky.

 Well, thanks everyone, you've been great. Here's a little song I like to close my show with:

 (bouncy music)

 Oh, I love to entertain
 And share my funny brain
 With all you lovely people in the audience.

 I kid with some of you
 And tell a joke or two
 And even (FRRRRT!!!) release a little flatulence.

 Before you leave, I think that you should know
 I peed in all your drinks before the show

 So don't forget to laugh
 Have sex with a giraffe
 Then take a bubble bath in your commode.

PORFLE PRESENTS: "THE 12 TATER TOTS OF CHRISTMAS"

(Here's something I wrote a LONG time ago for a now-defunct site called "Bumscorner."  You'll notice the prices are a bit out of date now.  Also,  my diet has changed considerably.)

Usually I spend all the Christmas money I get on DVDs. I love DVDs. If I were Richie Rich, I would take all the money he wastes on stupid stuff like robot maids and genetically-altered dogs that have spots shaped like dollar signs and spend it on millions of DVDs, and Freckles and Pee-Wee would secretly hate my guts even more. However...

Something about the Christmas season makes me really, really hungry. So I'm taking the hundred bucks that sweet old Granny Bum gave me for Christmas to Wal-Mart to buy a month's worth of groceries. "But, porfle," you're thinking, "you can't buy a whole month's worth of groceries for $100." Well, we're certainly going to give it a shot.

I like to work the food section at Wal-Mart from right to left, so first we wheel our shopping cart into the dairy aisle.

 2 gallons of cheap milk
 1 tub house brand margerine
 1 dozen house brand jumbo eggs

Money remaining: $91.50

Now we veer into the meat section. (I'll bet that's the first time today that you've heard someone say that.)

 1 package of basic, non-fancy bologna
 2 packs of standard, no-frills Oscar Meyer wieners

You'd be surprised how much stuff you can cook with just those simple elements. Two diced-up microwaved wieners provide plenty of savory meat for a whole variety of cheap dishes you can make with side-dish packets. And a single diced-up slice of bologna, fried with diced onions, really sets off a steaming pile of scrambled eggs mixed with diced tomatoes, jalepenos, and cheese. Also, four or five slices of bologna cut in half, fried, and served with canned spinach and tater tots is a feast fit for a king. Why, Donald Trump's fat ass never had it so good.

Money remaining: $87.00

Now we leave the meat section to procure some non-edible items. I know you'd rather stay there for awhile, because that's where the steaks, pork chops, rump roasts, and other wonderful, yummy things are. But we must ignore them. They are for people who have rich grannies.

Non-edible items which must be procured:

 1 box dishwasher detergent
 1 three-pack cheapo paper towels
 1 pack of Raid Flea Foggers because I have cats
 1 four-pack of deluxe double-ply Charmin toilet tissue (because there are some things you just can't skimp on)

Money remaining: $77.00

And now, although we are being as frugal as possible, we must have snacks. Snacks are what separate humans from the animals, because animals don't watch TV.

 1 15-pack of Pop Weaver popcorn
 1 party-sized can of house brand peanuts
 1 family-sized bag of no-frills tortilla chips
 1 large container of hot sauce (or "salsa")
 1 package of cheap glazed oatmeal cookies
 1 package of cheap chocolate-covered graham crackers
 4 bags of Sam's Choice cheese puffs

Forget about those decadent name-brand Cheetos. Sam's Choice cheese puffs are only a dollar a bag, and they fill the bags up almost to the top. This alone is enough to make me glad Sam Walton was born.

Tortilla chips and hot sauce are a must, because they can either be a snack or a delicious side dish for almost any meal. If you're lucky enough to live in or around East Texas you can get Albert's Hot Sauce. If not, you must settle for an inferior brand.

Money remaining: $56.00

Moving on, it is now time to hit the aisles that feature canned foods, rice, packaged mixes, etc. These are highly important because they help form the basis for the wonderful and exciting super-cheap meals that we will prepare during the month.

I love spinach. A can of house-brand spinach is only fifty cents. Another brand has a picture of Popeye on the label, but you must resist buying it because it costs ten cents more, and that's just for the picture of Popeye.

8 cans of non-Popeye spinach

Cheap rice is only forty-eight cents a bag. FORTY-EIGHT CENTS! Half a bag of cooked rice mixed with a cheap can of chili and beans or vegetable beef soup, cheese, onions, and spices makes an incredible meal that will last most people at least two or three days. HOLY CATS! Paris Hilton doesn't know what the hell she's missing.

 2 bags cheap rice
 2 cans cheap chili and beans
 2 cans cheap vegetable beef soup

Oh yeah, cheese:

 1 block house brand extra-sharp cheddar cheese

Here's another mind-boggling bargain: a large can of brand-name spaghetti sauce is only a buck! And a pound of spaghetti or vermicelli is also only a buck! That's two bucks for a huge, steaming mass of spaghetti that will last you almost a week! It's almost too much for our puny minds to comprehend.

 1 large can brand-name spaghetti sauce
 1 package spaghetti or vermicelli

Money remaining: $41.00

While we're here, we must pick up some packaged mixes, such as noodle or rice based side-dish packets, potato mixes, mashed potatoes, and macaroni-and-cheese. These can be mixed with diced wieners or tuna to create delicious entrees. If you've never let your imagination run wild with this kind of stuff, you wouldn't believe how good it can be. That's right -- you can mix diced wieners with mashed potatoes, onions, and spices, pour some cheap gravy on it, and make a meal that would have Arnold Schwarzenegger himself vowing: "I'll be back -- for seconds!"

 2 house brand side-dish packets
 1 box mashed potatoes
 2 boxes potato mix (scalloped, au gratin, etc.)
 1 box macaroni-and-cheese
 2 cans house brand tuna

Money remaining: $34.00

Bread, gotta have bread. Sandwiches are a great way to stretch your grocery dollars. And you must have buttered toast with your scrambled eggs and bologna. Get the cheapest bread available, and keep it in the refrigerator -- I guarantee you it will stay fresh for a month.

Sandwich accessories include pickles, peanut butter, and onions. (Not at the same time, however, unless you like really weird sandwiches.) And if you're like me, you also love tortillas. They're great with some melted cheese, onions, and hot sauce rolled up in them.

 1 loaf cheap bread
 1 jar cheap peanut butter
 1 jar cheap pickles
 1 package cheap tortillas

Money remaining: $26.00

And now for one of the most important food items you will ever purchase, the one that makes it worth getting out of bed in the morning and struggling through yet another grueling day of horrible, drudge-filled existence -- tater tots. Oh, the unallayed joy a pan of hot tater tots baked to a crisp, golden brown can bring. They go with everything, even other potatoes. They can be dipped in ketchup, mustard, or -- for an added thrill -- steak sauce. If I were John Steinbeck, I would have written a novel entitled "The Tater Tots Of Wrath." If I were Martin Scorcese, I would have directed a movie called "Raging Tater Tots." If I were the Beatles, my first single would have been "I Wanna Hold Your Tater Tots."

 2 large bags house brand tater tots
 1 large bottle cheap ketchup
 1 large bottle cheap mustard
 1 small bottle cheap steak sauce

Money remaining: $16.50

Gasp...give me a moment to catch my breath here. Okay, now we must have beverages. Especially the ones that I'm addicted to because they have caffeine in them.

 1 large can house brand 100% Colombian coffee
 2 family-sized boxes Lipton teabags

That's it for beverages. If it ain't coffee, tea, or milk, then it isn't worth whatever you have to shell out for it. And water is cheap.

Money remaining: $7.50

Wow! Look at all the cool foodstuffs we've bought for the month, and we still have some money left over! Now all we have to do is head for the checkout and -- uh-oh. Don't look! Avert your gaze! Rats...too late. It's -- the deli section. The place where they have crispy, spicy, marinated chicken tenders...juicy barbecued sausage on a stick...luscious mashed potatoes and gravy...impossibly cheesy macaroni-and-cheese...potato salad like Mom used to make...oh...drool...

Money remaining: $1.00

Well, that's it. We made it to the checkout with enough food for a month (well, sorta) for a hundred bucks, and a dollar left over. If we can just ignore all the impulse items they put here to scoop up your last remaining -- what's this? A DVD of "Bela Lugosi Meets A Brooklyn Gorilla" for only a buck? I'LL TAKE IT!

PORFLE VS. ENNUI

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Porfle's Gert Frobe Adventure

PORFLE PRESENTS: "FORREST GUMP--THE NEXT DAY"

Hello.  My name's Forrest, Forrest Gump.  One day I was sittin' on this old tree stump down by the road right after I had put my little boy, Li'l Forrest, on the school bus to school because he was goin' to school and the school bus was goin' there too, and so I figured I might as well put him on it so that they could both go there togethah.  To school, that is. 

I had just been in a movie about me called FORREST GUMP and the movie ended with me a-sittin' right there on that old stump just thinkin' and ponderin' about what all had happened to me durin' my life and evah thang. And the movie had ended with me sittin' right there on that old stump, and so now here I still am.  I guess it was time to end that part of my story and start another one like they do on TV when there's a commercial in between parts. 

There may have been a commercial in between these parts too, I don't know.  You only know about those kinds of things if you're watchin' it, not if you're bein' in it yourself.  If there was a commercial I hope it was a commercial for Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, because Bubba was my best good friend and his pitcha is on evah jar of Bubba Gump Shrimp, and for a limited time only you can send in for your very own life-size Bubba ventriloquist dummeh and put on your own Bubba puppet shows. 

I used to just mow the football field with my ridin' lawn mowah but now in addition to that I put on Bubba puppet shows for the children of the town of Greenbow, Alabama.  But since I do both of those things at the same time, and since I'm goin' back and forth on my lawn mowah, the children have to run after me in order to keep up with what's goin' on with my Bubba puppet show. 

Well, the bad thing is that the children get tired runnin' up and down the football field, followin' aftah me to keep up with the Bubba puppet show, so I kinda have to turn around and start runnin' aftah them while I'm doin' it, and that seems to scare them for some reason.  Also since the motah is so loud I kinda have to scream out all the words that me and Bubba are supposed to be sayin' to each other during the show.

I don't know why little children would be scared to see me chasin' aftah them on a ridin' lawn mowah with a big ol' life-size Bubba ventriloquist dummeh on my knee  and both of us screamin' at each othah at the top of our lungs, but for some curious reason it show does.  Momma always said that when somethin' happens then it show does happen, and show nuff it does.  That's all I have to say about that.

So ennaways I was drivin' my lawn mowah aftah some little kids who was runnin' for their lives and I was screamin' "HOWDY BUBBA, HOW YOU DOIN' TODAY" and Bubba was screamin' "OH, AHM DOIN' JESS FINE FORRES', AND HEY, DO YOU KNOW WHAT ALL DIFF'RENT KINDA SHRIMPS THEY IS" and I screamed "NO BUBBA, HOW MANY IS THEY" and Bubba screamed "WELL THEY'S, UHH, SHRIMP SAM-WICH, SHRIMP PATTIES, SHRIMP COOKIES, SHRIMP 'SGHETTI, SHRIMP ICEBOX PIE, SHRIMP 'NANA SPLIT, SHRIMP SHAKES, SHRIMP ADE, SHRIMP NOG, SHRIMP EGGS BACON AND SHRIMP, SHRIMP EGGS SAUSAGE SPAM AND SHRIMP, SHRIMP SHRIMP SHRIMP SHRIMP SHRIMP AND SHRIMP..."

Well, by this time the screaming and shrieking children had all outrun me an' Bubba which was okay since I had made a wrong turn at the end of the football field and crashed through a big ol' picture window and right into the old folks' home.  I couldn't stop since mah brakes had burnt out but the old folks was doin' a fine job of runnin' for their lives on their canes and walkahs and wheelchay-uhs so I just went right on ahead and started screamin' out my Bubba puppet show fuh them instead. 

"...SHRIMP BRAN, SHRIMP MUSH, SHIMP 'N' PRUNES, SHRIMP-LAX..." 

It was a fine day, and when I met the school bus that aftahnoon Li'l Forrest come bouncin' offa there with all kinds of stories he'd heard that day about a crazy insane psycho ridin' around on a lawn mowah just like mine and screamin' his head off at a big life-size Bubba dummeh just like mine and scarin' all the little children and the old folks half to death, and I thought "My! I shore am glad I didn't run inta that there fella."

NEWSFLASH: PORFLE POPNECKER RELEASES STATEMENT

In a startling development today, Porfle Popnecker today released a statement today.

The statement, which he made, was his. It was also made by him, being that it was his statement, which he made and which was made by him and on his behalf by himself, in relation to the statement that he, not you, but he, and nobody else, made.

The statement, which he made today, was made by him today. When asked today if it had been made yesterday, a source close to the story confirmed today that no, it had not been made yesterday but had indeed been made today instead of yesterday, when it was not made, in lieu of being made today.

Here, in its entirety, is the statement:

"GAH, PRUNES!!!"

Please continue to watch this space for further updates, rebuttals, clarifications, bundt cake recipes, or free lifetime memberships to your local bowling alley. This has been a Filmways presentation.

PORFLE VS. SCARY ACCURACY



(Here's an oldie from 2008.  This is one of the first "Porfle Vs." things that I ever wrote.  You may not even remember the ads that it refers to.)

I keep seeing these ads that say “Are you a celebrity?  It’s scary accurate to see what celebrity you are.  Find out now!”  I wasn’t quite sure I fully understood this “scary accurate” concept, so I threw caution to the wind and clicked on one of the ads. 

The first thing that happened was that I was asked for my gender and given the usual two choices–male or female.  I clicked “male”, since I didn’t want to find out that I was Angelina Jolie or Rosie O’Donnell.  That would be scary inaccurate.

My sexual identity thus firmly established, I was taken to a page which featured the first question in my quest to find out which celebrity I am.  Question number one was: 

1.  Do you like to sing or act?

    a. Sing
    b. Act
    c. Other

Hmm, I thought.  This is a pretty shrewd question.  Not only does it narrow things down considerably, but it also covers just about everything that it takes to be considered a “celebrity.”  After all, celebrities either sing, act, or do “other” things.  In fact, some sing AND act.  But I couldn’t choose both simultaneously, so I chose “other.”  Already I was beginning to suspect that I might be Dean Martin, or maybe even Sylvester Stallone, since I have seen both of them sing and act–sometimes at the same time! 

Having entered this vital information into the website’s database, I was then presented with Question number two in my quest for scary accuracy:

2.  Select what you do in your spare time?

    a. Party around the world
    b. Wear a disguise to everday activities
    c. Start a charity
    d. Adopt children from third world countries
    e. Something else…

“Select what you do in your spare time?”  That’s not a question, it’s an imperative with a question mark stuck at the end instead of a period.  Sort of like if you’re robbing a liquor store and you say, “Give me all your money?”  It sounds like you’re giving the guy a choice, and chances are he’s going to choose not to give you all of his money. 

Anyway–I’m not really capable of partying around the world, because I can’t afford to go anywhere.  I don’t really participate in any everyday activities either, unless you count urinating off my front porch whenever it gets dark enough.  And a disguise would be rather unnecessary for that unless my neighbors are spying on me with night-vision goggles, which, come to think of it, I’ve often suspected them of doing but could never prove anything conclusively.  And if I disguised myself as, say, Bill Gates, my neighbors would still find it odd to see Bill Gates urinating off my front porch. 

Starting a charity is right out, since I don’t really care about anybody besides myself.  Adopting children from third world countries?  Nope…I’m afraid that, despite my gender specification, I might find out that I really am Angelina Jolie after all.  That would just be scary, period.  No, the only thing I really like to do in my spare time is f**k off.  Hey, that would qualify as “something else”!  I’m well on my way to a scary accurate celebrity match-up!

So far these questions were really zeroing in on what makes me tick–in fact, I was already getting kind of scared–and I was looking forward to Question number three, where all of this clever cross-questioning would really start to come together.  Question number three:

3.  Enter your first name.

Umm…not really a question either, is it?  And I wasn’t sure what my first name would have to do with what celebrity I am.  If my first name was Charles, would that give me more in common with someone like Charles Manson than it would, say, Merv Griffin?  Confused and disoriented, I rebelled against what I considered the irrelevant nature of the “question” and simply typed in something self-descriptive.  Surely this would be more useful to whatever artificial intelligence was at work evaluating my answers and determining which celebrity my similarity to would be the most scarily accurate.  And so, on to Question number four:

4.  Shit Head, enter your cell phone number below to find out if you are an up and coming celebrity!

Again, not really a question.  Okay, I guess it is, sorta, but shouldn’t it read “What’s your cell phone number, Shit Head?”  I mean, really, what’s the point of calling these “questions” if they’re not even going to state them in the form of-hey, wait a minute!  My cell phone number?  WTF? 

At that point, my mind began to travel back…back…back to a block of tiny print on page one called “Summary Terms.”  I had only given this a cursory glance at first, because, of course, I was so darned excited about finding out which celebrity I am.  “Hey, maybe I’m Brad F**kin’ Pitt!” I remember thinking with childlike glee.  With this in mind, I returned to page one, put on my reading glasses, and scanned the Summary Terms, only this time I took note of phrases such as “by signing up for this service…you acknowledge that you are subscribing to our service…$5.99 per week…$19.99 per month…will appear on your wireless bill…”

Yikes!  This was undoubtedly the scariest thing I had encountered thus far.  As much as I desperately wanted to know what celebrity I was, I wasn’t willing to actually pay a wet red cent to find out.  Besides, what kind of “service” might this be in the first place, exactly?  Would I require frequent updates to keep track of what celebrity I happen to morph into from one day to the next?  Like, am I Johnny Depp one moment and then I glance in the mirror and I’m suddenly Seth Green or Barry White?  Wut up wit dat, yo?

So I went back to Question number four and entered a fake cell phone number, hoping that this would fool the Super Computer enough to whip up a celebrity match for me and finally come across with some free info, dagnab it. 

There was no Question number five.  There was only an instruction for me to enter the special PIN number that had just been sent to the fake phone number I had just entered.  If it really happened to be somebody else’s cell phone number, then some other guy was getting my special PIN number, and being matched up with MY celebrity, dammit!  “HEY, I’M BRUCE F**KIN’ WILLIS!” he’s probably gloating to his stupid friends at this very moment.  “WOW, IS THAT SCARY ACCURATE OR WHAT!” The rotten bastard!  CRAP!  I’ll bet he can’t even sing or act, either!  JERK!  MARICÓN!  GRRRRR!!!  Su madre es PUTA!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know–maybe I’m Jack Nicholson.  Surely after all this, he’d have whipped out his nine-iron by now and started bashing the hell out of something.  But no, that’s not me–I’m not quite that demonstrative.  I’d probably just bug my eyes out, purse my lips, and get all agitated while hopping around and making fake karate moves.  So I think my most scary accurate celebrity match-up would probably be Don Knotts.  But now I’ll never know, unless I can track down the big, fat jerk who’s running around with my fake PIN number and being Bruce F**kin’ Willis. 

PORFLE PRESENTS: "WITHERING HEIGHTS"

We--that is, I, Catherine Earnshaw, my brother Hindley, our maid Nellie Dean, Mumsie, and various other minor characters who aren't that important to the narrative--had waited long and with keen anticipation for the return of my father, Mr. Earnshaw, who had been expected back from his travels that morning.

But now that the midnight hour had come and gone, we wondered if he would appear that night at all. And as time dragged inexorably onward and boredom set in, we had, in fact, begun to lose interest in whether or not he would return or simply stay gone. I'd even found myself nursing a faint hope that something terrible had happened to him such as being eaten alive by a grizzly bear, or alligators, despite the fact that there were none living in England at that time.

Perhaps, I thought, being waylaid by highwaymen and having his head staved in would suffice, as would simply losing his footing in the dark of the rough, windy moors and falling off a cliff. But as the dreary darkness slowly gave way to a cold, approaching dawn, we heard the hoofbeats of Mr. Earnshaw's steadfast old horse Groucho growing nearer to their beloved Withering Heights at last.

Misjudging the distance, Mr. Earnshaw and his steed crashed through the front window of the aged but still warm and inviting mansion which served as our respite from the chilly, almost ghostly maelstrom of unending elemental unrest which we fondly referred to as "the weather" there upon the misty, musty moors which we often trod searching for rock lobsters. The fact that we had never found any rock lobsters and never would, since the Heights were well inland, was merely a frivolous... uhh... oh, never mind. I forgot what I was talking about.

Anyway, Mr. Earnshaw flew backward out of the saddle with the smooth, seemingly intentional grace of a Hollywood stunt performer (which we, of course, had no knowledge of because "Hollywood" had yet to exist for at least two centuries or so) and somersaulted in mid-air right into the large black pot of tomato and roadkill stew that Nellie had been stirring with a canoe oar over a roaring flame in the fireplace.

Thick crimson slop splattered and steamed all over the walls and drenched those nearest the cook pot in rich, savory lunch. The galloping steed, in a state of panic, destroyed every stick of furniture in the room before exiting out the back window and clip-clopping off into the distance, never to be seen again.

Hindley, his face oozing with liquid tomato and other nameless substances, was the most perturbed by the event. He had been expecting Mr. Earnshaw to bring him a piano from London but could tell even from the brief glimpse he'd gotten before the old man disappeared into the stew pot that he carried nothing of the sort beneath his billowing cloak.

In fact, the only thing he'd been carrying was even now clambering out of the pot along with the old man. It was a filthy young street urchin, a boy of Hindley's age but hardly of an equal social standing and thus fit only for endless ridicule and being a fun archery target.

"BLAR har har!!!" exclaimed the old man, cleaning himself off with a squeegee and flinging the excess toward Mumsie, who spluttered in dismay as the great globs came flying right at her face with alarming accuracy. "Look whut I brung yah from the boggy banks of London town! It's a boy named, uhh...err...Porfle!"

"Porfle?" Hindley sneered witheringly. "What the actual flying f***?"

"Oh, all right then," said the old man. "We'll call him Heathcliff, although I was saving that name for the dog."

"We'll call him Porfcliff!" I offered brightly, instantly falling in love with the ragged, horribly ugly, and most likely diseased wretch whom Father had so thoughtfully brought us as a gift. "Oh frabjous day! Hey nonny-nonny, hey nonny!"

"Yes?" said Nonny, sticking her head through the kitchen window. We'd forgotten all about her being there, as we always did since we had no idea who the hell she was anyway.

"Oh, little Cathy," said Mr. Earnshaw. "Leave it to you to come up with the wisest solution to the matter. Yes, he shall be known henceforth as Porfcliff...Porfcliff Earnshaw."

"NO!" Hindley spat indignantly. "I'll not share my last name, much less my legacy, with this BEAST! This disgusting, boil-ridden TROLL! He shall be called Popnecker. Porfcliff Popnecker. You know, like the hemorrhoid ointment." Father nodded gravely, conceding that Popnecker's Hemorrhoid Ointment had indeed been a most welcome application during more than a few distressing "incidents."

And so my one great love in life, Porfcliff Popnecker, became the most wretched creature to drag his filth-encrusted carcass over the floorboards and cobblestones of Withering Heights, constantly working twenty-four hours a day and sometimes overtime at milking the cows and horses and shearing the warthogs and herding the sheep by running around on all fours barking at them (the dog Heathcliff was still a puppy although Porfcliff was training him) and teaching the horses how to dance and shearing the warthogs and driving the cows to Cow School and shaving the warthogs who didn't like to be sheared and generally doing all of the chores that Hindley felt were beneath him, which were all of them, especially if they had anything whatsoever to do with warthogs.

But the thing that made it all worthwhile for Porfcliff was the fact that I loved him more than the sound of Boston cream pies crashing into a mirrored display case full of fine-china-encased hemorrhoid ointments during a llama stampede (a recurring dream that I tended to have whenever I ate fifty hardboiled eggs right before bedtime) and that we would often go romping around across the grassy, windy moors whenever Hindley would give him five minutes vacation every six months.

"I LOVE YOU, PORFCLIFF!" I would say, and he would say "I LOVE YOU, CATHY!", and then we would both say "I LOVE YOU, HEATHCLIFF!" and Heathcliff would say "WOOF! WOOF!" and we would run and run and run until we were, like, sixty or seventy miles away from the Heights and Father would have to send a carriage for us.

In fact, it took us forever to learn to run back and forth instead of simply hauling ass in a straight line until we were in the next county and nobody would feed us or let us sleep in their houses or whatever because they didn't know who the hell we were. "HELP US!!!" I would implore, and they wouldn't help us, so Porfcliff and I HAD to make their houses go on fire!

Anyway, one day out of curiosity I visited our neighbors the Lintons at the Grange next door and they took me in and made a "lady" out of me and I felt like I was too good for Porfcliff all of a sudden so he ran away and didn't come back until he was rich, but by that time I'd married Edgar Linton so Porfcliff got revenge against, like, everybody.

But especially against Edgar Linton, whom Porfcliff referred to as "Poop Head", and Hindley, whose debts Porfcliff bought off, making him master of the Heights, and whom Porfcliff also referred to as "Poop Head." And then a whole bunch of other really sad and tragic stuff happened, and we all died, the end.

But country folk who yet live out on the moors would swear on their Bibles that, to this day, they can hear the ghostly voices of those tortured souls buried in the unquiet earth of the old churchyard, voices still swirling around over the squishy, splooshy moors like the blustery wind, sighing and moaning and screaming "HELP US!!!" and "I LOVE YOU, HEATHCLIFF!" and "WOOF! WOOF!"



 

PORFLE PRESENTS: "THE BIRTHDAY PARTY"

WARNING: GRAPHIC HORROR!!!

One day, my nephew Billy had a birthday party. His mom, Elaine, and a few of her other "mom" friends helped coordinate it. Eight or nine of Billy’s little school and/or neighborhood friends were invited, most of them between the ages of five and seven. A few fun games were planned, like "pin the tail on the donkey" and "toss a beanbag at the empty-can pyramid", followed by a yummy ice-cream-and-cake treat and the opening of Billy’s birthday presents.

It sounded like a potentially fun-filled party for the children, and it most likely would’ve been, too, if only Johnny Cash’s reanimated corpse hadn’t shown up uninvited and disrupted everything.

How he came back to life and why he picked this particular house to show up at remain a mystery. Yet there he was, right between little Sally Feldman and Eddie Green in the line of children filing through the front door for the party. The children should have been giddy with happy anticipation for the coming festivities as they entered the house in their nice party clothes, but instead they were mortally terrified of the shambling, gibbering corpse in their midst.

Needless to say, Johnny Cash looked pretty horrible. Already in a fairly-advanced state of decomposition, the deceased country-music legend was more ghastly-looking than the Frankenstein monster, and his burial clothes were split up the back to clearly reveal his big, warty ass, which somehow just seemed to make things worse.

Billy’s mom and the other moms stood frozen in raw, naked fear as Johnny Cash lurched toward them, his hideous face contorting and convulsing as he attempted to speak. But all that came from his festering mouth were blood-chilling croaks like "bllnnggff" and "guhhh-uhhhh." The children, now well beyond the point of thinking that this might merely be some kind of party entertainment, began to hide behind various items of furniture and cower in whimpering terror.

Johnny Cash looked around in confusion, as though he himself dimly realized that he belonged in the grave and had no business walking around like this. All at once, his bulging eyeballs focused on something familiar. There, leaning against a wall in the corner, was Billy’s guitar. It wasn’t a real guitar, but one of those little plastic toy guitars that plays a tinkly tune when you turn the crank. But Johnny Cash made a horrible croaking sound of recognition and grabbed it up.

"Guh GAHHH, gnog nggghh NAAAHHH!" he croaked obscenely, attempting to entertain his captive audience as he had so often done in life. He banged clumsily at the guitar, stomping his feet as he staggered from one shrinking spectator to the next. "Plink-plonk" went the fragile plastic strings of the toy guitar as Johnny Cash’s dead hands clawed tunelessly at them, ripping them asunder one by one. "Mmmfff, GAAAAHHHH HAAAAAAA!" he gurgled, trying to sing the remnants of "Folsom Prison Blues" that his rotting brain still retained.

And then, he saw the cake. The beautiful, rich, gooey cake. He remembered that he should love the cake, be hungry for the cake. Tossing what was left of Billy’s guitar aside, Johnny Cash lurched toward the gaily-decorated dining table and plunged his hands into the cake, ramming huge gobs of it into his mouth. "RAAAAR! GRAAAAAR! MLAAARFF!" he gibbered, slobbering cake, his face dripping with frosting.

Some of the candy letters that had spelled out "HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY" were stuck to Johnny Cash’s face, and they now spelled "YIRPAL DRIB." He vaguely remembered that he should now be thirsty for some of the sweet, refreshing punch that filled the large bowl on the table and made a diving grab for it, losing his balance and crashing through the table as the punchbowl landed upside-down on his head like some horrible space helmet.

Johnny Cash staggered to his feet, covered in frosty cake and dripping with once-festive punch, the huge glass bowl wobbling on his head, and lunged for the gaily-beribboned presents that sat in a pile waiting for the birthday boy to open them. In what was inexplicably left of Johnny Cash’s clouded mind, HE was the birthday boy. Emitting a series of horrendous barks that sounded like a herd of seals being run over by a steamroller, he ripped into the presents and came up triumphantly with a happily-grinning "Danny O’Day" ventriloquist dummy.

Johnny Cash thrust his hand into the dummy’s back and worked the controls, making its toothy mouth snap open and shut as he screamed "GARRR-GAAAAAAR! MUFFF WUFFF! NNNGGGGFFFFF!" He staggered from child to child, proudly performing the most hellish ventriloquism act imaginable for their entertainment. To this day, my nephew Billy still has nightmares of an insanely-grinning Danny O’Day croaking "BLAAAR GNNARRRRR!" at him, and wakes up in the middle of the night screaming "YIRPAL DRIB!!!"

Anyway, Johnny Cash’s reanimated corpse finally left. I don’t know what happened after that, because the phone rang while Elaine was telling me about it, and it was her husband telling her that there was a guy on his way to their house to fix the garbage disposal, and she had to go let him in. Not long after that, I heard something about Chris Farley’s reanimated corpse showing up at some Jewish kid’s bar mitzvah in Houston, Texas, but I don’t know if this was part of a mysterious pattern of some kind, or just an unrelated event.

PORFLE VS. FATE

Fate can really suck sometimes.  I'm not talking about big, important fate, like that creepy little kid keeps whining about in TERMINATOR 2.  I'm talking about everyday fate, like the fact that it's my fate to get into some kind of colossal time-consuming screw-up every time I try to breeze into EZ-Mart for five bucks worth of gas.  Or how I'm fated to get into the wrong line at Wal-Mart, not just occasionally, but every freaking time.

I always get into the line where the people in front of me have their credit card declined, and after arguing with the clerk for twenty minutes they finally realize that the clerk doesn't actually have all that much influence over the executives at Visa, so one of them decides to drive home to Cincinatti or wherever the hell they live to dig up an alternate form of payment while the other one waits there and guards the shopping cart. 

Meanwhile the other lines that looked so much worse than this one way back in the Stone Age when I was deciding which line to get in each have a procession of giddy customers blithely sailing through them like shit through a goose.

Thanks to fate, every appliance that I've purchased since around 1975 has had something irreparably wrong with it.  You know how about one out of every 500 items that come off an assembly line or whatever will have something wrong with it?  That's the one I get every damn time.  The stereo I bought fifteen years ago doesn't play guitar solos--I hear the bass and drums, but the lead guitarist sounds like his guitar is taking a dump in the building next door.  One of my TV speakers is messed up, too, so I can't make out the dialogue.  And if I turn it up loud enough to hear what people are saying, the explosions and stuff blast me through the back wall of the house.

My computer won't do self-maintenance.  It always tells me that it can't do self-maintenance because there's some other program running that I need to shut off first, even though there isn't any other friggin' program running.  The trouble is, you can't tell your computer there isn't any other program running.  You can't tell your computer anything.  It just tells you things, even when you can see for yourself that they aren't true, and you can't argue with it.  Sometimes I suspect that my computer thinks it's funny to bullshit me just to see how I'll react.

The toaster oven I bought doesn't brown evenly--my toast is always burnt on one end and underdone on the other end.  I just know that across America there are millions of people regularly enjoying perfectly browned toast from their perfect toaster ovens.  I wish they'd choke on it.  And then I feel guilty for wishing such a horrible thing on innocent people that I don't even know.  And then I imagine them choking on their perfect toast, crawling around like dying bugs on the kitchen floor trying to hand-signal their kids to do the Heimlich maneuver on them or something, and I laugh out loud and then feel guilty again.  So the simple act of making an unevenly-toasted cheese sandwich is like stepping onto an emotional rollercoaster.

Traffic lights conspire with fate to make my life a living hell.  Most people sail through roughly half of them or more without a second thought.  Some people actually get green lights from one end of town to the other sometimes, the bastards.  I get red lights every time.  They stay green just long enough to torment me as I'm racing toward them, and then inexorably turn red right before I get there so that I have to either slam on the brakes or zoom through them and hope a cop didn't see me.  Then, when I go back in the other direction on my way home, they get me again.  I can almost hear them laughing at me--a sick, metallic laugh that sends shivers up my spine.  They talk to each other, too, and make fun of me.

I don't know what I did to make traffic lights hate me so much.  I have always been nice to them.  It's gotten to the point where I actually wave and say "thanks" on the rare occasions that a light lets me go through without stopping, so that the light will remember how appreciative I was and not punitively stop me the next time.  I'm not making that up.  I really do that.  I think I'm losing my mind.

I get the emails that say, "Sorry, we screwed up your order, but this only happens, like, once every ten-thousand orders so it's no big deal, ha ha."  If I order something by regular mail instead of online, my letter is the one that gets sucked into an air vent at the airport and ends up lining a parrot cage in Argentina. 

I went to Carlsbad Caverns with my parents when I was in junior high, and we got there at sundown to see the bats fly out, which is supposed to be such a big, awesome deal since there are so many bats that it actually looks like there's black smoke gushing out of the cave entrance, except that on the particular day that I showed up--as fate would have it, ha ha--there just happened to be some kind of mysterious bat disease going around that was killing off thousands of bats or at least making them so sick that they had to stay home until they felt better.  Millions of people throughout the years have gasped in awe at the wondrous site of the billowing cloud of bats flying out of Carlsbad Caverns, and what happens when I get there?  The freakin' bat flu.  Thanks again, fate.

No, on second thought--eat it, fate.  It's your fault that I only got to see a puny couple of dozen crappy little bats fluttering out of that stupid cave, forcing myself to go "ooh, aah" and pretending that it was a big deal.  It's your fault that when I finally got a chance to go to Canada one day and look around for awhile, it was closed. 

It's your fault that I know more than I ever wanted to know about Britney's twisted childhood because I had to read "Celebrity Asshole" magazine from cover to cover just to keep from going nuts in line at Wal-Mart while some hag was arguing with the clerk about how if she'd just zip the card through for the zillionth time it should work and how it must be Wal-Mart's friggin' fault that her worthless piece of crap card was declined in the first place. 

It's your fault that I think traffic lights are sentient beings that hate me and make fun of me.  Even the ones I wave at and say "thanks" to.  And it's your fault that I got the one computer out of 500 that thinks it's funny to screw around with my head and tell me bald-faced lies that I can't argue with.  There aren't any other programs running, DAMN IT.

PORFLE VS. OUTSIDE!!!

One reason I hate being outside is that if something is going to fall on your head, it has a chance of falling from a much greater height outside than it would in your house.  That is, the greatest height from which, say, Oprah Winfrey could fall and hit you on the head inside your house would be from the ceiling.  But if you're outside, Oprah Winfrey could fall out of an airplane without a parachute and hit you on the head and kill you.  

And then you'd be known as "the guy who got killed by a falling Oprah Winfrey", and people would laugh at your demise.  Oh sure, the more conscientious ones would feel bad and try to stifle their laughter, but they'd still laugh.  Some people would even laugh during your funeral, and you wouldn't even be able to tell them to shut up.  That's why I've hired people to attend my funeral and tell anyone who laughs to shut up.  But there's no way I'll ever know if they actually show up or if they just keep the money and stay home.  So I may have to hire people to make sure they do, but there's no way I'll ever know if they will.

Another bad thing about being outside is that this is where most train wrecks, plane crashes, and high-speed vehicular collisions occur.  There just aren't that many headlines about people getting killed while watching TV, even if they're watching a "Full House" marathon on TV Land.  I feel pretty safe when I'm watching TV.  Sometimes I hear scary noises, but they're usually coming from outside.  See?  Outside is where the scariest noises come from, which is another reason that outside is bad.  If there are ever any scary noises that come from inside my house, I just look at my cat.  If she isn't worried about them, then they're okay.  If she runs under a table, then so do I.  Cats are a good scary-noise-importance gauge.

One of the worst things about being outside is that this is when the flying monkeys can get you.  Ever since the first time I watched THE WIZARD OF OZ as a child, I've been terrified that I'll be walking around outside minding my own business one day and the flying monkeys will swoop down and get me.  And you can't arm yourself against them, either, because whenever you walk around in public holding a sawed-off shotgun or a big, spiky ninja sword, the police usually take it upon themselves to butt into your business with a bunch of personal questions, and these questions will eventually require an answer which includes the phrase "flying monkeys."  Well, the police don't believe in flying monkeys.  Not even the ones who have seen CORKY ROMANO. 

Someone once told me that I had agoraphobia.  I thought they said "angoraphobia" and modeled one of my favorite sweaters to disprove them.  I really look lovely in it, too, if I do say so myself--especially with capri pants and a pair of spangled pumps.  When I realized what agoraphobia was, I had to admit that I probably do have it.  I went to my doctor and asked him what I could do about this, and he said "stay inside" and charged me sixty bucks.  I could've just stayed home in the first place and used the sixty bucks to order pizza three times. 

Home pizza delivery is great for agoraphobes.  It's the only time that hearing the doorbell doesn't make me run under a table.  "Yay!  My pizza's here!" I scream, throwing the front door wide open and dancing around with animalistic glee.  It's at this point I usually realize that I should've put on some pants or something first.  But the look on the delivery lady's face is worth enduring her irritating screams of horror as she flees to her car and speeds haphazardly away down the street.  And sometimes she just drops the pizza without making me pay for it, which is pretty neat.

PORFLE PRESENTS: "THE TRUE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS"

One day, I decided to do something that nobody in the history of the world had ever, ever done before. 

But I couldn't think of anything, so I just watched TV for about twelve hours straight and ate fifteen or twenty Mexican and double Salisbury Steak TV dinners washed down with about a gallon of prune juice.  Ha ha, just kidding about the prune juice. 

The next day, I thought it would be a cute idea to strike out into the neigborhood and surrounding environs in search of the true meaning of Christmas.  So I put on my cutest "searching for the true meaning of Christmas" Santa Claus outfit and skipped merrily out the front door.

WHAM!!! I ran smack dab into the mailman!  With a gutteral groan, the old man flew backward over my porch railing into a mass of prickly thorn bushes and landed with a hefty thud.

"WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION, YOU BRAIN-DEAD OLD MORON!!!" I screamed at the prostrate figure as he struggled to his feet amidst a shower of letters and Christmas cards.  "How dare you obstruct me when I'm on a mission to discover the true meaning of Chris--" 

I caught myself just as my tirade was about launch into high gear.  Realizing how sadly ironic this whole situation was, I controlled my anger and quickly turned it into sympathy and compassion for the poor mailman who, after all,  wasn't entirely at fault.  Helping him to his feet, I offered him a cheery "Merry Christmas, assh***!" and then kicked him squarely in the balls, plucking my mail from his hand as I shoved him down the sidewalk. 

He staggered to his little jeep and presently weaved his way down the street whereupon he then crashed through a wooden fence and into someone's backyard swimming pool. 

Restraining an impulse to chuckle at his screams for help, I demonstrated my empathy for others by wincing at the thought of how freezing cold that pool water must be before setting off down the sidewalk in the other direction.  "True meaning of Christmas, here I come!" I sang at the top of my lungs as I skipped, swinging  my lunch basket to and fro. 

Presently I passed a church and happened upon some children who were setting up a display in the front yard.  It was composed of some mannequins of people from the really old days, with robes and turbans and stuff, and a few farm animals like donkeys and things.  They were set up under a small shed and huddled around a baby doll in a trough lined with hay. 

"What the hell's all this crap?" I greeted them brightly, flashing my nicest smile. 

They must've been an ill-tempered bunch, because they met my friendly greeting with undisguised hostility.  "It's a Nativity scene, stupid!" one of them sneered.  "Don't you know anything?"

With an admirable display of self-control, I replied nicely, "Yes,  I know lots of things.  For example, I know...THIS!" 

With that, I dashed away and rounded the corner of the church, disappearing from their view.  The children looked at each other and shrugged.  When I came back into view, I was holding a super-soaker filled with finely-aged wolf urine. 

The children's screams were like beautiful music to my ears as I drenched them thoroughly, making sure to give the slower ones a double dose as they struggled to escape.  Then I danced around with each mannequin one at a time like a celebrity contestant on "Dancing With the Stars" before hurling it after the retreating figures,  who were soaked to the skin with the wonderfully rancid wolf urine. 

The baby mannequin I passed like a football, and boy oh boy was it ever a beaut of a pass!  One of the kids made an awesome leaping catch which ended with him flying headfirst into a dumpster full of hog entrails behind a butcher shop.  Six points for the home  team!

When all the excitement had started to die down and my senses slowly returned to my fevered brain, I stopped and thought for a moment.  Was this it?  Had I discovered the true meaning of Christmas? 

I lay down in the trough with my feet hanging over the sides and twiddled my thumbs, ruminating happily upon what an enlightening day it had been.  People began to file past, observing me with a strange sort of fascination or repulsion or whatever--I can't really tell the difference sometimes. 

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" one of them asked.

"I'm the true meaning of Christmas!" I answered brightly in a  cute, elfin voice.  "Now SHUT UP!!!"

PORFLE VS. MORE IRRITATING SAYINGS

(This is a sequel to "Porfle Vs. Irritating Sayings", which can be found HERE.)

Here are some more of the widely-used internet sayings that I find extremely irritating.  If you use them around me, I will personally ask Reverend Ike to never pray for you to get a brand new Cadillac.

"Meh."  This is used to denote world-weary indifference or snooty disapproval.  Has anyone ever said "meh" to you in real life?  No, because it's merely a literal approximation of the sound people make when they're world-wearily indifferent or snootily disapproving of something.  Actually, it sounds more like "mmnnyahh", and when people say it they usually have a cranky-baby expression on their faces.  The "mmnnyahh" sound is so whiny and infantile that when people type it on message boards, they shorten and tweak it to "meh", which they think looks better although they're wrong.  It looks stupid.  And it should be punched, kicked, or drenched with wolf urine. 

The only person in history who could ever pull off the actual "mmnnyahh" sound without looking stupid was Edward G. Robinson.  "All right, you mugs--from now on, we're gonna do things MY way, see?  MMNNYAHH!"  And the last time I saw Edward G. Robinson, he wasn't screwing around on some stupid message board.  He was slapping people around, blowing cigar smoke in their faces, and shooting them for saying stuff like "meh" to him.

"M'kay."  This is a word for idiots who want to express not just snooty disapproval, but sarcastically snooty disapproval.  Mere wolf urine isn't enough to quell my burning hatred of this word--"m'kay" calls for more drastic measures, like being forced to watch every episode of "The Simple Life" on a big-screen TV with a theater-quality sound system turned up full blast, CLOCKWORK ORANGE-style. 

If you type a comment on a message board and someone responds with "m'kay", you should consider them your mortal enemy for the rest of your life.  Because even more than "meh", "m'kay" denotes a verbal wrist being limply flopped right in your face along with the full "mmnnyahh" expression, complete with eyeroll.  Especially if it is followed by ellipses, like so:  "M'kay..." (the ellipses are the literal equivalent of the eyeroll) or if the "m" is multiplied by a factor of three or four, as in:  "Mmmm'kay..." 

The final outrage-inducing coup de grace, of course, would be the addition of an actual "eyeroll" emoticon.  Anyone who pulls the full "Mmmm'kay..." with eyeroll emoticon on you deserves a complete wolf-urine body wash, the total "Simple Life" forced-viewing ordeal, and to be interviewed by naked Larry King.

"Kthxbye."  Okay, if this wasn't invented by some bubble-brained teenybopper somewhere, I'll eat my entire collection of Bruce Willis DVDs.  "Kthxbye" is the internet equivalent not of the limp-wrist flop, but of the dismissive "talk to the hand"-style wave-off with a huge, pink bubble-gum bubble popped in your face. 

If you regularly find yourself involved in message board debates in which your adversary subjects you to the infuriating step-by-step process of "meh", "mmmm'kay...", and "kthxbye", then you should hurl your computer monitor through the nearest window and become a lumberjack.  Either that, or you should become a dreaded masked outlaw who rides into towns with six-guns blazing and robs banks and armored trucks while riding a buffalo. 

"True dat."  Now this sounds like a guy one.  It's not as horrible as the preceeding ones, but it still fills me with rage.  If something's true, just say "that's true."  Saying "true dat" doesn't make what you say any cooler or any more valid.  It just makes you look like a dope.  Do you say "true dat" to people in real life?  As in, "What's that you say, Brian?  Oscar Wilde was brilliantly insightful?  True dat."  No, you don't.  Why?  Because you would look like a dope.  If you said it to a girl you were trying to pick up, she would pop a huge, pink bubble-gum bubble in your face and say "kthxbye."  Eventually, people would see you coming and say, "Meh, here comes the 'true dat' guy.  If he says it again, let's kill him."

"FTW."  Another guy one, definitely.  Message board clowns who are arguing about what's totally the best example of whatever bullshit they're blabbing about will invariably resort to naming their own number one choice and then following it with a decisive "FTW", as though this somehow actually signified that their choice was the indisputable winner, which it most definitely doesn't you big fat twerp.

Best videogame?  "Super Mario Ultimate Sloppy Whack-off FTW."  Best new pop group?  "Dippity Doofussy Douchebags FTW."  Best TV show?  "Family Guy FTW."  That's right--they all love "Family Guy", even though it is the 100 percent biggest pile of steaming dog doo-doo ever.  I'd like to gather everyone responsible for "Family Guy" in one place and do something horrendously punitive to them.  I'm not sure what, but I am pretty sure it would involve copious amounts of wolf urine.

"Orly?"  I'm adding this one at the last minute because I just thought of it.  It can be inserted at any time during the above-mentioned process, as in:

"Meh."
"Mmmm'kay..." (eyeroll)
"Orly?"
"True dat."
"Wolf urine FTW."
"Kthxbye."

I don't want to talk about those words anymore, because I'm down to my last Xanax and I don't want to lay awake all night fantasizing about orbital death-ray satellites.

PORFLE VS. BILLY CRYSTAL

(NOTE: This is one of the first blog posts I ever wrote several years ago, and I would rarely get this negative about a specific person again.  So just in case Billy Crystal happens to see this for some strange, highly unlikely reason, I hope he realizes that it's all in fun even though I mean all of it.)

Someone once asked me who my least favorite comedian was.  That is, they were about to ask me, but before they even opened their mouth, I said: "Billy Crystal." 

My answer to that question is so emphatic and so definite that I answer it before it's even asked, which often amazes people, especially if what they were really going to ask me is why I wasn't wearing any pants. 

Billy Crystal is the horrifying mutant hybrid of the old-style Catskills lounge comic and the hip young "funny dude."  He's like what would happen if Shecky Greene got into telepod A and Mario Cantone got into telepod B and they were fused together in telepod C. 

Billy Crystal should answer his home phone by saying, "Hello, telepod C.  Genetically-fused A-B combination of Shecky Greene and Mario Cantone speaking."  But then it would just become another one of his catchphrases, and he would say it all the time.

The first time many people saw Billy Crystal was in the sitcom "Soap."  I had already seen his stand-up act on TV, so I already didn't like him, but "Soap" sealed the deal.  You see,  Norman Lear's "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" was the first series to spoof soap operas, and it did so by actually being a soap opera--five episodes per week, no laugh track, and everyone more or less playing it straight.  It was a brilliant show.  But it was in syndication, and hardly anyone watched it. 

Then "Soap" came along, landed a network time slot, and became a big hit.  "Soap" was nothing more than a standard stupid sitcom with a laugh track and goofy characters mugging it up all over the place, but with just enough superficial soap opera trappings tacked on so that they could advertise it as a "comedy soap opera." 

Instead of imitation soap-opera music, it had a jaunty little "aren't we cute" theme that made me sick.  Instead of a title that cleverly spoofed soap opera titles, it was called "Soap."  I began to hear the words "Soap" and "funny!" so many times in my everyday life that I wanted to start attacking people.  Waves of pure, burning hatred eminated from the very pores of my skin.  And one of the major elements that made the show so horrible was Billy Crystal.  He played a character named "Jodie."  GRRRRRRRR!!!

Later, of course, there was the phase in which Billy Crystal became "Mr. Catchphrase."  It all started when, for some ungodly reason, he was hired to be a regular on "Saturday Night Live", and he came up with his "Fernando Lamas" character.  "Fernando" hosted a schmoozy celebrity talk show, and would repeatedly tell all of his guests, in that heavy Latin-lothario accent:  "You look mahvelous."  Billy discovered that people laughed whenever he said "You look mahvelous", so he started saying "You look mahvelous" all the time. 

Some talk show host would say "Welcome to the show, Billy," and Billy would say "Thanks, and may I just say...you look mahvelous", pausing dramatically right before the "you look mahvelous" to build up audience anticipation for his hilarious catchphrase.  And the audience, damn them, would laugh. 

When the next guest came out, Billy would say to them, "You look mahvelous."  If somebody had told him his whole family just got wiped out in a gas explosion, he probably would've said, "OH, MY GOD! You look mahvelous."

Another one of his catchphrases was "Can you dig it?  I knew that you could."  Billy was imitating an old, black blues musician or something when he did that one.  It wasn't a funny character, and he never said anything funny, but every once in awhile after he'd said enough unfunny stuff to justify saying the catchphrase again, he'd say "Can you dig it?  I knew that you could."  And that alone was supposed to be funny.  And sure enough, people laughed, DAMMIT!

Billy Crystal thinks that he is a master impressionist because he does a good Muhammad Ali, even though almost everyone in the world has one good impression of somebody in them.  I do a pretty good Casey Kasem.  My brother can imitate the Werewolf of London. 

But Billy Crystal has fashioned entire segments of his stand-up act around his Muhammad Ali impression, turning them into "performance pieces."  I hate it when he does those.  People like Whoopi Goldberg, John Leguizamo, Danny Hoch, and Lily Tomlin do that kind of stuff too, which is why I can't stand to watch them, either. 

Performance pieces are supposed to impress the audience more than regular "jokes", because they're longer and they have a "story", and when they're over, you're supposed to applaud instead of laugh.  I hate it when people applaud comedians instead of laughing.  It kills the joke and messes up the comedian's rhythm and timing.  But since Billy Crystal doesn't have any rhythm or timing, he simply basks in the applause. 

When Billy Crystal poses for publicity photos, his telepod A Borscht-belt side takes over.  He does the "serious" pose with his arms crossed and a fake smile, and then he does the "funny" one with his hands splayed out and his eyes wide open in mock surprise, like something funny just happened.  Or he does the Jack Benny thing with a pained expression and one hand lightly brushing his cheek. 

I'm sure Billy thinks he's the new Jack Benny.  He probably has thought to himself on more than one occasion while eating breakfast cereal or pulling on clean underwear:  "I am the new Jack Benny."  I'm surprised he never created a character called "The New Jack Benny" just so he could use "I am the new Jack Benny" as his catchphrase and be able to go around in public saying "I am the new Jack Benny" as many times as he wanted to.

Billy Crystal was in THIS IS SPINAL TAP, but his part got cut out.  HA-HAAAAAA!!!  He was in the sequence where the record company executives were having a party to celebrate the release of Spinal Tap's new album, and the waiters were all mimes.  Billy played the head mime, and in one deleted scene he's dressing down the other mimes.  One of his lines in this scene is something like,  "Okay, let's go...mime is money." 

Think about it: Billy Crystal thinks "mime is money" is funny.  In a movie that features some of the most hilarious improvised dialogue in film history, Billy Crystal uses his big moment to say "mime is money."  He probably lay awake in bed all night before they shot that scene, thinking, "Mime is money.  Mime is money.  Can they dig it?  I know that they can.  I'll...look...mahvelous."

Actually, I was intending to write today about "pet peeves", in a general sort of way, and Billy Crystal was just going to be one of them.   But I should've written about my other pet peeves first and saved Billy Crystal for last. 

Anyway, some of my other pet peeves are people standing over me while I'm eating and dipping their tortilla chips into my hot sauce, and being able to hear some idiot's car stereo blasting away down the street when I'm sitting in my house with the TV on.  Oh yeah, and Billy Crystal movies.

PORFLE VS. MYSPACE SNOBS

(NOTE: I wrote this way, way back in those quaint old days when people actually used to go to MySpace.)


If you belong to MySpace, you know who Tom is.  He's the guy who created MySpace, and whenever you make a new account there, he's always your very first "friend." 

Right there in your "My Friend Space", there will be a single picture of Tom grinning at you over his shoulder like he's really happy to see you, or like you just caught him whacking off or something.  As you accumulate more friends, it's always a good idea to remove this picture from your "My Friend Space" because it looks uncool if you have to beef up your apparent amount of friends with the default "Tom" picture. 

Don't worry, it won't hurt Tom's feelings or anything.  He's never going to see your profile page and think, "Gee...I wonder why he doesn't consider me to be one of his 'top friends'...(sniff)."
 
Tom's way too busy running around spending all the money he makes off of MySpace and grinning over his shoulder at his actual real-life friends to give a rat's ass about you and your dumb profile page.  Just try dropping him a PM sometime and see if you get a response.  You might as well put in a job application for Pope while you're at it.

Anyway, Tom occasionally makes announcements that show up on my home page, and recently, he told me how to eliminate friend requests from people I don't know.  Why the hell would I want to do that?  I thought MySpace was supposed to be a place to meet new people, not to participate in a circle jerk of people you already know. 

I don't know that many people in real life I'd be interested in being MySpace friends with anyway.  If that's the only people I had in my "My Friend Space", Tom's picture would still be in it. 

So, I just added my 100th friend to my My Friend Space.  This milestone pales in comparison to other MySpacers who have thousands of people on their friends list.  A lot of them are gorgeous babes whose profile pages feature pictures that guys can "whack off" to.  Or, they are famous people that everyone wants to add as friends so they can put their pictures in their My Friend Space to show off to everyone who looks at their profile.  I have a few of those in my profile, so this is an acceptable practice. 

But since I am neither a famous person nor a gorgeous babe, and I doubt if I get "whacked off" to very often, I can't afford to be all that choosy about whose friend requests I accept.  Which means that my friends list is filled with wannabe musicians who want me to listen to their mp3s and go to their shows, or other people who just want as many people as possible to read their bulletins and stuff. 

I've tried emailing some of them but I usually never get an answer, and if I get one, it's often something like "Yeah, ha ha, whatever.  You're who, now?"  Some of them aren't even people--they're movie titles or events.  So, for some reason, I seem to be friends with Texas Frightmare Weekend.  I really don't think Texas Frightmare Weekend is ever going to drop by my house whenever it's in town so we can go out for a beer or anything. 

But yeah, in addition to people who only accept friend requests from people they already know, there are also the people who won't accept my friend requests because they're MySpace Snobs.  Somehow, MySpace Snobs are able to tell that I'm not cool or important enough to be their MySpace friend, so I never hear from them after sending a friend request.

So, instead of being a new and fun way to interact with people, MySpace is sometimes just high school all over again.  If you were popular in high school, you might read that and think "Cool!"  If you weren't, you know what I mean. 

Some of the people who won't accept my friend requests already have, like, 6,000 friends, and some of these are characters with names like "Fuggle, The Wonder Octopus" or "The Decrepit Corpse Tickler."  The fact that I don't rate inclusion on such a list can be somewhat disheartening. 

Perhaps someday, if I'm lucky, I'll be in a position to turn away friends--even fake ones--but in the meantime, just about the only friend requests I deny are the ones from cute young girls who have the word "webcam" anywhere on their profile pages.  I don't do webcams.  If I'm going to pay for sex, I want to be touching something besides my own wing-ding. 

I just got one of those last night, as a matter of fact.  It was from "Tina."  That is, her profile name was "Tina", but in her "About Me" space she calls herself "Linda."  Oops!  Somebody franked up on her own name! 

Anyway, Tina/Linda tells us how she doesn't have many friends in the "real" world (awwwwww...) but she LOVES to meet new people online.  (Yaaay!)  Then she goes on to describe how she often absent-mindedly leaves her webcam on, even when she's just gotten out of the shower!  Woo-hoo! 

As she puts it, "I'm quiet the exhibitionist!  CLICK HERE to get a link for my webcam and chat room.  I'm so bored..."  Wow, Tina/Linda--that sounds quiet exciting!  My wallet is practically flying out of my pants right now, along with other things.  Bet that'll help relieve your boredom, huh?

So far, I have only three subscribers to my blog, and two of them are the same person.  Which is a shame, because I have a very nice blog with lots of funny and interesting stuff like this on it.  Drop by my profile page and read my blog sometime, and if you like it, subscribe to it.  It will make me feel less like a total loser, and anything that can do that is well worth the effort, because I'm so nice. 

And shoot me a friend request too, if you'd like.  Chances are, I will accept it, unless you have a webcam or are simply just too incredibly yucky for even me to handle.  But the way things look at this point, it will still be quiet some time before I turn into a MySpace Snob.

And to everyone who has already put me on their friends list:  "Thanks for the add!"  Woo-hoo!