PORFLE IS: "ON HER MAJESTY'S STUPID SERVICE"

Giddy as a schoolgirl over having just been promoted to the "Double-O" division of British Intelligence--due in part to the fact that my uncle was the Prime Minister and I blackmailed him with some photos I'd snapped of him having sex with Benny Hill's sister--I giggled with delight and practically skipped into M's outer office, looking forward to my first day on the job. 

Miss Moneypenny looked up from her typewriter as I doffed my hat and jauntily spun it toward the hattrack.  It missed and flew out the window.  She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was desperately in love with me.

"Fancy meeting you here, Moneypenny," I said roguishly as I perched on the corner of her desk, allowing her a full view of the bulge in my crotch, which was actually my lunch.

Moneypenny shuddered and pointed toward the inner door.  "M's waiting for you," she said coldly.  "You're late."

"I was masturbating," I admitted with a coy sideward glance, waggling my eyebrows.  "To you, darling."

Moneypenny made a face--I'm positive she'd just experienced a spontaneous orgasm due to my pervasively masculine charm--and indicated a strange white powder that seemed to be strewn like tiny snowflakes across her desk.  "You're getting dandruff all over the place," she said with a shiver. "Don't you ever wash your hair?"

"That isn't dandruff," I said, thinking fast.  "It's--err--cocaine.  Care for a snort while I nestle my face between your breasts?"

Moneypenny's passionate response was cut short by the buzz of her desk intercom.  M's voice quacked out of it like a giant electronic duck.  "If Double-O Eleven has seen fit to grace us with his presence, tell him to get his fat ass into my office before I have him executed." 

I chuckled at M's quip, knowing that, secretly, he regarded me fondly as the son he'd never had and that his cross words masked a deep admiration and respect.  I was about to mention this to Moneypenny when I noticed that she was busy aiming an oscillating fan at her desk in order to sweep away my dandruff flakes, which went swirling around the room like a blizzard.  "Get lost, creep," she said, feigning indifference.

I blew her a kiss and popped into M's office, settling into a chair in front of his desk.  He ignored me for the time being as he pored over the contents of a file that didn't appear to please him in the slightest, and I waited patiently for him to finish.  Suddenly feeling the effects of the chili-cheese burritos I'd eaten for breakfast, I rose slightly in my seat and began to release a long, silent fart that I was confident would go undetected.  M suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, causing me to expel the remainder of the fart like an ear-splitting blast from a bass trombone. 

"What the hell was that?" M demanded.

"Sounds like termites, sir," I surmised.  "I'd have the entire floor fumigated as soon as possible."

"Oh, I will," he said dourly, waving a hand in front of his face.  He tossed a photograph across the desk.  "Recognize this face?"

I looked at the picture and recoiled.  "Whoa," I winced, feeling a bit nauseous.  "What a hag. Did ugly and repulsive get married and have a kid?  She looks like somebody's ass.  Does Gabby Hayes know that one of his hemmorhoids grew up and ran away from home?  Yikes.  This scrotum-curdling barf bag from Dog City is beyond earthly help."

"That's my wife!" M sputtered indignantly. 

"Ahh, just my type," I said, coolly reappraising the photo with a lecherous leer.  "Is she into threesomes?"

M snatched the photo away.  "She's been kidnapped!" he blurted out.  "We think SPECTRE's involved.  This has Blofeld's fingerprints all over it."

"Oh, those are probably mine," I admitted.  "I ate a semi-melted Hershey bar on my way here, and--"

"Not the picture, you idiot!  The kidnapping plot!"  M slammed his fist on the desk again. "Somehow the insidious fiends got hold of my home address, despite our rigorous security measures."

"Oh, that," I said.  "I, err, gave it to the clerk at Blockbuster when I was applying for a membership card.  By the way, you may be getting a bill for some 'Girls Gone Wild' DVDs that my dog ate."

M began to quiver uncontrollably and emit a low growling noise.  I could tell that he had become somewhat agitated, so I decided to exude some of my patented super-cool confidence.

"Don't worry, old chap," I said smoothly.  "I'll spank SPECTRE, bugger Blofeld, and screw your wife's brains out.  Wait--how did that last part come out?  My mind wandered." 

M leveled an ominous look right between my eyes.  "I'll expect my wife back safe and sound within the next 24 hours, Double-O Eleven," he said gravely.  "And if you lay so much as a hand on her, I'll have you neutered by a nearsighted veterinarian."

"So, anything but hands, then?  Oral's a go?"

"I'll have you tortured slowly for a month before you're allowed to die!"

"A straight month?  Weekends, too?  Because I was thinking of popping up to Brighton for the big weenie festival, and--" 

"Out!  OUT!!!"

I made the "okay" sign with my thumb and forefinger and gave M a confident wink.  "Right-o, old bean," I said, bounding out of my chair and strolling briskly toward the door.  "By the way," I added, "your wife is such a fabulous babe, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if Blofeld was banging her like a screen door right now.  So I wouldn't worry.  She's probably enjoying it, and--"

M reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Walther PPK, struggling to control his shaking hands long enough to shoot me.  I took that as my cue to withdraw.  Passing through Moneypenny's office, I noticed that she had removed the emergency fire hose from the wall and was aiming it at me, ready to release a powerful blast of pressurized water in my direction at a moment's notice.

I smiled at this feeble attempt to mask her insatiable lust for me by playing "hard to get" and exited with a puckish salute, leaving her with her dreams.  Despite her intense, unrequited love for me, I had other business to attend to.  I was on a mission--a mission that could change the course of history and have worldwide repercussions.  The nation, not to mention the entire human race, was counting on me.

Six hours later, I was still lying around my apartment in my underwear, reading comic books.  I had eaten 18 microwave burritos and drank six two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew, and had gone through my entire collection of "Skunk Man" comics including his pulse-poundin' twelve-ish battle with the dastardly Dr. Raccoon.  I was just about to tuck into some Hostess Ding Dongs when the phone rang.  It was M.  "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded, seething with rage.

Whoops! I thought.  I'd totally forgotten about my incredibly important mission!  Knowing that this might look bad on my permanent record with Her Majesty's Secret Service, I decided that honesty was the best policy.  "I was abducted by aliens, taken to a planet at the far end of the Andromeda galaxy, and shown nude photos of Burt Reynolds in a hammock," I candidly admitted. 

After being fired from the Secret Service with the most horrendously dishonorable discharge they could humanly muster, and having been assured that my brief tenure there was the absolute blackest blotch imaginable on that organization's once-sterling history, I applied for a job at Blockbuster and was hired to work Tuesday and Thursday nights and some weekends.  As a result, I was able to square things with M regarding those "Girls Gone Wild" DVDs, which his wife gave him holy hell about after they got the bill for them in the mail. 

As it turned out, Mrs. M had gotten away from SPECTRE on her own and made it back home after eluding their assassination squads for three weeks by crawling through the London sewer system until she finally emerged in a solid-waste processing plant somewhere near Bristol.  I don't know why Mr. and Mrs. M are still so mad at me, seeing as how everything turned out okay and all.  My offer for a threesome still stands. 

As for Miss Moneypenny--well, I finally gave in and made all her fondest dreams come true by allowing her to have sex with me ten times a day.  Ha ha, not really, but I did peek through her bathroom blinds once until her dog bit me and she called the cops.  I found out later that she'd joined one of those "lonely hearts" clubs and hooked up with a nice older gentleman named "Mr. Fitzwilly", who later turned out to be Blofeld, and that they're living in a volcano crater somewhere in the South Pacific where he topples nuclear missiles in an attempt to start World War III and she makes decorative seashell mosaics. 



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE'S GERT FROBE ADVENTURE

One day I was playing checkers with Gert Frobe, who portrayed James Bond's arch nemesis in GOLDFINGER, when suddenly I had a great idea.




"Hey, Gert," I said, jumping three of his men in a row, "let's build a rocketship and blast off to Mars!"



"That would be wonderful!" he exclaimed in his distinctive German accent as he "kinged" me. "Should we do it now, or complete our current game of checkers?"



"Oh, let's just call it a draw," I said magnanimously, even though I was clearly winning. "I can't wait to get started."



"I cannot wait, either!" he said happily, bounding from his stool and jumping up and down. Dressed in a festive Hawaiian shirt with blue shorts and flip-flops, he looked like a huge bouncing beach ball. His massive bulk shook our flimsy wooden clubhouse as each bounce threatened to knock it right out of the tree in which it was perched. Suddenly it lurched perilously to one side like a ship that had just struck an iceberg.



"No, Gert!" I cried. "You'll destroy--" But it was too late. The clubhouse tumbled over sideways even as Gert continued to flounder around joyously, laughing and screaming "We are going to Mars! We are going to Mars!" Seconds later the entire structure fell out of the tree and plummetted to the ground, where it was smashed into a million jagged shards.



When my vision cleared, I could see Gert sprawled on the ground with his head sticking through the checkerboard. He staggered to his feet, still dizzy, and lumbered around my backyard in a daze. Then, as I looked on with horror, he fell over backwards onto my Dad's riding lawnmower, accidentally started it, and then screamed with alarm as it took off across the yard. His feet were still sticking straight up as the lawnmower crashed through our picket fence, took out Mrs. Wilson's prize petunias, and then roared off down the street.



"GERT!" I cried as I leapt onto my bicycle and gave chase. I could see him rounding the corner at the end of the street, which would put him right in the middle of rush hour traffic. As I gained on him a little at a time, I began to hear him screaming over the roar of the lawnmower engine. Although his head had begun to clear, he was still extremely disoriented by the situation and didn't quite understand what was happening to him.



"Help me, porfle! I do not understand what is happening to me!" I could hear him say. Big tractor-trailer rigs and school buses and garbage trucks were thundering past him on all sides. He blew right through an intersection and barely missed getting flattened by a speeding dump truck. Then the lawnmower careened onto a side road and headed off toward the city dump.



It finally ran out of gas at the entrance to the dump, where I caught up with it at last. Breathlessly, I asked, "Gert! Are you all right?"



He stumbled off the lawnmower and stood up slowly, blinking his eyes. "Yes, porfle, I am all right," he said dazedly. "I was so stricken with sudden happiness at the thought of going to Mars, that I seem to have behaved in a careless manner. Which, as you can see, has resulted in a series of unfortunate mishaps."



"Well," I said, trying to make the best of things, "since we're at the city dump anyway, let's see if we can find some cool stuff to build a rocketship with."



At this, Gert's eyes lit up and he was happy again. "Oh, boy!" he said with delight. "I'll wager that before this day has passed, we will have found lots of 'cool stuff' for the construction of our rocketship." Before I could respond, he took off and disappeared into the dump.



After searching for the rest of that day and the next and unable to find a single trace of him anywhere, I finally had to call the police and fire department. Two weeks later, the sounds of helicopters and bloodhounds still resounded throughout the dump as dozens of uniformed men, along with several citizen volunteers, scoured the area looking for Gert. In the meantime, I had made some "Where's Gert?" signs to post on telephone poles all over town, and each one had a picture of him from that famous scene in GOLDFINGER where he gets mad and snaps the pencil in two. I later found out that nobody who saw one of these signs ever helped look for him, because the picture scared them.



Tired and dejected, I dragged myself home on the last day of the second week and found Gert in my backyard, surrounded by heaps of junk. His clothes were tattered and he showed signs of malnutrition and exposure to the elements. "Look!" he croaked. "Look at all these 'cool stuff' I have found with which to construct our rocketship! Soon we will be on Mars!"



Well, at that point I really didn't feel much like building a rocketship. And--truth be told--it had all been more of a fantastical whim than an actual plan to begin with. Like one of those cute things the Little Rascals used to think they could do before they learned a lesson about reality and stuff. I explained this to Gert as delicately as possible, trying to let him down easy, but the dawning disappointment in his eyes was almost heartbreaking.



"I wanted to go to Mars," he said, his voice cracking. "I had hoped that we would find strange creatures there, perhaps even intelligent ones, and have many exciting adventures in outer space." He sat down on an old washing machine that he'd planned to use in the construction of the ship's fuselage and sulked.



"Well," I said, trying to cheer him up, "we could go to the movies."



"Is it a movie about going to Mars?" he asked.



"Yes," I said, even though it was really just YOU'VE GOT MAIL with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. I would simply tell him that they were Martians and that the movie took place on Mars.



"All right, porfle," he said, rising. "We will go to this movies."



During the movie, Gert ate four large tubs of buttered popcorn, six hot dogs, and several boxes of Raisinettes, and drank nine large Mountain Dews. He had to go to the bathroom eleven times, and each time I had to bring him back up to speed on what was going on. "What did these strange Martian creatures do in my absence?" he would ask loudly as people shushed us. I made up stuff about terrifying space monsters and intense repulsor beam attacks that he had missed, and he sat back in awe. "Mein Gott...this is the greatest science-fiction film I have ever seen."



Later, we used all the junk Gert had dragged home from the dump to build a new, even better clubhouse. We were sitting in it one day, playing checkers, when Gert said in that thick German accent of his, "Hey, porfle...do you recall the time we constructed that magnificent rocketship and went to Mars?"



"Yes," I said, grateful that his memory of that whole incident had become a bit hazy.



"They had such wonderful popcorn and hot dogs there," he reflected. "But the Martians seemed foolish and weak. I found their frivolous antics tiresome. Perhaps someday we should construct a bigger and more powerful rocketship, armed with an invincible array of state-of-the-art repulsor beams, and completely obliterate them."



"Yeah, that'd be awesome," I agreed, jumping three of his men for the win.







(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE PRESENTS: IAN FLEMING'S "THUNDERFART"

Most people, even avid James Bond fans, don't realize that Ian Fleming's THUNDERBALL was originally titled THUNDERFART. It was going to be about a special SPECTRE operative who was scientifically altered so that his incredibly rank farts could wreak havoc in whatever situation he may be assigned to infiltrate. In this case, mysterious SPECTRE leader Blofeld would order Thunderfart, disguised as James Bond 007, to enter the office of Bond's boss, "M", and fart him into oblivion. Bond, of course, would catch wind of this malodorous scheme and, with the help of "Q" branch, acquire a similar farting capability in order to go fart-to-fart against the evil Thunderfart. If the original script is any indication, this would have resulted in one of the most explosive finales to any Bond adventure.

When asked why such a promising story was altered so drastically, even to the point of having to rename it THUNDERBALL, producer Albert "Cubby" Broccoli was evasive. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he told a reporter during filming. "Certainly, we toyed with the idea of a villain with super farting capability, but this concept never reached the final script phase. In fact, the closest we got to it was a henchman character named Fart Job, although he was dropped early in the process due to our inability to sign actor Rip Taylor for the part."

Sean Connery had a more negative attitude toward the whole thing. "I thought the idea stunk," he said over a light lunch of squab under glass at Tootsie's one Sunday afternoon. "[Co-producer] Harry Saltzman quite literally pulled it out of his ass one day while we were playing golf. He bent over to pick up his Slazenger 7 somewhere near the eighteenth hole, and cut a fart so powerful that it knocked me clean out the back of my golf cart. I was unconscious for fifteen minutes, and when I came to, Harry was rambling about how great it would be if 007 were to encounter a foe with frighteningly intense farting skills. I told him he was daft, but he wouldn't be put off. He even toyed with the idea of doing the whole thing up in Smell-o-vision.

"I whimsically suggested that perhaps this character might devise some grand plot to rob Fart Knox, which Harry actually considered till he realized the similarity to GOLDFINGER. That's when the idea for THUNDERFART began to gather wind. Harry brought it up with Cubby, and they holed themselves up in an office somewhere with several crates of baked beans, some spoons, and three barrels of Guinness. I'm not sure how far they ever got with the script treatment, but when they came out of there all the wallpaper had peeled off the walls and three potted plants were stone dead. Both their hair had turned snow white. They still don't know what became of Harry's cat."

With only the germ of an idea to show for their weeks of work, they turned to veteran Bond scripter Richard Maibaum to flesh it out. "I thought they'd both gone stark, raving coo-coo," Maibaum confided to The Daily Mail while polevaulting over a moat filled with maneating alligators as he and his valiant army of warrior knights lay siege to the castle of the evil King Sylvester Stallone (no relation to the actor). "There hadn't been a successful spy thriller with a 'super-farting' premise since Hitchcock's THE 39 FARTS or his later film, THE MAN WHO FARTED TOO MUCH. Of course, the great D.W. Griffith started it all back in 1919 with his silent but deadly epic INCONTINENCE, which set the standard. But I just couldn't see the idea working for a Bond film. Especially since Sean, unbeknownst to many of his fans, is physically incapable of farting."

Asked about this later, Connery was reticent to confirm Maibaum's claim. "I've been known to 'cut one' if the occasion called for it," he asserted over a late dinner of meatloaf under glass at Denny's on Wilton Avenue, 1967. "But to my embarrassment, my gaseous emissions are rather high-pitched and 'quacky'--not unlike the sound of an enormously fat woman sitting on a duck. Passable for daily use, of course, but hardly cinematic. Someone brought up the idea of dubbing me, but I balked. If those weren't going to be my own genuine farts up there on the screen, then what's the point? Besides," he added, tucking into a rich dessert of banana split under glass, "it was subsequently discovered that Ian Fleming himself had written a similar, unpublished story, which I thought would make a better film, entitled OCTOPOOTY."

We may never know whether or not THUNDERFART would've been better than OCTOPOOTY, but this surviving excerpt from an early draft of the script may help us decide. In this pre-titles sequence, Bond has been summoned to M's office for a briefing:


INTERIOR: M'S OFFICE: DAY

M is sitting at his desk, smoking a pipe, apparently unaware of Bond's presence as he pours over some papers. Bond sits across from him, waiting. Presently, M looks up with a dour expression.

M: "Did you just fart?"

BOND: (taken aback) "Never on the company's time, sir."

M: "Then it must be this case that stinks. The PM's having a BM about it. Seems SPECTRE's got a new secret weapon they're threatening to unleash on London unless we pay them...a million pounds."

BOND: (smirking) "A...'million' pounds, sir?"

M: "This isn't 'Austin Powers', 007. We're not doing retro-irony yet."

BOND: (abashed) "Of course not, sir."

M: "You're to infiltrate their organization and find out anything you can about... Operation Thunderfart."

BOND: "Hmm...is that as ominous as it sounds?"

M: "Worse. SPECTRE claims to have an agent who can fart clear across London, with a stench rank enough to knock a flock of buzzards off a dinosaur turd. They're threatening to render Buckingham Palace itself uninhabitable. Now get this, 007...I don't intend to have the Queen being farted right out of her own bed some night by a diabolical madman. Not on my watch."

BOND: "Of course not, sir."

M: "What do you know about beans?"

BOND: "Well...I know them when I see them."

M: "You'll be seeing a lot more of them. Henceforth, I want you to start eating beans non-stop. At least fifty cans a day, until you're a match for this...this Thunderfart." (places a can of beans and a spoon on his desk) "We've developed a special brand guaranteed to produce extra flatulence. You'll draw the rest from 'Q' branch on your way out."

BOND: "Anything else, sir?"

M: "You're not eating, 007."

BOND opens the can of beans and starts gulping them down as he rises and walks into the OUTER OFFICE. MONEYPENNY is at her desk.

MONEYPENNY: "How did it go, James?"

BOND: "Mmfff, glmmff."

MONEYPENNY: "Come again?"

BOND: (swallowing) "Sorry. Can't talk with my mouth full."

MONEYPENNY: "That's never stopped you before."

BOND: (roguishly) "And what do you know about flatulence, Moneypenny?"

MONEYPENNY: "Only the kind you get from eating too much cake. You know, like...wedding cake?"

BOND: "Ahh yes, we should look into that someday, my dear. Meanwhile..."

BOND pauses as though stricken. Suddenly he unleashes a resounding fart that knocks his hat off the nearby hatrack. Moneypenny turns green and flops over her desk like a dead fish.

M: (over the intercom) "Really, 007! Try to hold your fire until you've left the office!"

BOND: "Sorry, sir. I didn't want to go off half-cocked."


This, of course, would have led directly into the familiar opening titles song, powerfully sung by Tom Jones, but featuring these previously-unheard lyrics:

He likes to make a lot of noise
Offending's one of his main joys
And flatulence is, to him, an art
So he strikes...like Thunderfart.

Beans are his weapon, of choice
Through which he speaks in thund'rous voice
You're doomed to surrender from the start
If he strikes...like Thunderfart.

Any room he is in, he'll clear
As each nose learns the meaning of true fear

He'll make you think that something's died
You'll try to run, but you can't hide
He smells just like dog poo a la carte
When he strikes...like Thunderfart.

If you're stuck in a lift, with him
Hold your breath, or your will to live will dim

He never stops with only one
His farts go on and on and on
The seat of his pants he'll blow apart
When he strikes...like Thuuunn...derrrr...FAARRRTTTT!