PORFLE VS. THE BEAT SNAKES

The Beat Snakes were a musical group that were well known around my hometown when I was in high school. I would've said "popular" instead of "well known", but in truth nobody really liked them very much. In fact, they were citywide pariahs and everyone hated their stinking guts. But the Beat Snakes didn't care. They thought it was "cool" and "rebellious" to be hated.

Each member of the Beat Snakes had his own individual persona. The lead guitarist was known as "Roller Skate Head" because he wore roller skates on his head like earmuffs. Someone once asked him why he did that, and he answered: "Because I am Roller Skate Head." His real name was Boyd Feldman, and whenever he had to sign his actual name on some kind of official document or whatever, he would write "Boyd 'Roller Skate Head' Feldman." When he finally died, his headstone read "Here Lies Boyd 'Roller Skate Head' Feldman." It was carved in the shape of a urinal.

The lead singer for the Beat Snakes was known as "Super Lobster." He would move his hands as though they were lobster pincers and run around pretending to fly like Superman as he made a "whooshing" noise. When he got hit by a bus one day while pretending to fly around out in the middle of the interstate, Roller Skate Head called the local paper to give them the big story, expecting them to print an elaborate front page obituary. Instead, the editor of the paper reacted to the news by saying "So?" and printing a simple back-page filler item entitled "Bus Runs Over Dumbass." Since nobody knew Super Lobster's real name, his headstone simply said "Here Lies The Unknown Dumbass." It wasn't until several years later that his real identity was revealed to be ex-Doors-frontman Jim Morrison.

The bass player for the Beat Snakes called himself "Fred Flintstone." People naturally assumed that he was named after the cartoon character, yet he insisted to his dying day that this was his real name. In fact, his dying words were: "I am Fred Flintstone." Immediately after saying this, the helicopter that he was flying in got hit by a train. At his funeral, an older couple claiming to be his parents showed up and introduced themselves as Fred and Wilma Jetson. His headstone consists of a rotating marble bust of Gary Coleman with elk antlers.

Most peculiar of all, perhaps, was the Beat Snakes' drummer, who went by the nickname of "Bea Arthur." This was most likely due to the fact that he was a dead ringer for the "Golden Girls" star, even to the point of dressing like her, speaking in the exact same voice, and disappearing for long periods of time whenever the show was being taped in Hollywood. There was a persistent rumor, in fact, that he actually was Bea Arthur. There was another unsubstantiated rumor that he also defeated Muhammad Ali in a 1973 heavyweight title bout under the pseudonym of "Ken Norton." When queried about this, the other members of the group were heard to reply, "Nah, she was with me that day. I mean, he."

The fact that the Beat Snakes' drummer and the popular television actress were never seen together at the same time added fuel to the rumors, although it has been pointed out that neither had ever been seen at the same time with several other well-known people including Frank Sinatra, Jr. and talk-show host Oprah Winfrey. This latter point was further obfuscated when, during the final year of the band's existence, they acquired a keyboard player who went by the name of "Oprah Winfrey" and appeared to be a large black woman, although he consistently denied this.

I was there when the Beat Snakes gave their final performance one hot summer night in the local high school gym. There was a fairly large crowd, consisting not of fans but of people who showed up merely to boo and throw things at them. When they hit the stage, they were pelted with vegetables and rotten eggs that were on sale in the lobby as they launched into their theme song, "Hey, Hey, We're the Beat Snakes." Roller Skate Head's pants fell down during his big guitar solo, but he acted as though this were intentional and the matter is still up for debate. Fred Flintstone, apparently not feeling well that evening, vomited profusely throughout the entire song, prompting various audience members to get sick as well until the entire crowd was heaving their collective guts out.

The lynch mob and the arsonists both arrived during the final verse of the song, causing the band to flee for their lives as the gym went up in flames. Super Lobster was seen out in the street making defensive lobster-pincer motions with his hands and attempting to fly away, and was eventually rescued by his sister when she came driving by in her Volvo. Roller Skate Head tried to blend into the raging mob by donning dark glasses and a baseball cap, but failed to fool anyone since he'd forgotten that he was still wearing roller skates on his head. He finally had to leap onto the back of a passing Greyhound bus and ended up some time later in Cincinatti, Ohio.

Fred Flintstone and Oprah Winfrey managed to escape through a manhole, crawl through miles of rancid underground sewer pipes, and emerge on the other side of town covered in slime, where they were mistaken for swamp monsters and chased by angry torch-wielding villagers until they ducked into an Arby's on Wilton Boulevard and were hired to work the night shift. Bea Arthur disappeared during the initial chaos and was never seen again, although many believe that he is hiding out somewhere in the great northwest forest region of the United States under the name of "Bigfoot."

Now, whenever the band's name is mentioned, little children are heard to ask, "Who were the Beat Snakes, Mommy?", even when their parents are nowhere in sight. A documentary about them entitled "Who Were the Beat Snakes, Mommy?" was scheduled to be shown on VH1 a few years ago but eventually showed up on Nickelodeon at 4:00 in the morning, where it was seen only by me, some guy in Cincinatti, and, for some reason, the entire cast of "Desperate Housewives." So whenever a little child comes up to me now and asks, "Who were the Beat Snakes, Mommy?", I just smile, pat them on the head, and say, "I'm not your mommy, stupid. I just look like her."

PORFLE VS. DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME

All the clocks in my house are still set for non-Daylight Saving Time because I hate Daylight Saving Time. Nobody tells PORFLE that the time is different just because they say it is--NOBODY. And I absolutely refuse to "spring forward." People say this as though they were little elves cutely frolicking around in a meadow. "Time to spring forward, everybody!" they cheerily titter with their fingers making little fluttery motions. "No, it's time for you to KISS MY ASS!" I respond. That's just the kind of person I am. Hardcore. Uncompromising. Insouciant. 

So, I was sitting around eating a big bowl of ice cream and some of those yummy off-brand fig bars that look like Fig Newtons but are cheaper, and suddenly it occurred to me, "Oops! I missed my triple-bypass heart surgery! Oh well, who cares?" It's not my fault the rest of the country is stuck in this stupid Daylight Saving Time-warp. Those idiot surgeons down at the hospital might think it's three o'clock, but dammit, it's two o'clock. So I just blew off that dumb operation and guzzled another glass of delicious whole milk and smoked half a pack of cigarettes while watching Roy Rogers movies on TV. 

I only watch DVDs and tapes on TV anyway, so I don't have to worry about programming schedules like other foolish mortals, ha ha. And it gets dark when it's supposed to around my house, instead of at nine or ten o'clock at night, which is just plain dumb. I can't understand why anyone would look out their window and think, "Well, it's the middle of the night, but it's still broad daylight outside. Yaaaay!" 

I looked up "Daylight Saving Time" on Wikipedia and the first thing I saw was a picture of Benjamin Franklin. You know, the "early to bed, early to rise" guy. What a huge doofus. It's commonly believed that Franklin invented DST, but he didn't--he just proposed waking up Parisians an hour earlier every morning by shooting off cannons. I don't think he meant for the cannons to be shot directly at the Parisians, but I'll bet that would've woken them up, ha ha. Anyway, the picture of Benjamin Franklin that accompanies the article looks like my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Bagwell, so any worthless advice from this creepy-looking transvestite can be summarily dismissed. 

The guy who actually proposed switching to DST was some chump named William Willett, who decided during one of his "pre-breakfast horseback rides" in 1905 that people were sleeping through "the best time of a summer day." Well, by all means, let's wind all the clocks forward because some fruity asshat on horseback doesn't want us to sleep late. The Wikipedia article states: "An avid golfer, he also disliked cutting short his round at dusk." Oh my god, William "Chicken Head" Willett wants to get in a few extra holes, so let's drastically alter our entire system of time! There's a picture of this bald, spindly turdhead--probably thinking about the traumatic time that he was playing golf one day and it suddenly got dark--and the look on his smug pruneface just makes you want to kick him right in the balls. Twice. 

Anyway, I like to brag to everyone else about how smart I am and how stupid they are for being on Daylight Stupid Time. "I'll pick you up at noon," they say, and I respond, "Okay, but for me it will be eleven o'clock instead of noon, since I'm not a big, slobbering dumbass like you are." This often leads to interesting conversations about time and discussions of things such as how Daylight Savings Time affects society in general and why they are no longer going to pick me up. Which is fine with me because I didn't want to go to their dumb 4th of July party anyway. I have a dog and a cat to play with, and we have our own fun parties with pointy party hats and ice cream and off-brand fig bars, and I win all the games due to my higher intelligence level and cheating skills. 

 Furthermore, it may interest you to know that my dog and cat don't pay attention to Daylight Saving Time, either--hell, they never even heard of it. Yes, we could all learn a thing or two from dogs and cats. I'll bet William "Chicken Head" Willett never had a dog or a cat, or if he did he never learned anything from them. He did have a horse, though, and horses don't know a damn thing about anything. So I'm not surprised that he had his big epiphany about Daylight Saving Time while on horseback. Rick Astley wrote all of his most well-known songs while on horseback, and look what happened to him. If William Willett and Rick Astley ever went horseback riding together, they'd probably fall in love and go nuts. As for Benjamin Franklin, I don't know what kind of pets he had. By the looks of him, though, if he had a horse he'd probably eat it.

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 ADMITS: "I WAS CHRISTOPHER WALKEN’S PERSONAL CHEF"

Back when I was Christopher Walken's personal chef, I never knew what random horrors each day would bring. I remember one day in particular, in which Mr. Walken sat his darkened study, lost in one of his strange, pensive moods. He summoned me just as the grandfather clock in the drafty hallway struck noon.




I stood there, awaiting his orders, for quite a long time. He sat in a large leather-bound chair, hands pressed together under his chin, as though pondering his options with grave consideration. Finally, in his familiar low, halting voice, he spoke.



"I would like...the Buggles," he said. "For lunch."



"The Buggles?" I repeated, not sure I'd understood. "You mean, the 80s 'new wave' musical duo?"



"Yes, exactly," he said, relieved that I was familiar with them. A slight smile played upon his lips as he nodded, relishing some mental image that I daren't even imagine.



I wasn't sure what to say. Where the hell had this idea come from? "The Buggles broke up a long time ago," I informed him. "They're, uh, not a duo anymore."



"Then..." he said thoughtfully, "you could get...the ingredients for the Buggles...and make some new ones."



I thought about this seemingly nonsensical request for a moment, when suddenly the horrifying truth dawned on me. By "ingredients", he meant that he wanted me to kidnap Trevor Horn and Geoffrey Downes, the original members of the Buggles, and cook them for lunch. His lunch.



"I can't do that," I said firmly. "I...I won't do that. They're human beings, not just 'ingredients' for some ghastly lunch for you." I cringed, waiting for him to explode in a fit of anger, or at least send me packing.



"Oh," he said softly, as though my words had actually made some kind of sense to him. "Okay. Well, then...I'm not sure what other...lunch options...are available to me. Let's go into the kitchen and...explore them. Shall we?" He rose from his chair and waited for me to lead him into the kitchen, since he had no idea where it was. So I did.



When we got there, he gazed around in silent wonder at all the utensils and appliances. Finally, he spoke. "Where do you keep...the people?" he asked, gesturing with his hands.



"The people? What people?" I inquired, baffled.



"The people that you cook," he explained. "Where...do you store them before preparing them...for my meals?" He asked this as though it were the most normal thing in the world.



Forcing back a retching wave of hot bile, I contained my revulsion long enough to respond. "I don't cook people!" I exclaimed. "I cook food! FOOD! Nobody cooks PEOPLE! That's HORRIBLE!"



He looked at me with a sort of serene puzzlement for a moment, then shrugged. He noticed something on the counter. "What is that?"



"That," I said, grateful for the change of subject, "is a sandwich that I made for my own lunch."



"Ah," he said, amazed. "A...sandwich. Could you make one of those...for me?"



"Sure," I said, relieved. "What kind of sandwich would you like?



"Are there...different kinds?"



"Oh, yes," I said. "You can put whatever you want in a sandwich. Any kind of meat, in addition to things like tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, pickles--"



"Make me," he said with growing excitement, "a Buggles sandwich."



I slapped my forehead. "No...no, you don't understand," I said, exasperated. "You can't--"



"With some of that pickles and...er, cheese things that you indicated," he added. "And I...I really am hungry today, so...make me two of these Buggles sandwiches. Each of them containing half...of each separate Buggle. With cheese." He took a deep breath and stood back with his mouth open, eagerly waiting for me to confirm my understanding of his instructions.



"Look, Mr. Walken," I said, finally tiring of this charade and spelling it out for him, slowly and plainly. "I cannot and WILL not cook people for you to eat for lunch, or for any other meal. You're asking me to commit MURDER, for heaven's sake...so that YOU can indulge in cannibalism, one of the most utterly HEINOUS acts a person can commit. Why, the very notion of this fills me with an inutterable HORROR which I can scant express with mere words!" I leaned wearily against the counter, drained by my emotional turmoil.



He thought about this for a long time, then held up his index finger and began to speak. "Are you...trying to tell me..." he said slowly, a look of concern on his face, "that we...are out of cheese?"



"NO!" I screamed. "WE'RE OUT OF BUGGLES! YOU'LL HAVE TO EAT SOMETHING ELSE!"



"Ah," he nodded, appearing to understand me at last. I waited anxiously, fearfully, for his next words. He extended his arm so that his sleeve would retract and reveal his wristwatch. He looked at it, furrowing his brow. "It's five minutes after twelve," he announced. "Is my lunch ready yet?"



"No," I said. "You told me you wanted the Buggles for lunch, and I told you I could not and would not kidnap and cook them for you. Therefore, you have yet to present me with a viable alternative meal to prepare for you."



"I understand," he affirmed. "Well, then," he said breezily, "I'll just invite some friends over for lunch, and you can cook some of them." He pulled an address book out of his pocket, went over to the phone, and began calling people while I simply stared at him in disbelief. Thirty minutes later, the livingroom was filled with guests milling around drinking cocktails.



"There's Meryl Streep," he said to me in a low voice, pointing. "I'd like some spaghetti and Streep balls as an appetizer. And over there," he added, indicating a gentleman standing next to the Picasso, "is Dennis Hopper. As an entree, I'd like some thick, juicy Dennis Hopper steaks. Ribeyes, of course."



"Of course," I said wearily.



"And to snack on...umm, who's left...oh, just do something fun with Steven Spielberg. Maybe a sort of festive meatloaf. Or some jerky. But you'd better hurry, because he never stays long."



"So...I just slaughter them now?" I asked.



"Yes, yes, just slaughter them now," he urged. "I'm famished."



Steeling myself, I clutched the meat cleaver and began to inch forward. Suddenly a wave of hysteria swept through me and I screamed at the top of my lungs: "NO! NO! I WON'T DO IT! I WON'T SLAUGHTER AND COOK HOLLYWOOD'S ELITE FOR YOUR LUNCH!"



With that, I flung the meat cleaver aside and ran shrieking from the room. On my way out, I could hear Mr. Walken explain to his guests, "Well, you just can't get good help these days."



Later, he found me hiding in the kitchen, trembling. He noticed my sandwich sitting uneaten on the counter. "Are you...going to eat that?" he asked.



"No, you can have it," I said in a quavering voice. "I couldn't bear to eat anything right now."



He picked up half of the sandwich and took a bite. "Mmm, this is very good," he appraised. "Who is it?"



It was Underwood Chicken Spread, but I lied. "It's Tom Cruise. I got a good deal on the cast of TOP GUN at the meat market."



And so, for the next several weeks, I gave Christopher Walken chicken spread sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and told him that we were working our way through the entire cast of TOP GUN. When that was over, I switched to deviled ham and told him we were starting in on PULP FICTION. This eventually presented a problem, since I'd forgotten that he was in it. So one day, two weeks into PULP FICTION, he asked, "When do I get to eat me for lunch?" Thinking fast, I opened up a can of Spam and pointed at it. "This is you," I said. "Oh...I look good," he drooled.





(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE'S TOP 100 FAVORITE COMEDIES OF ALL TIME

1. THE GENERAL

2. STEAMBOAT BILL, JR.

3. SHERLOCK, JR.

4. COLLEGE

5. CITY LIGHTS

6. MODERN TIMES

7. THE KID

8. THE COCOANUTS

9. ANIMAL CRACKERS

10. MONKEY BUSINESS (1931)

11. HORSEFEATHERS

12. DUCK SOUP

13. A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

14. THE BANK DICK

15. IT'S A GIFT

16. MILLION DOLLAR LEGS

17. THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN

18. THE RELUCTANT ASTRONAUT

19. THE SHAKIEST GUN IN THE WEST

20. BLAZING SADDLES

21. YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN

22. SILENT MOVIE

23. MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL

24. MONTY PYTHON'S LIFE OF BRIAN

25. AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

26. THE JERK

27. THE MAN WITH TWO BRAINS

28. THE NAKED GUN

29. THE NAKED GUN 2 1/2

30. THE NAKED GUN 33 1/3

31. AIRPLANE!

32. ANIMAL HOUSE

33. THE BLUES BROTHERS

34. BANANAS

35. TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN

36. SLEEPER

37. WHAT'S UP, TIGER LILY?

38. ANNIE HALL

39. RAISING ARIZONA

40. THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY

41. KINGPIN

42. DUMB AND DUMBER

43. SINGIN' IN THE RAIN

44. ON THE TOWN

45. WHAT'S UP, DOC?

46. ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN

47. IT'S A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD

48. MEET THE PARENTS

49. THE OUT-OF-TOWNERS (1970)

50. THE ODD COUPLE

51. THE FORTUNE COOKIE

52. SOME LIKE IT HOT

53. THE PINK PANTHER (1963)

54. A SHOT IN THE DARK

55. THE RETURN OF THE PINK PANTHER

56. THE PINK PANTHER STRIKES AGAIN

57. THE NUTTY PROFESSOR (1963)

58. THE LADIES' MAN

59. THE BELLBOY

60. THE BIG MOUTH

61. THE PATSY

62. WHO'S MINDING THE STORE?

63. ARTISTS AND MODELS

64. WAYNE'S WORLD

65. BRINGING UP BABY

66. PEE-WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE

67. PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES

68. NATIONAL LAMPOON'S VACATION

69. NATIONAL LAMPOON'S CHRISTMAS VACATION

70. WHO'S HARRY CRUMB?

71. SUMMER RENTAL

72. THE GREAT OUTDOORS

73. UNCLE BUCK

74. UP IN SMOKE

75. BEACH PARTY

76. MUSCLE BEACH PARTY

77. BEACH BLANKET BINGO

78. VILLAGE OF THE GIANTS

79. ACE VENTURA, PET DETECTIVE

80. ACE VENTURA: WHEN NATURE CALLS

81. DARK STAR

82. DR. STRANGELOVE

83. SONS OF THE DESERT

84. THE FLYING DEUCES

85. THE BLOCKHEADS

86. WAY OUT WEST

87. THIS IS SPINAL TAP

88. A MIGHTY WIND

89. HOW TO SUCCEED IN BUSINESS WITHOUT REALLY TRYING

90. THE IN-LAWS (1979)

91. LOST IN AMERICA

92. DEFENDING YOUR LIFE

93. NOT ANOTHER TEEN MOVIE

94. PAPER MOON

95. PINK FLAMINGOS

96. LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS (1960)

97. AUSTIN POWERS: INTERNATIONAL MAN OF MYSTERY

98. AUSTIN POWERS: THE SPY WHO SHAGGED ME

99. AUSTIN POWERS IN GOLDMEMBER

100.M*A*S*H

PORFLE'S JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH

I remember the first time I ever read Jules Verne's classic adventure story, "A Journey to the Centre of the Earth." As soon as I finished the very last page I became so totally, giddily excited by the idea of actually traveling to the center of the earth that I jumped up out of my chair and ran outside right away, determined to set off for the center of the earth at that very minute! Silly? Yes, of course. But way back in those golden days of youthful innocence, well, I pretty much believed everything that I read in books. And I was generally much more idealistic and optimistic back then, because I had just graduated from college.




My excitement growing with each passing millisecond, I began to jump up and down on the front lawn several times. Nothing happened. I jumped up again and landed as hard as I could, sending jolts of pain through both feet. Still nothing happened! The ground was really hard, and I realized that I would need some kind of hole or passageway in order to get to the center of the earth. Looking around, I noticed that there weren't any volcanos or vast underground caverns in the immediate vicinity of my house. Damn!



At that moment, I spotted a passing police car. The words of an ancient storybook echoed in my mind: "The policeman is your friend. He will always stop and help you when you are in trouble." Flinging myself into the path of the speeding police car, I flew over the hood and crashed into the windshield. It shattered and fell away in jagged pieces as I clawed my way through it and grabbed the terrified policeman by the lapels even as he struggled to control the car. Yanking him forward, I screamed into his face. "HELP ME!!! HELP ME GET TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH!!!"



I've never seen such terror. Frantic, the policeman missed the brakes and rammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car bolted forward, out of control, and careened haphazardly down the street as I dragged the policeman through the windshield and out onto the hood with me, still screaming "HELP ME!!!" into his face. He was screaming too, but I couldn't make out the words. He may have been trying to tell me how to get to the center of the earth, but mostly it sounded like "URK!" and "GAA!"



This suddenly struck me as funny for some reason and I began to laugh maniacally as I flung the befuddled policeman into a passing dumpster. Standing on the hood of the car with my arms outstretched to the sky, I laughed and laughed and then bellowed mightily to the heavens, "I'M THE KING OF THE WOOOORLD!!!" just as the police car crashed through the front doors of a Super Wal-Mart. As is so often the case, the designated "greeter" failed to smile and "greet" me as I whizzed by, even though I know for a fact that he saw me because he was looking right at me.



Anyway, I was soon barreling down one of those big central aisles and smashing all sorts of elaborate displays to smithereens as I headed straight for the electronics department in the back. People shrieked in terror and hurled themselves out of the way, and it was interesting to watch the bright splashes of color and texture as the police car obliterated each abandoned shopping cart and sprayed its various contents in all directions.



Forgetting for a moment my impassioned quest to reach the center of the earth, I reflected upon how truly happy I was at that moment and thrilled to the prospect of crashing into the store's entire DVD collection, including the new shelf of Blu-Rays that nobody ever bought, and totally demolishing the whole thing within mere seconds. This was my moment of triumph! I don't know why I felt that way, but it seemed appropriate for some reason. Perhaps I simply felt a sense of entitlement since it was almost my birthday.



With a resounding Tarzan yell that echoed throughout the store, I beat my chest with both fists and waited for the crash. Later, as I proceeded downward through a dark tunnel that had been formed in the subterranean rock by molten lava forcing its way upward from the depths of the earth, I looked back upon the incident and chuckled. My Swedish guide, Fjorn, glanced back inquisitively at me from up ahead, but I waved him onward. He wouldn't have understood what it means to be an irresponsible cut-up, a happy-go-lucky clown who behaves strictly on impulse with no regard whatsoever for the consequences or the well-being of others.



I'd tried to hire a guide who did understand stuff like that so we'd have something to talk about, but Fjorn was all the guide agency had left that day. I toyed with the idea of shoving him into some lava if I got a chance--that is, after he had outlived his usefulness as a guide--but then I remembered that he had those incriminating nude photos of me cavorting around in the frozen foods section of a Piggly-Wiggly, which he'd left instructions to have published upon his mysterious death. Curses! Always one step ahead of me...in more ways than one!



Well--long story short--we finally reached the center of the earth approximately eight years after beginning the journey. It wouldn't have taken so long except for the fact that every time we ran out of food we had to go back to Piggly-Wiggly again and buy some more. Anyway, the center of the earth sucked because there wasn't really a big raging ocean down there with giant dinosaurs fighting each other to the death and big, hairy cavemen running around and stuff. I then realized that this Jules Verne guy was just some big stupid dope who had made up a lot of cool stuff and lied about it in his dumb book, and it was at that moment I vowed never to read another book again as long as I live, especially if it was written by that big stupid dope, Jules Verne.



I was so disappointed that I no longer cared whether or not those naked pictures of me got sent to the newspaper, so I kicked Fjorn into a bunch of molten lava and trudged my way back to the surface of the earth. Without a guide, I got lost along the way and ended up emerging from a solid waste processing plant outside of Billings, Montana six months later. Hailed by distraught witnesses as a horrifying, solid-waste-covered monster from the depths of the earth, I became a legend that still haunts the bedtime stories of terrified little children in and around the Billings, Montana area, where I am known simply as "Big Ass." But that was nothing compared to the nationwide horror and widespread panic and consternation that occurred when those naked pictures hit the front page of the New York Times.



The journey was over. Four years later, policeman Fred Burton disappeared, along with partners Mertz and Finklestein, when rabid muskrats swept through their duck blind on Lake Blorch. But on that glorious day in May 1963, I--porfle--went deeper, farther, and slower than any other American--eight years and six months below the surface of the earth; I was the last American ever to go into the frozen food section of Piggly-Wiggly naked. And for a brief moment, Porfo Cooper became the stupidest person anyone had ever seen.

 
(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!