PORFLE'S KIDS

Here's my idea for a sitcom that I'm currently pitching to all the major networks. It's called "Porfle's Kids" and has a really cute and socially-relevant premise that I think will appeal to both kids and adults.




Basically, it's about a lovable but irresponsible bachelor named Porfle who suddenly finds himself raising three adorable, irrascible orphan boys--one white, one black, and one "other" (I haven't decided yet between American Indian or Amish). I, myself, will be portraying the black kid. Some have suggested that I should play Porfle, but I just don't think I'm right for the role. Here, in fact, are my proposed casting choices...



PORFLE: Bea Arthur

SPANKY (white kid): Yaphet Kotto

D.J. JAMMY JAMZ (black kid): me

OTHER: either Ben Kingsley or Hulk Hogan

MAILMAN: Paul McCartney

BIFF, THE FUNNY NEIGHBOR: Russell Crowe



Sounds too good to be true, right? But if you want to impress the network executives, you have to have more than just a killer premise and an incredible cast--you must also come up with a sample script in order to convey a reasonable idea of how funny and heartwarming the show will be. So here's a scene from my "pilot" script for the show, which I use to impress the network executives during my presentation. And before long--fingers crossed--you'll be seeing it on your very own television set!



INTERIOR: KITCHEN: DAY



PORFLE, in a frilly apron and chef's hat, is cheerily cooking breakfast while the kids, SPANKY, D.J. JAMMY JAMZ, and OTHER are sitting around the table.



SPANKY: Hey Dad, when do we eat?



PORFLE: I thought I told you to shut up.



D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: Yo, Dad, there are rabid wolverines in my bedroom.



PORFLE: (incredulous) So?



D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: Well, I was thinking maybe you could call Animal Control, and--



PORFLE: Egg Catch!!!



The boys spring to their feet and hold their plates up as Porfle flings fried eggs at them with a spatula. Each of them catches an egg and sits down to eat. The last two eggs fly over their heads just as BIFF, THE FUNNY NEIGHBOR appears at the back door. The eggs strike him in the eyes and dangle there like goggles.



PORFLE: Ha, ha! Looks like somebody has egg on his face! Right, kids?



OTHER: That's not funny, Dad. You could've injured--



PORFLE: Shut up. What in tarnation do you want, Biff?



BIFF: (wiping off the eggs) Somebody burned my house down last night. The police say it's arson. You boys wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?



The boys all look at PORFLE.



PORFLE: (innocently) Hey, I was indexing my circus porn collection all night.



SPANKY: But, Dad--I saw you running around the backyard with your pants on fire.



PORFLE: It's called "friction", son. If you'd bothered to become a Boy Scout, you'd have learned all about stuff like that.



D.J. JAMMY JAMZ: It don't sound like you was rubbin' two sticks together to me!



PORFLE: Shut up. Biff, get the hell out of my house before I sic the rabid wolverines on you.



BIFF: You haven't heard the last of this, you...you bastard!



PORFLE: Cover your ears, kids! He's using cuss words!



BIFF: Damn you, Porfle! Damn you to hell!



PORFLE: Aaargh! Get 'im, kids!



The boys fly out of their chairs like wild animals and attack BIFF, dragging him kicking and screaming through the basement door and down the stairs. The sounds of power tools and screams can be heard.



PORFLE: (resumes cooking) Well, that'll keep the little bastards busy for a while.



The front doorbell rings. PORFLE answers the door and finds the MAILMAN standing there.



MAILMAN: Your latest shipment of circus porn has arrived, sir.



PORFLE: (grabs mailman's lapels) EGAD! Swiggity suh-WEEET! WOOF! WOOF! Ow-WOOOOOO!!!



The MAILMAN flees in terror. PORFLE retires to the rumpus room, dragging the huge package behind him as jaunty circus music fills the air and we FADE OUT.

PORFLE MEETS ARNOLD VOSLOO

Remember Arnold Vosloo, the guy who played "Im-Ho-Tep" in those recent "Mummy" movies? If you do, then you can probably understand how easy it is to become totally, irrevocably obsessed with him to the point of sheer, gibbering insanity.




First of all, there's that name--something about it seems to compel the mind to repeat it over and over, relentlessly, during every waking hour and most of the sleeping ones, too. I, myself, have gone days on end thinking nothing but the name "Arnold Vosloo." People ask, "How's it going?" and I respond, "Arnold Vosloo." Or they say, "Isn't that your car that's on fire over there?" and, without even looking, I intone "Arnold Vosloo." It's almost as though I can't get that name out of my mind.



Then, of course, there's that face, that Arnold Vosloo face. He looks kind of like a cross between Paul McCartney and, oh, I don't know--Frankenstein. If Arnold Vosloo robbed a bank and you were a witness, you wouldn't have any trouble identifying him. "It was Arnold Vosloo," you'd tell the police, and they'd look at you funny and ask, "You mean the guy who played 'Im-Ho-Tep' in those recent 'Mummy' movies?" and you'd say, "Well, that's one way of referring to him" and they'd ask the obvious follow-up question: "What's another way?" and you'd answer, "Well, he's also the guy who looks like a cross between Paul McCartney and Frankenstein" and they'd call in a sketch artist. Preferably one who knew what Arnold Vosloo, Paul McCartney, and Frankenstein looked like.



Anyway, my main reason for mentioning Arnold Vosloo is to tell you about the time I actually ran into him one day at EZ Mart. I walked in to get some Honey Buns and there he was, standing at the check-out counter paying for some coffee and a used DVD of MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING. Bells and whistles sounded in my brain like a thousand fire alarms, and my Terminator-Vision processed the visual information I was receiving and began flashing the words "CONFIRM POS IDENT: ARNOLD VOSLOO" in my eyeballs.



I threw up my hands and screamed, destroying a display of "Brady Bunch" cigarette lighters with my left hand and knocking a little old lady backward into the ATM machine with my right. Arnold was so startled that he splashed the large container of scalding hot coffee that he was paying for down his pants. "YAAAAAA!!!" he shrieked, dancing around. He looked just like Im-Ho-Tep reacting in righteous anger at some infidel who had encroached upon his sacred temple or something, except for the way he was fanning his crotch with his hands and screaming, "MY NUTS!!! MY BURNING NUTS!!!" I couldn't recall that line from any of the "Mummy" movies, but then again I spent most of the second one in the bathroom because of those tainted chili dogs.



By this time the counter guy was already calling the police and I'd begun to calm down, so I collected myself and approached Mr. Vosloo in a calm and respectful manner. Unfortunately, I then tripped over the old lady and launched myself at him as though I were swooping in for the kill, emitting what may have been misinterpreted as some kind of "war whoop" or something. Anyway, Arnold Vosloo screamed again and grabbed a handful of those extra-long Slim Jims, swinging them back and forth in a defensive motion.



As the counter guy started to ring them up I crashed into Mr. Vosloo and we both went sailing over a rack of Hostess Ding Dongs and into the frozen desserts case. The exhilarating blast of frosty air, in addition to the fact that his ass had lodged in a two-gallon container of Peach Ripple sherbet, caused him to assume a rather humorous expression. I think he also found it somewhat distressing that I now had a number of Klondike Bars stuck to my face, which may or may not have caused me to resemble some kind of crazed Yeti. At that point, perhaps inappropriately, I asked him for his autograph.



Well, it turned out he wasn't really Arnold Vosloo after all. His name was Finster Bellflower, and he was a mortician from Burtsell, Arkansas. I happen to have passed through Burtsell, Arkansas a number of times, and I wouldn't have suspected that they even had their own taxidermist, much less a mortician. He happened to be both, which had resulted in a few rather embarrassing mix-ups over the years. Fortunately, the Rutherfords kind of enjoyed having their Uncle Harold stuffed and mounted over the fireplace in a dynamic leaping pose that made it seem as though he were pouncing on his prey.



The downside of all this is that I didn't find out that it wasn't really Arnold Vosloo until I'd already ordered a thousand custom T-shirts that said "HA-HA, I MET ARNOLD VOSLOO AND YOU DIDN'T--SUCKA!!!" My self-congratulatory local TV commercial had already aired a number of times as well, and the grand testimonial ball I was holding for myself at the VFW hall was in full swing with a roomful of winos whooping it up on free booze.



After receiving a surprise phone call from Mr. Vosloo's attorneys, it was my sad duty to mount the podium and make the announcement. "I'm sorry everyone," I said in a grave voice. "It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you all that I didn't really meet Arnold Vosloo after all. It was just some mortician from Burtsell, Arkansas named Finster Bellflower."



One of the drunken revelers stopped, peered groggily up at me, and slurred, "Who the hell's Arnold Vosloo?" I leapt off the stage like a screeching condor in heat and attacked, sparking a riot that resulted in the VFW hall burning down and a SWAT team in full battle gear rounding everyone up with excessive force. I then sued Arnold Vosloo for causing the whole thing, which should pretty much set me up for life if I win.



After I'm rich and famous, I'll marry Monica Bellucci and we'll name all our kids Arnold Vosloo, and when he comes over for Sunday dinner every week we'll look back and have a good laugh about the whole thing while all the little Arnold Vosloos run around playing cowboys and mummies, and I'll finally be able to wear those T-shirts.

PORFLE VS. PEOPLE WHO DON'T REALIZE HOW GREAT I AM

One of the most wonderful and admirable things about me is that I don't allow my vast superiority over everyone else in the world go to my head. In fact, my practically super-human humility is almost as legendary as my utter greatness.




Just the other day, I was regailing my lucky friend Bob with robust tales of how much better I am than he was, when suddenly he interrupted with, "Pffft! You really think you're 'hot (beep)', don't you?"



Needless to say, this outburst was rather unexpected. "Why, of course not," I said, taken aback. "It's only my utter perfection that compels me to tell the truth rather than insult your lesser intelligence by denying or falsely downplaying my extreme greatness."



Of course, anyone with the slightest iota of my vast mental capacity would immediately see the total logic of this statement and wholeheartedly agree. But, sadly, Bob lacked such insight and remained sullen and resentful. I patiently explained to him that for me to try and convey such things to a creature of his lower mental stature was akin to him attempting to communicate in a substantive and meaningful way with a retarded tree sloth. Satisfied that my analogy was clearly understandable and my reasoning beyond reproach, I happily waited for him to burst into giggles of joyful enlightenment. Still, he doggedly persisted in regarding me with a dull, jealous petulance.



Finally realizing that any further attempt to reason with him would be utterly futile, I regretfully brought my shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher to bear and blew Bob to smithereens. It was really loud for a moment, and the echo reverberated throughout the countryside for several seconds. But afterward came a sweet, blissful silence. Birds began to chirp gaily in the trees--"is that a titwillow?" I thought, cocking an ear--and from somewhere off in the distance came the comfortingly familiar sound of rabid dogs viciously attacking a group of schoolchildren who had been cavorting on the playground between classes.



I smiled as their distant screams wafted around my ears, along with the horrendous, throaty growls of the mindless canines. "Goodness, how distressed they sound!" I said to myself, shaking my head in amusement. It occurred to me that if I simply rotated my head approximately fifteen degrees to the left, I would have a clear view of the distant carnage, which might prove momentarily entertaining. But, it was beneath my notice. I was too busy observing a nearby flock of quacking ducks waddling by a pond and wondering what they would look like if they all had Al Gore heads.



Using a mere fraction of my astounding intellect, I learned the ducks' language simply by listening to a few seconds of it. "Hello, ducks," I said cheerily. "Are you surprised to hear a human being talking to you in your own duck language?"



"We sure are!" quacked one of the ducks, clearly the spokesman for the group, as the others flapped their wings in agreement. "Wow--you must have an astounding intellect!"



"Oh, ha ha," I blushed, embarrassed. "Well, yes--it's actually quite mind-boggling. Say, have you ever wondered what it would look like if you all had Al Gore heads?"



"We sure have!" the duck exclaimed. "We were just thinking about that when suddenly our attention was diverted by those rabid woof-woofs attacking that flock of human fledglings!" All of this, of course, was conveyed by a rapid-fire series of quacks that only I could interpret.



"I noticed that as well," I quacked, suddenly tiring of the exchange. Using only the parts from my transistor radio, I hastily constructed a makeshift time machine and transported myself backward in time five minutes so that I could avoid ever meeting those boring ducks. There was a flash of sparkly white light, and when my vision cleared, I was standing there talking to Bob once again.



"Pffft! You really think you're 'hot (beep)', don't you?" he blathered, stupidly unaware of everything that had just transpired.



"Oh, not really," I replied modestly, glancing at you, the reader, with a sly wink. "But I do have my moments...in time."



"What the hell's that s'posed to mean?"



Patiently, I explained to him what had recently occurred, including the part about the ducks and the time machine, as several children ran past us screaming in abject terror with frothing, rampaging rabid dogs hot on their heels. Presently I realized that I was talking to my friend in duck language and that he hadn't comprehended a single one of my eloquent quacks. So, in lieu of repeating myself, I regretfully brought my shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher to bear and blew Bob to smithereens again.



Since then, I've relived that series of events repeatedly and blown Bob to smithereens over a hundred times. I'll stop doing it one of these days and let Bob live, but I just haven't gotten tired of it yet. The look on his face when that missile comes screaming out of the launch tube is priceless. And, over time, I've even grown increasingly fond of the ducks. One thing you gotta say for them--ducks recognize greatness when they see it.



As for the children, I'm actually considering calling Animal Control in advance to ward off the rabid dogs before they get a chance to attack. I know what you're thinking--and yes, I humbly agree. That's just the kind of incomprehensibly wonderful person I am.

PORFLE VS. PROGRESS

Progress is determined to get on my nerves. I think it was invented by devious, psychic pranksters with the foresight to know that someday it would drive me nuts. They must have been cavemen because progress started way back in the caveman days with the invention of the wheel. Or maybe even before that, depending on whatever cool stuff may have been invented before the wheel, like aftershave or bean bags. I'll further address this issue a bit later.




Anyway, progress is making my computer dial-up connection seem really lame. Everybody else is downloading the crap out of everything that's chunk-barfed onto the internet these days, while my screen freezes up whenever I try to access my own farking blog. And forget trying to see anyone else's page, because they're all packed to the gills with a bunch of colossally dumbass YouTube videos.



Everything that can possibly be recorded by moving picture cameras is ending up on YouTube--dogs farting at blast furnaces, fat people diving into vats of boiling wolf urine, baby's first "F-bomb"--and everybody seems to find it impossible to resist embedding links to all of this worthless bullshit all over every forum or profile they run across, turning the entire internet into a virtual cow-poop minefield for anyone on dial-up.



Whenever I click on a forum topic now, it isn't a regular post with text in it anymore, it's a freakin' YouTube video and someone's gushing "Hey, check out this funny azz video! LOLZ!" and I'm thinking "Great! I'll get back to you on how awesome it was around, oh, NEXT WEEK because that's about how long it'll take me to download the thing, DUMBASS!!! I HATE YOU!!! GRRRRRRR!!!"



"Hey, check out this hilarious new Chris Crocker parody!" the horror continues. "It's somebody's two-year-old kid who doesn't even know who the hell Chris Crocker is, and he's in front of a sheet Mommy hung up in the bathroom, screaming 'Weave Bwitney awone!' like Mommy told him to! YAHHH ha-ha!"



"Great!" I scream. "I'll just devote the next TWO FRIGGIN' YEARS to downloading the STUPID, LAME-ASS PIECE OF CRAP VIDEO, YOU BRAIN DEAD MORON!!! KILL KILL KILL!!!"



So, I suspect that psychic cavemen invented aftershave, because cavemen didn't shave--they just had incredibly long beards like ZZ Top--and thus they would have to have been psychic to have invented something that neither they nor anyone else had any possible use for yet, as logic would seem to dictate. I don't know what ingredients they might have used to make caveman aftershave, but I suspect that one of them might indeed have been wolf urine, which is known to naturally possess rather bracing properties.



Known, that is, to people in Finland since the dawn of the Finnish caveman era. I don't know why people in Finland have always seemed to know this, but it's a fact. In fact, it's a "Finnish Fact", part of the "Finnish Facts" series of informative TV spots brought to you by the Finnish Department of Information, Tourism, Alcohol, Firearms, Nuclear Submarines, and Wolf Urine. These TV spots are highly educational and are great for kids who hope to someday wage futuristic laser war against vast hordes of invading Seth Green robots.



And, of course, cavemen of all nationalities (except Belgians) seem to have invented bean bags at roughly the same time, just as everyone seemed to invent breathing and going to the bathroom pretty much simultaneously for obvious reasons. You know those games where you toss the bean bags and try to flip over the tic-tac-toe tiles until you get three X's or O's in a row? Cavemen invented those, because they were still too stupid at the time to invent more complicated stuff like zeppelins. If cavemen had somehow invented zeppelins our entire history would have been different, or at least there would have been a whole lot more zeppelins in it. Which is another reason why progress sucks.



Progress has made my cassette tape collection pretty much obsolete, and my cassette tape collection is a hell of a lot better than my CD collection, that's for sure. I have tons of great music on cassette tapes, but so far my CD collection consists of stuff like the soundtrack to "Titanic", the Brady Bunch's greatest hits, and some dusty old Al Stewart CD that I found in back of an abandoned car which doesn't even have "Year of the Cat" on it, for Pete's sake.



Of course my cassette tape players are all breaking down and I'm embarrassed to buy a new one at Wal-Mart because I'm afraid the clerk will point and laugh at me. So when I finally do begin to catch up with everyone else on this CD thing they'll already be obsolete themselves and people will be listening to music that comes out of futuristic electronic buttplugs or something. "Hey, listen to this great song coming out of my ass" people of the future will say to me. I'm sorry, but no matter how much I love "Sgt. Pepper" or "Dark Side of the Moon", I don't want to hear them coming out of some fat guy's ass.



"Hey, check out this awesome subwoofer when I bend over" he'll urge. It will become increasingly difficult to politely decline such invitations. "Whoa, listen to 'Freebird' echoing through my lower intestine!" At some point, entire theater-quality home stereo systems will be available as rectal implants, and people will fart "Star Wars" prequels or have the climactic humans-vs.-machines battle from MATRIX:REVOLUTIONS blasting out of their sphincters. You'll have to follow them to the bathroom just to hear how the movie comes out. And if they have diarrhea, the Burly Brawl could blow out the plumbing on your entire block.



DVD progress should stop right now. It's good enough. I have my cheap DVD player, a bitchin' DVD collection, and a big-screen TV. I'm all set. If progress screws that up, I'll be really mad. But sure enough, they keep inventing newer crap to replace what I've already bought. HD, Blu-Ray, blah blah blah. It's just like the fashion industry--they just keep arbitrarily changing stuff because they want you to keep buying new stuff before the old stuff wears out.



How sharp of a TV image do we really need? It'll just keep getting sharper and sharper, until finally a single split-second closeup of Arnold Schwarzenegger or Harvey Keitel will make our eyeballs explode. But by then they'll probably have invented futuristic TV eyeballs to replace your regular eyeballs, and Vin Diesel will be right there inside your head with his shirt off. I don't know about you, but I don't want Vin Diesel inside my head with his shirt off. So as far as progress is concerned, I am definitely drawing the line at TV eyeballs.

PORFLE VS. KARL CHILDERS

SLING BLADE is one of my favorite movies, so I thought it would be fun to interview the main character, Karl Childers. I thought it would be cute, too, and I love to do cute things. But most of all, I thought it would be funny, because I think I'm so-o-o-o funny. ("Funny ha-ha", that is!)




Sometimes people ask me, "You think you're funny, don't you?" and I say, "Yes!", and they say, "Well, you aren't." Boy--those people sure are stupid!



Anyway, I went to the "nervous hospital" where Karl lives and sat beside him in the dayroom as he stared out the window. Sometimes I would hold up two fingers behind his head and wiggle them so it looked like he had insect antennae or rabbit ears or something, and he never even knew it, ha ha. As you can tell from the tone of my questions, I decided to be confrontational and pretend that I hated Karl so that our conversation would be more interesting, sort of like Katie Couric does whenever she interviews Republicans.







ME: Karl, I've decided to be confrontational and pretend that I hate you so that our conversation will be more interesting, sort of like Katie Couric does whenever she interviews Republicans. How do you like that, you big, fat, egg-sucking fruitcake?



KARL: Mmhhh. I don't reckon I care fer it too much, mmm-hmm. I don't recall I ever sucked on no eggs, neither.



ME: (mocking tone) "I don't recall I ever sucked on no eggs, neither." Ppphhhff ftthhh, ha ha.



(Karl grunts and then looks down and shakes his head slightly, as though that will help him understand my behavior.)



KARL: You ort not to talk to me thataway.



ME: Oh, I'm sorry, Karl. Not--ha ha. Tell me...have you ever thought about joining the space program and becoming an astronaut?



KARL: Mmhhh...I don't reckon I ever studied on that, no sir. I don't b'lieve I'd care to go up in one of them rocket ships inta outer space, mmm-hmm. I might git stuck up thar and not be able ta come back down fer quite a spell.



ME: Why would that be bad, you poodle-gargling moron?



KARL: Mmhhh. Wouldn't be no mustard'n biscuits up thar in outer space, I reckon. I believe I might not be able to breathe too well up thar neither.



ME: Have you ever met anyone famous, dickhead?



KARL: Well sir, there was that little ol' gal that wrote fer the school newspaper, she done interviewed me about my his'try and whatnot. And then there was that feller name-a Jerry Springer, I b'lieve he's a mite famous, mmm-hmm. He wanted me'n Miz Wheatley and that Doyle Hargraves to go on the TV and be on his show. Mmhhh.



ME: Did you? Karl? Karl? Hello?



KARL: Well, Miz Wheatley needed the money they was a-gonna give 'er fer it. Her'n her boy Frank's poor, so I done it, mmm-hmm. Her'n Frank went out thar on the stage first, a-talkin' about her boyfriend Doyle and how mean he's been ta her'n Frank, and then they called me on out thar, so I went out'n told ever'body about my his'try and whatnot.



ME: What happened next, Gorilla Nuts?



KARL: Mmhhh. Well, then that Doyle come a-runnin' out madder'n a wet hen and jumped on top of me, and I had ta hold 'im off till some big fellers come up'n pulled us off'n one another. While they was a-holdin' Doyle back, Frank started in ta kickin' him in the legs and Miz Wheatley was a-hollerin' at him about what a (beep) he was, and how he (beep) her'n Frank and (beep) (beep) his warty (beep) till it fell off. And that Doyle come back'n and hollered about how she was a (beep) who (beep) (beep) the (beep) in (beep) and (beep) until (beep) (beep) dinosaurs (beep) a forklift (beep) (beep) (beep) the Green Bay Packers.



ME: How did you feel about that, you humongous, slobbering jerk-off on waterskis?



KARL: Well, I didn't see how she coulda done all them things he said she done, and her a-workin' two-till-eight at Hoochie's Dollar Store plumb near ever' day. But what really got me riled up was when he started a-talkin' about Frank. Me'n Frank's friends. He likes the way I talk.



ME: Really? I think it sucks hamster titties. So, what did Doyle say about Frank?



(Karl shifts uncomfortably and rubs his hands together. He makes several grunting noises.)



KARL: Well, he said Frank wasn't no 'count as an actor, and that there Haley Joel Osment coulda done his part a lot better, mmm-hmm. Well sir, I just seen red. I hollered back about how Haley Joel Osment woulda been miscast in that part, mmm-hmm, and how he done all right in that dead people pitcher with that Bruce Willis feller but he woulda stuck out like a sore thumb a-playin' a boy from Millsburg, Arkansas. And then that Doyle said fergit Haley Joel Osment, that there Dakota Fanning woulda done a better job in the part, too. Well, I reckon that done made me madder'n I was afore. So I takened the lawnmower blade--



ME: You had a lawnmower blade with you?



KARL: Yes sir, that Jerry Springer wanted me ta show the folks what a whiz I was a-fixin' lawnmowers'n whatnot, so he had me fix his lawnmower fer 'im right out there in front'a ever'body. So I takened the lawnmower blade--some folks call it a lawnmower blade, I call it a...well, I reckon I call it a lawnmower blade, too, I don't reckon there's too many different names fer lawnmower blades, mmm-hmm--and I hit Doyle upside the head with it. Then I hit 'im another good whack and plumb near cut his head in two. Mmhhh.



MICH: Ach du lieber. Was dann geschehen ist, Herr Dumbkopf?



KARL: Well, that Jerry Springer feller was fit ta bust. Come ta find out, I don't reckon he minded too much what I was a-doin' to Doyle. He started jumpin' up'n down and a-hollerin' about how he was a-gonna beat Oprah. I don't know what that Oprah done to him, but he sure aimed to give her a good beatin'. And them other folks started a-hollerin' his name over'n over. I think it musta been his birthday or somethin'. Then one of 'em stood up and said how I had done kicked that dawg ta the curb. Well, it musta been somebody that looked like me 'cause I ain't never kicked no dawg. I've kilt me a few folks, but I don't b'lieve the Good Lord'd want me to go around a-kickin' dawgs, mmm-hmm. Anyways, Jerry finally simmered down and give what he called his final thought to ever'body. It was somethin' on how folks ort not ta be mean ta one another, and if you're mean enough all the time then somebody's liable ta cut yer head plumb near in two with a lawnmower blade. I think he was a-talkin' about what I'd just done ta that Doyle.



ME: Of course he was, you mind-boggling asskite. And that's when they put you back in the "nervous hospital"?



KARL: Yes, sir.



ME: And what about Frank? Is he really as amazingly stupid as he looks?



KARL: (becomes visibly agitated) Don't you say nothin' about that boy. Fact of business, I ain't a-gonna be interviewed by you no more.



ME: Okay. Oh, would you like some 80% pure Colombian cocaine?



KARL: Cocaine makes me a mite nervous when I snort it, mmm-hmm.



ME: Oh. Well then, I'll just let you get back to disarming that nuclear bomb before it goes off.



KARL: All right, then.

PORFLE: BIG HOLLYWOOD MOVIE MOGUL

I was sitting in front of the TV one day, watching some DVDs that I'd rented such as DOCTOR ZHIVAGO and TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, when suddenly a thought occurred to me. "Why, I could make movies that are ten times better than these!" I said to nobody in particular. Glorious visions of me as a famous and beloved Hollywood movie mogul began to dance through my head. I could see myself sitting in one of those director's chairs with a megaphone, wearing a beret and sunglasses, smoking a big cigar, and ordering people around on the set of my latest colossal hit movie.




"I'll do it!" I resolved. "I'll become a legendary film auteur and make really big blockbuster movies that will sweep the Oscars!"



Bounding out of my chair, I ran into my bedroom to get dressed but discovered that all of my clothes were in the washing machine, soaked. I'd forgotten to put them in the dryer! Thinking fast, I flung open the closet door and whipped out the only thing left hanging on the rod--a Godzilla costume that I'd worn the previous Halloween. Putting it on, I coolly appraised myself in the mirror.



Except for the head and the tail, it looked pretty much like regular clothes--at least, the "regular" kind of stuff those screwballs in the fashion industry are coming up with these days, ha ha! But just to make sure, I hastily scrawled a sign that read "DON'T BE AFRAID--I AM NOT REALLY GODZILLA" and pinned it to my chest. This sort of quick problem-solving ability would serve me well in the film industry!



I was so happy that I positively skipped out the front door, my large Godzilla tail waggling jauntily. I was halfway down the street before I realized that I would need some kind of a plan for becoming a successful filmmaker, and that simply leaving my house and skipping happily down the street would only suffice as "phase one." The second phase, I reasoned, would involve getting enough millions of dollars to pay for my movie and all the state-of-the-art special effects and big-name stars that I wanted to pack into it. So, with a renewed resolve, I veered onto Wilton Boulevard and skipped merrily to the First National Bank of Howdyville.



Both the customers and bank tellers began to scream when I entered, which reminded me that I was wearing a Godzilla costume. In order to allay their fears, I skipped even harder and more merrily while pointing to my sign. My tail swung around and knocked over an old lady with a walker, sending her crashing into a potted plant, and then took out some displays loaded with pamphlets which drifted around the room like a blizzard of big rectangular snowflakes.



Spotting the office of the bank's president, a distinguished older gentleman named Mr. Barrymore, I made my way past a swarm of people who were scrambling over the furniture and each other in a blind panic trying to get away. "Read the sign, read the sign!" I screamed, pointing furiously with both claws, but the thick Godzilla head only muffled my loud exclamations and made them sound like "RAAAAR!!! RRRAAAAARRRR!!!"



Mr. Barrymore's office was enclosed by thick, sparkling glass walls, which offered him a panoramic view of the bank while still allowing him some privacy. He looked up from some papers and, with a sudden expression of alarm, saw me skipping inexorably toward him. In my haste to get into his office and begin the process of securing a loan towards the production of my grand film debut, I tripped over an errant baby carriage and, with a hearty scream, crashed through the glass wall of Mr. Barrymore's office in a deafening explosion of jagged crystalline shards. The terrified man threw himself into the farthest corner and shrank into a trembling ball as I lumbered to my feet. "RAAAAAAR!!! RRRRAAAAARRRR!!!" I exclaimed, waving my arms and jabbing my claws at my chest, unaware that the sign had fallen off several minutes earlier.



Well, to make a long story short, a few minutes later Mr. Barrymore and I were seated comfortably on either side of his handsome mahogany desk, discussing the terms of my loan. It had taken a bit of explaining of course, but he soon understood the logical reason for my Godzilla costume and gathered that my business with him was both important and historic, seeing that the town of Howdyville had never produced a world-famous Oscar-winning filmmaker before. After washing down a couple of prescription pills, Mr. Barrymore nervously asked me how much money I would need.



Rubbing a claw under my chin, I thought about it for a moment. Considering the huge epic I had in mind, it would have to be a lot! Speaking very loudly and enunciating my words carefully in order to be fully understood, I said, "I'm going to need about a hundred million dollars, Mr. Barrymore." He began to protest, but I silenced him with a raised claw. "I know, I know. That's an unrealistic amount. Ridiculous, even. I just realized it myself as I was saying it." Mr. Barrymore nodded, grateful that I had come to my senses and saved him the trouble of explaining my foolishness to me.



"Yes," I continued, "considering the enormous scale of my project, and the fact that I'm going to be competing with spend-crazy bozos like James Cameron, it would be foolish not to ask for at least 200 million dollars--perhaps even 300 or 400 hundred million dollars."



After a prolonged coughing spell and some more pills, Mr. Barrymore carefully explained to me that, with both my house and automobile as collateral, the most he would be able to loan me would be roughly in the neighborhood of thirty dollars. This, of course, forced me to recalculate the scale of my project considerably. Why, a budget that low would be exhausted almost by half simply from paying Jack Nicholson's salary! And I obviously wouldn't be able to afford the entire Royal Philharmonic Orchestra for the musical score which must now be composed by someone other than John Williams. Most likely, I mused, by my neighbor Biff, who had a marginal working knowledge of the wax flute.



"Well, Mr. Barrymore," I said importantly, rising to my feet and shaking his hand, "it has been a pleasure doing business with you. And, in return for bestowing upon me this relatively generous loan, I'd like to offer you a small part in my movie."



He brightened a bit, flattered. "Oh? That sounds very interesting. What is it going to be about?"



"It is going to be about giant, radioactive roosters," I announced proudly. "With terminal flatulence. In fact, I was thinking of offering you the role of the main rooster--the one with the most terminal flatulence. If you don't object to auditioning, of course."



Later, as I skipped home with my twenty dollars (Mr. Barrymore had knocked another ten off my loan for some unexplained reason) I passed an Arby's and realized that I hadn't eaten all day since breakfast and lunch. At first I only planned to sacrifice a miniscule amount of my movie budget, but my growling stomach demanded more and more until I had eaten my way through the entire amount. Which in these inflationary times came to only four or five regular roast beef sandwiches with as much free Horsey Sauce as I could squeeze onto them. Plus a small drink.



When I got home, I just sat there in my Godzilla suit for a few hours, lacking the motivation to take it off, and watched THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. As Charlton Heston's "Moses" thrust his staff toward the Red Sea and the mighty breath of God blew the swirling, churning waters apart, the urge to make a movie that was ten times better than that returned in full force. I didn't have any money, so I dug around in the bottom of my closet until I found my old video camera from the early 80s.



Then I went outside and taped my dog Buddy walking around the yard for awhile, hoping that she would have some kind of fascinating adventure that millions of people would pay ten or fifteen dollars apiece to see. But all she did was bark at a squirrel and take a whiz on some daffodils. Maybe, with the right marketing, I could sell it as one of those art films.

PORFLE VS. THE UNIVERSE

The universe is really, really big.  In fact, it's too big.  There's just no reason for it to be so stupidly big.  What the hell does it need all that room for?  Most of it is just empty space anyway. 

And, from what I understand, it's infinite, too.  Why?  What possible reason could anything have for being infinite?  Just think--it keeps going on and on and on, without ever even coming close to ending at any point, ever.  It just doesn't make any sense.  And what's worse, it's just plain irritating.  Infinity is a concept that seems to dance around singing "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" like a bratty little kid who enjoys being irritating.  "I'm never-ending!  Nyahh-nyahh!" it seems to taunt us.

 Have you ever tried to get your mind around the concept of infinity?  You can't.  There's no beginning or end to it--it's just one, big floppy mess spread out over everything.  And you don't have to go outside and look off into the heavens to imagine it, either.  You can find it right here in the period that's about to end this sentence.  Imagine moving closer and closer to it, until it's as big as a basketball...then closer, until it's as big as a football field...and then closer still, until it's as big as the Grand Canyon, and then so big it fills your vision with utter blackness.  That's just the beginning.  Infinity goes on just as far in that direction as it does if you're traveling to Alpha Centauri or one of those other outer space places with dumb names because there's so damn many things out there to name that you eventually just have to start churning out the first dumb names that pop into your head. 

Heck, let's name some stars right now.  Finster.  Plotz.  Dog Dick.  Your Mom.  Those names are just as valid as the ones astronomers come up with.  Next time you're strolling around under the stars with someone, gaze up into the heavens and say, "Look, there's Dog Dick and Your Mom.  Aren't they beautiful tonight?"

Everything in the universe is so inconveniently far apart that, the way things are going, we as a species must evolve for several hundred more years before we can even get to the nearest stupid little star.  Heck, it'll take us forever just to make it to the other planets in our own dinky solar system.  What's up with that?  I mean, really...what's the point?  It just sounds like poor allocation of space to me.  If you're going to put a 7-Eleven somewhere, you put it where it's convenient for people to get to, right?  Which means that the universe is arranged more stupidly than the placement of 7-Elevens.  That's scary.

I can hear you saying, "But porfle, it's God's plan.  We just don't understand it."  You may not actually be saying that, but I can hear it--certain combinations of medications are funny that way.  Well, I'm not all that sure God has a plan for everything.  What possible plan could there be for an infinite number of stars, planets, and useless debris floating around in a never-ending expanse of emptiness?  If they're just there to break up the monotony, which is all infinity is in the first place, then why create such a monotonous thing to begin with? 

I think the universe may be evidence that God just likes to keep busy.  It's like your old granny who likes to sit around crocheting mufflers.  She doesn't do it to be creative, she just does it to keep from going nuts.  If she had her way, she'd just sit there and crochet one stupefyingly long muffler that would stretch from Saskatchewan to Rio de Janero and back, but she can't do that because somebody would eventually stick her in a nut house, so she breaks them up into separate mufflers and calls them "gifts."  So maybe galaxies and solar systems and stuff are just God's Christmas and birthday gifts to us.  We can't actually do anything with them, but let's face it--you never wear those friggin' mufflers, either. 

Of course, some say that "God" is a silly concept, and that anyone in their right mind knows that the universe wasn't created that way.  How was it created, you might ask them?  Well, as these more intelligent and rational people will tell you, the universe was created by--get this--a "big bang."  There wasn't anything there, nothing at all, and then suddenly...BANG!!!  The universe appeared!  Uh-huh.  Sounds to me like some frustrated scientist asked his three-year-old kid for help with that theory.  "It just went BANG, Daddy!  That's where the nooniberse comed from!"  I have a feeling this "big bang" theory may have also included giant dancing teddy bears and magic seahorses and stuff before Daddy whittled it down to the more familiar version taught in universities. 

Are we the only intelligent life in the universe?  I don't know, but what if we are?  Would the universe still exist if we, as sentient beings, weren't here to acknowledge it?  And if it did, what would be the point?  It would still be just one big, dead, endless piece of crap.  Which is what most of it already is anyway.  Our most powerful telescopes can only show us a mind-numbingly small amount of it to "ooh" and "aah" over--the rest of it is just floating around out there doing nothing particularly important.  What if the whole big, worthless shebang just suddenly blew up?  Would it even make a sound if we weren't here to hear it?

I hate thinking about this stuff.  Infinity gives me a headache.  I need to fire up the DVD player and watch "The Beast of Yucca Flats" or something.  It's wonderfully finite--only 54 minutes long--and it has Tor Johnson in it.  It goes on for awhile and then it ends.  And it's a heck of a lot more entertaining than the empty space between Dog Dick and Your Mom.  The universe could learn a thing or two from "The Beast of Yucca Flats."