PORFLE PRESENTS: "MR. CLAY'S LABORATORY: THE DAY I MET ANDREW 'DICE' CLAY"

One day I was out for a walk, and I got really thirsty. So I went up to a house to ask for a drink. The mailbox said "Andrew 'Dice' Clay" on it, so when a man answered the door I asked, "May I have a drink from your water hose, Mr. Clay?"



He was standing there in a bathrobe and flip-flops, and he had a really big, black, oily hairdo. There was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he was holding a floor lamp. "Knock yourself out, meatball," he replied, so I said "Thanks!" and ran over to the water faucet and turned it on.



As I was getting a drink out of the hose, he came outside and stood there looking at me. Between gulps of water I asked him, "Why are you carrying that big lamp around, Mr. Clay?" He said, "It's broke, and I'm tryin' ta fix it, idiot. But maybe I should just shove da whole f***king thing up your a**hole instead." Then he laughed, and it sounded kind of like "TUH, huh-huh."



(P.S. You may have noticed that I've had to censor some of the language! Holy smoke, did this guy like to use cuss words!)



Well, I didn't know what to say to that. He sounded mean and he looked kind of like a bad guy from "77 Sunset Strip" or something, so I turned off the water faucet and said "Well, thanks, Mr. Clay" and started to leave. But he said, "Wait a minute. I want you should see something." I didn't want to, but I followed him inside anyway. He led me down into the basement and held out his hand like he was really proud of what was in there. I looked around, and there were a bunch of naked guys along the walls in these big glass tubes, who looked like they were asleep. When I took a closer look, I found out that all of the people looked exactly like Mr. Clay.



"Dese are my clones," he said in a really proud voice. "When da time is right, I'm gonna unleash dem all on the world and take ovah. TUH, huh-huh." When he said that, I looked around the room again and realized that it was a laboratory, just like in the Frankenstein movies. And it was at that moment that I also realized that Mr. Clay wasn't just some normal guy, but was really like a mad scientist or something!



"Right now," he said, pacing around me, "you're probably thinking about notifying the FBI, and tellin' dem about my evil scheme for world domination. Well, you better not, because if you do--" Then he aimed the floor lamp at a potted plant that was in the corner and pressed the "on" switch. A crackling beam of light blazed from its tip and incinerated the potted plant instantly. It wasn't really a floor lamp at all--it was a disintegrator ray gun! It only looked like a floor lamp to fool people!



He started to point the ray gun at me, and I got really scared. So I kicked it real hard, and the "on" switch must've gotten jammed because the disintegrator beam went haywire! Mr. Clay tried to hold the ray gun still but things were either incinerating or blowing up all over the room. One really big machine with flashing lights on it blew up, and Mr. Clay screamed, "No! Not da control panel! Da clones haven't been programmed yet--" Suddenly the doors on all the big glass tubes sprang open, and the clones starting lurching out of them with blank looks on their faces.



"Now look what ya done, ya f***ing mook!" he said. One of the clones muttered, "Ya f***ing mook", and then they all starting saying it. They began to lurch toward us with their arms outstretched, saying "Ya f***ing mook", and Mr. Clay shouted, "Let's get outta here! Dey're gonna kill us!" Well, he didn't have to tell me twice! We ran up the stairs as fast as we could and out the front door. I looked around, and the clones were lurching out the front door, too, and out into the street. There must've been about a hundred of them. And somewhere between the basement and the front door they must've found some cigarettes, because they all had lit cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.



Me and Mr. Clay ran and ran, and some of the clones came after us, while the others started lurching after everyone else who was walking by or out mowing their lawns and stuff. Up till then, it had been a mostly normal day in the neighborhood, so the people were pretty horrified to see a bunch of naked Andrew "Dice" Clays coming after them saying "Ya f***king mook, ya f***ing mook." Old lady Wilson was just passing by in a housecoat and fuzzy slippers, walking her dog, when one of them caught up to her. She screamed, but it seemed more interested in the dog. In fact, it took the leash away from her and started walking the dog itself. The dog, a French poodle named Milkshake, went nuts to find that instead of Old Lady Wilson, it was suddenly being walked by a big naked guy who was lurching after it like Frankenstein. But the clone pressed inexorably onward down the street as Milkshake yapped and leapt frantically at the end of his leash.



Another clone came up behind Mr. Shapiro, the retired bank president who lived across the street and enjoyed tinkering in the yard on weekends, and grabbed his lawnmower away from him. It started mowing the lawn as he looked on, aghast. But instead of properly mowing it in a back and forth pattern, it simply went in a straight line onto the next lawn, and the next, until it had mowed a path all the way down the street and around the corner. Mr. Shapiro ran after it to try and get his lawnmower back.



"Hey, Mr. Clay," I said as we were running along. "I don't think they want to kill people at all! I think they just want to do what the people are doing." But when I looked over, Mr. Clay wasn't there. I turned around and saw that he had run out of breath several yards back, and had been overtaken by four of the clones. But instead of killing him, they hoisted him up on their shoulders and started carrying him around. I could see a broad smile cross his face, as though he thought the clones were honoring him as their rightful master, and he basked in their adoration. "TUH, huh-huh," I could hear him say, right before the clones dumped him into the back of a cement mixer that was parked by the curb and turned it on. The big round container began to twirl and churn the thousands of pounds of cement inside it as Mr. Clay's screams echoed from within, and one of the clones climbed into the truck and drove it away.



I realized that I had run all the way out of the neighborhood and into a small business district, and the rest of the clones that had come after us were lurching into laundrymats, bowling alleys, and strip malls. I could hear all sorts of terrified screams coming from inside as the clones started taking things away from people and doing what they were doing. Bowling balls crashed through plate glass windows. Large washing machine motors groaned horribly from the weight of a number of clones that had set them on "spin" and climbed inside. Three more clones suddenly burst through the front door of a sporting goods store driving golf carts, still chanting "Ya f***ing mook" and chasing people around. The rest of them lurched into various parking lots, got into different vehicles, and drove away. It looked like most of them were headed downtown.



That night, I turned on the evening news to see if there would be a story about the Andrew "Dice" Clay clones that were running around all over town. But instead of the regular anchorman, one of the clones was sitting at the "NewsCenter" anchor desk with some papers in its hand, looking into the camera and saying "Ya f***ing mook, ya f***ing mook."



I found out later that Mr. Clay's house had exploded, burned down, and then exploded again, and that he had finally been found in the back of the cement truck when it eventually ran out of gas somewhere outside of Cincinatti. There was a picture of him in the paper, encased in a large chunk of cement with just his head sticking out as a bunch of guys with hammers and chisels were trying to get him out. The headline read, "Once-Famous Comedian Enjoys Spotlight Again", but it didn't look to me like he was enjoying it much, and I never did see any spotlight unless they were talking about that ray-gun lamp. Anyway, next time I go for a walk, I'm going to take one of those plastic squirt bottles of water with me for when I get thirsty, because you never know when some kind of goofy stuff like this might happen again.  

PORFLE PRESENTS: EVERY EPISODE OF THE ORIGINAL "STAR TREK" IN ONE SCENE

CAPTAIN'S LOG, STARDATE 29.43.01:

While transporting much-needed medical supplies to planet Regula IV, which is being ravaged by a deadly plague, I've ordered the Enterprise into an uncharted sector of the galaxy in order to save time.



McCOY: "Well, Jim, the rest of the crew have had their quarterly physicals. Now are you going to come quietly, or do I have to have a security team drag you to sickbay?"



KIRK: "Not now, Bones. I...feel...we may be in danger."



SPOCK: "'Feel', Captain? Logically, your human emotions are hardly a reliable indicator of--"



CHEKOV: "Kepten, an alien wessel is approaching!"



KIRK: "On screen. Uhura, open a channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



KIRK: "Uhura, open another channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



SPOCK: "No response."



SULU: "All scans negative."



KIRK: "Hmmm...to be or not to be. That is the question."



SPOCK: (wry half-smile) "Shakespeare, Captain?"



KIRK: "Tactics, Mr. Spock. Do we fire phasers now...or wait. For. A. Response."



McCOY: "Blast it, Jim! I'm a doctor, not a waiter!"



SPOCK: "Really, Doctor. Your emotions will be your undoing."



McCOY: "Why, you green-blooded, pointy-eared --"



KIRK: "Gentlemen. You can argue later. If. There. Is. A. 'Later.' Sulu, lock phasers on target and stand by."



SULU: "Phasers locked."



YEOMAN RAND: "Captain, I have your afternoon dietary supplement--"



KIRK: "Not now, yeoman! Meet me in my quarters at 0500 hours. Uhura, open a channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



BEAUTIFUL ALIEN AMBASSADOR: "I love you, Kee-Urk!"



KIRK: "Not now, Empress Adora! Meet me in my quarters at 0600--"



SPOCK: "Sir, we are being held in a tractor beam."



SULU: "Hull pressure readings at 80 percent...90 percent...off the dial."



CHEKOV: "AAAAAAH!!! AAAAAAAAAAH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"



KIRK: "Chekov! What's the matter?"



CHEKOV: "I beet my wittle tonk, Kepten!"



KIRK: "Sickbay, send a medical team to the bridge! Sulu, get us out of here!"



SULU: "Aye, Captain!"



KIRK: "No, I 'Captain.' You 'Sulu.'"



UHURA: "Captain, I'm...frightened."



SPOCK: "We can't break free. Hull temperature approaching critical levels. Warp engines super-heating."



KIRK: "Scotty! You have thirty seconds to fix those engines or we're all dead."



SCOTTY: [on intercom] "Ach, me poor bear'ns! We canna take mooch moor o' this poundin', Captoon! Me bonny ship'll explood lack a pub-crawlin' bogus frat wi' a snootful o' green --"



UHURA: "We're being hailed, Captain."



KIRK: "Open a channel."



UHURA: "Hailing frequencies open, sir."



KIRK: "Enterprise to alien vessel. Your actions are harmful to us. If you don't --"



ALIEN: "SILENCE! YOU HAVE ENCROACHED UPON OUR DOMAIN! YOUR SHIP WILL NOW BE CAPTURED AND YOUR CREW ENSLAVED!"



KIRK: "Computer...initiate self-destruct sequence."



SPOCK: "Oh, fu**."



[commercial break]

PORFLE'S FUTURE MOVIE CAREER

If I ever become a famous movie star, I'm going to change my name to something cool, like "Breen Crudflop." So if you ever see a movie sometime in the future with Breen Crudflop in it, that'll be me. Unless, of course, someone steals my cool movie star name before I get a chance to use it, in which case you'll only be seeing a Breen Crudflop impersonator. So if you ever see someone like Morgan Freeman or Robert DeNiro in a movie, but they're billed as "Breen Crudflop", it means they have stolen my cool movie star name.



If I ever become a famous pornstar, then I will change my name to something mildly suggestive yet tasteful, such as Pecker McGoo or Weenis von Testicles. You have to be really careful in choosing a pornstar name because if you eventually cross over into mainstream films, you don't want your pornstar name to be an embarrassment. Traci Lords managed this because her name sounds okay as a regular movie star name. But more obvious porn names such as Busty Funbags, Lotta Gash, Wang Chung, Peter O'Toole, or even Horatio Goatblower might prove awkward if you're auditioning for a part in the next Merchant Ivory production.



That's why I would go with something appropriate enough for porn yet neutral enough to fit right into the mainstream. I can see it now: "Pecker McGoo IS James Bond 007." Or perhaps: "Merchant Ivory presents a Kenneth Branaugh film, LAST SUNSET AT HILLCREST MANOR, starring Anthony Hopkins, Helen Mirren, and introducing Weenis von Testicles as 'Lord Mountbatten.'" Whew--now that's practically dripping all over the place with class. Eat your heart out, Hugh Grant!



You may be saying to yourself: "Huh?" But believe me, the right name is hugely important to us future movie legends. That's why I have several other backup names just in case somebody like Brad Pitt or Jude Law steals "Breen Crudflop" out from under me. Names that sound cool and sexy, yet distinguished, and befitting my lofty status as a great actor. Names like:



Smelford C. Melnflebber

Herschel Suzuki

Fendick Swern

Sullivan Fitzchickens

Dick Sargent

F. Murray Frankenstein

Norcroft "Slappy" Butts

Beaufort Shmeck

Vincent M. Roosternuts



As you can see, any one of these names adorning a marquee would have frantic ticket buyers stampeding into movie theaters faster than a herd of cheese-crazed bagel thieves. Of course, my leading lady would have to have an equally impressive movie star name, so I would insist that she change it before being allowed to share billing with me. In anticipation of this, I have taken the liberty of creating beautiful new movie star names for some current actresses for when they're lucky enough to co-star with me in one of my upcoming movies. For example:



Winona Ryder's horrible-sounding name will be changed to "Arnetta Wilfrink."



The bland "Angelina Jolie" will blossom into the exotic "Schmelda von Goines."



Dame Judi Dench's new, even more distinguished name will be "Dame Alfredine Squirtypants."



Meryl Streep will enjoy a surefire career boost as "Fritzi Ogreton."



The downright offensive-sounding "Hilary Duff" will upgrade to the sassy "Nutragena Fugnertz."



Perennial favorite Barbra Streisand will bask in renewed glory as "Rushetta McLimbaugh."



Jennifer Lopez will charm audiences all over again with the name "Jubilina Porkstuffer", which can be shortened to the hiphop street name "J-Pork", or "Porky From the Block."



And Halle Berry's star will shine even brighter than ever when she becomes "Lady Ms. Maxine Alligator-Intestines."



I know all of this wonderfulness seems too much to hope for, but even now I'm starting to make my dreams come true by taking a mail-order correspondence course from The Vin Diesel Academy of Fine Acting and Indoor Plumbing. Just last week I sent in my final exam video, in which I enacted Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights" in its entirety while installing a beige, low-rise, one-piece porcelain power toilet with an elongated base and dual flush capacity (known as "The Turdinator"), and Vin himself awarded me with a solid B-minus and a special "Buttcrack of the Month" notarized certificate. He also said that, with my skills, I should soon be "flush" with offers! I'm assuming he meant, like, from Hollywood!

PORFLE VS. LOS FRIJOLES

As much as I love Mexican food, I will never eat at Los Frijoles again. "Los frijoles", for those of you who aren't bilingual like me, means "the beans" in Spanish. Well, that place certainly is "the beans"! Here's what happened...




My brother came by the other day and took me out to eat, which is great because I love to eat out for free. We both love Mexican food--or "Tex-Mex", to be more specific--so we decided to try the new place, Los Frijoles, that just opened up in the building that used to be Pizza Inn before it went out of business. Why did Pizza Inn go out of business? Beats the hell out of me. I mean it's pizza, for Pete's sake.



Anyway, it was all nice and festive-looking inside, but something seemed off. I don't know what it was. Just a kind of vague feeling. We were shown to a table by a Mexican guy named Vince. He was a heavy-set individual with dark, curly hair and a scar down his left cheek. "You want I should bring youse summa doze, ehh, chips and crap?" he asked in a thick voice.



"Yes, please," I answered politely. Vince grunted in acknowledgement, and then did something I found quite unexpected. Instead of walking away, he flew upward like a big helium balloon and disappeared through a rectangular aperture in the ceiling. It slid closed as soon as his feet had cleared it.



I looked at my brother to see if he'd noticed this, but he was busy scanning the menu. I shrugged and cautiously attributed it to my excitement over being in a new restaurant. Before I could say anything, Vince suddenly reappeared at my side with a tray containing a basket of crispy tortilla chips and a bowl of hot sauce.



"You want I should put deez in your stomach for you?" he asked. I didn't know what he was talking about, so I merely mumbled something neutral. Vince took this as a "yes" and then a blank look came over his face. The chips and hot sauce slowly disappeared from their containers. At the same time, I could feel something in my stomach, as though I'd just eaten. When the chips and hot sauce were gone, Vince flew upward like a helium balloon again and disappeared through the ceiling. This time, the action was accompanied by the sound of a slide whistle.



I looked at my brother to see if he'd noticed any of this, and to my surprise he was still gazing at the menu. "Is your menu a magic TV set?" he said at last. "A magic TV set with exactly what you want to see more than anything in the whole world on it? Mine is." He flipped it around excitedly so that I could see, too. I leaned forward and squinted. It was just a menu with food and beverage selections printed on it.



"I don't see any--"



"I want to be in it," he said wistfully, returning his rapt attention to the menu.



Vince popped in from out of nowhere again, startling me. He was holding a tray heaped with two deluxe Mexican dinners, side dishes, and drinks. "Here is your food," he announced.



"But, we didn't order--"



"You want I should put dis in your stomach for you?" Vince asked in a dull monotone. The blank look began to settle over his face again.



"No!" I said hastily. "I want to eat my food, not just have it magically appear in my stomach!"



With a slow nod, Vince put what appeared to be a Civil War-era cavalry bugle to his lips and blew a resoundingly off-key note that made me grit my teeth. Suddenly, the food all turned into squirrels, chipmunks, and beavers. They hopped down off the tray and onto the table, skittering around excitedly before taking their proper places and turning into plates of food and glasses of drinks again. One of the beavers ran around the table for a few extra moments, stopped, sang the "Los Frijoles" radio jingle, and turned into a complimentary platter of beef nachos.



"Let's get out of here," I said urgently to my brother.



"No," he said, his eyes fixed on the menu. "I want to stay here forever...and ever...and ever."



"What about you?" Vince asked me in his usual monotone. "Do you want to stay here forever and ever and ever?"



"I certainly don't," I said resolutely. "I want to leave right now and never, ever come back."



With this, Vince flew upward through the ceiling again--for the last time, as it turned out. I never saw him again. The food and drinks turned back into squirrels, chipmunks, and beavers, and ran away. The chips and hot sauce that were in my stomach disappeared and I was hungry again. I looked over at my brother and he was regarding his menu with a disappointed look.



"Hey, my menu isn't a magic TV set anymore. Did we eat?"



"Yes, it was very good," I lied. "Let's go."



Needless to say, I didn't leave a tip. Nor did I wait for a bill, since the food had all turned into small forest animals and run away. As I passed the front counter, I saw a paunchy, middle-aged guy whom I assumed to be the manager standing next to it.



"What the heck's the deal with that Vince guy?" I asked.



The manager regarded me with shock, his eyes wide as saucers. "Vince?" he said incredulously, his voice quavering with fear. "VINCE? Why, the last time someone named VINCE worked here was...A HUNDRED YEARS AGO!!!"



"This place hasn't been here a hundred years," I said.



"Yeah well, it sounds scary and stuff," he shrugged. "Actually, Vince is my wife's nephew. If I don't let him work here, she withholds her sexual favors from me."



I kicked him in the balls. "Withhold that, asshole," I said, grabbing not one but two free after-dinner mints on my way out.

PORFLE VS. HAWAIIAN PIZZA

I have never eaten a Hawaiian pizza, but I hate them anyway. The very thought of a pizza with pineapple chunks on it makes me want to barf all over Arianna Huffington's head just so I can hear her scream "VAT FOR YOU DOO DAT!!! VAT VAT VAAAAT!!!" and "FOR VHY ISS YOU TROW OP ONTO MEIN HEAD!!! VAAAAA!!!" Every time I hear Arianna Huffington talk, I keep expecting Eb to saunter in and ask "What's for supper, Mrs. Douglas?" Eb would probably like Hawaiian pizza, too, or at least Hawaiian hotscakes, but I'm not so sure he'd still like it if I barfed one all over his head.




A surefire indication of how horrible Hawaiian pizza is would be to examine some of the historical figures and other famous idiots who have loved Hawaiian pizza. For example, Adolf Hitler loved Hawaiian pizzas so much that he once said, "Bring me a Hawaiian pizza right now, or I will invade Poland." Nobody could come up with a Hawaiian pizza at that particular moment, so sure enough, he invaded Poland. And in Poland, it is now illegal to eat Hawaiian pizza or to even like Hawaiian pizza, which is why there are so many Polish immigrants in Hawaii. Of course, there are other reasons why they go there, but Hawaiian pizza is always number one on the list whether they or the United States government will admit it.



Hawaiian pizza is a catastrophic culture clash on a platter. Pizza is an inherently Italian food item, and you just don't usually think of Italy and Hawaii at the same time unless there's something contagious going around. Try to imagine Vito and Sonny Corleone walking around on Waikiki Beach in pinstripe suit jackets and swim trunks and snorkles. Vito would stroke his chin with the back of his hand and croak, "Ehh, Santino...go and get me another chi-chi drink and some of that pizza with the pineapple chunks on it" and Sonny would shout "HEY POP! I sure do love that f**king Hawaiian pizza!" and Vito would grab him by the lapels and growl "Never let anyone outside the family know what you're thinking again!"



Virgil Solozzo would overhear this, of course, and think, "Hmm...Sonny's hot for my Hawaiian pizza franchise deal" and try to force the Corleones to back his scheme to open up a chain of Hula Huts in New York, New Jersey, and, for some reason, Utah. And then Fredo would waddle up in swim fins, a giant snorkle, and a Speedo, and yelp "Hey, Pa! Hey, Sonny! You don't even hafta go to the JOHN around here! You can just PEE IN THE OCEAN!" Vito, Sonny, and Fredo would all throw their heads back and laugh, there would be a freeze frame, and the closing credits would roll.



I know what you're saying right now: "But, Porfy-Poo...Hawaiian pizza gives me a tingly and not-altogether-unpleasant sensation in my BUTT!" Well, I can't argue with that. What I can do, though, is to quote a famous scientist who has dedicated his entire life to diligently investigating this phenomenon: "Oh, my god! I've wasted my entire life! I could've been doing something important...what the hell happened! Hawaiian pizza? WTF?" I hope you can understand my point a bit more clearly now.



Hawaiian pizza is bad for you, bad for me, bad for our country at this time. But most of all, it's bad for the children. "I believe the children are our future" Whitney Houston once informed us in song. Which is a load of crap, because by the time the future gets here, the children will all be grown-ups. Hey, if the children are so smart, let's put them in charge of the government for awhile and see how well they handle things.



Oh boy, it's National Lollipop Day! Wow, the stock market just crashed! Hey, the entire rest of the world just attacked us and took over while the three branches of our government were out playing with kitty cats! Yes, the children are stupid. I say we feed them all the Hawaiian pizza they want until they explode.



If, after everything I've just said, you still insist on liking Hawaiian pizza, then here's my special personal recipe for homestyle Hawaiian pizza that you can make yourself.



1. Make some pizza dough

2. Shove it up your a**

3. Get some pineapples

4. Shove them up your a**

5. Dance around naked in your front yard until you get arrested

6. Enjoy!

PORFLE PRESENTS: "O.J., THE WOLF MAN, AND LARRY KING"

Once, while Larry King was flyin' around

With his jet-propelled rocket pack, high o'er the ground

He could see the Wolf Man from his aerial position

Sneaking up behind some guys who were fishin'.



Larry King's Spidey-sense was activated

Battling monsters kept him motivated

Quick as a flash, he swooped onto the scene

Just as the Wolf Man ate Charlie Sheen.



In the next split second, Larry King did mourn

To avenge Charlie Sheen, his next mission was born

As the Wolf Man approached the remaining victim

Rescuing him was Larry's new dictum.



From the corner of his eye, Larry King started glimpsin'

The other guy's face--it was O.J. Simpson

It seems he'd grown tired of football and golfin'

And was currently trying to reel in a dolphin.



Suddenly, almost, not quite but nearly

Larry began to see it all clearly

O.J. and Wolf Man together had planned

To eliminate Charlie Sheen from our land.



And now, as the Wolf Man devoured the corpus

And O.J. continued to fish for a porpoise

From out of the sky, like a vulture on wing

Came the force for revenge known as Larry King.



The Wolf Man attacked, but Larry was faster

A skip to the left averted disaster

Then O.J. let loose with a swing of his pole

Which Larry King dodged with a shoulder roll.



Again came the Wolf Man, this time with a leap

As O.J. retreated and hopped in his Jeep

But Larry, quick-witted, reached into his crotch

And pulled out a silver-trimmed flask full of scotch.



The Wolf Man got drunk as he gulped it all down

While O.J. peeled out--he was headed for town

So Larry bent over and lit a huge fart

The resulting explosion was right off the chart.



The engine and paint job were fried in the fire

As the terrible heat quickly melted each tire

And O.J.'s clothing, of course, was consumed

So naked he fled, to avoid being doomed.



He jumped in the water, and splashed like a guppy

While the Wolf Man, sloshed, danced around like a puppy

And Larry stood back with a satisfied smile

For all was now well--well, at least for awhile.



Then they all fished for dolphins, till each of them scored

They saddled them up, to avoid getting bored

And they rode them away 'neath the dawn's early bling

O.J., the Wolf Man, and Larry King.

PORFLE VS. BABIES

Ever notice how stupid babies are? Ask them a question, any question, no matter how easy, and they just answer "Gah-gaaah" or something. Give them an IQ test, and they'll start chewing on it. I mean, they don't know anything.




My cat is smarter than babies. I ask my cat, "You wanna eat?" and she goes "Meow!" Ask a baby if it wants to eat, and chances are it'll just drool at you or start crying. Heck, tell a baby it just won a million dollars and it starts crying. Give a baby the entire set of high-def, CGI-enhanced original "Star Trek" episodes on Blu-Ray, totally free of charge, and the only thanks you'll get is "WAAAA-HA-HAAAAA!!!"



What good are they? Just say "pass me the salt" at the dinner table, or something equally simple, and they look at you like you were a warthog sitting on a bidet. Or make a simple request like "pardon me, but would you mind putting the cat out?" and you might as well be a giant dog dick in a Howdy Doody costume for all they care.



Oh sure, they don't know how to walk yet--they'll learn one of these days, just as soon as they get around to it. Right. I don't remember all the way back to when I was a baby, but in the earliest memories that I do have, I was walking around. So I don't buy this "I don't know how to walk yet" crap.



And then there's the whole "going to the bathroom in your pants" thing. What's that all about? I mean, the biggest, dumbest doofus you know doesn't stand there pounding out a log in his shorts while waiting for the bus. Even Gomer Pyle knew enough not to just let fly with a big geyser of wee-wee while Sergeant Carter was screaming at him. But babies? They never even heard of such quaint societal restraints. As long as someone dutifully keeps cleaning up after them, it's blast-off time.



Babies are like trees--they just aren't any use until they get bigger. What good is a one-foot-tall tree? "Great shade, huh?" your neighbor might proudly remark about his new tree. "No, Jim," you'd be forced to truthfully inform him, "your stupid one-foot-tall tree does not provide any shade at all, you incredible moron." Then you might suggest that he try to climb it, or pick some apples or pecans off of it. See what he does then. If he's still out there by nightfall trying to do something useful with his stupid one-foot tree, call the police.



But that's exactly how people are about their babies. They'll invite you over to their house just to show you their baby, and they'll say something like "Great baby, huh?" The only honest answer would be, "Great? What the hell's it good for, Buttwheat?" or "Forget the freakin' baby--when did you get this cool exer-cycle?" But of course, we're not allowed to say truthful things like that. We're just supposed to wave at the baby and say, "Gootchy-goo!" while girning like maniacs.



Babies don't even make good doorstops, because they keep crawling away. If crawling were a useful activity, babies would be invaluable. But the last time "crawling" was a profitable occupation or an Olympic event or something like that was waaay, waaay back in, like, never. And if you try to train a baby to walk on two legs, forget it. Just by observing your attempts from across the room, your dog will be walking around the house on its hind legs like a champ while the baby's still scuttling about under the coffee table and banging its head on the legs. It's as though the word "duh" was invented just for them.



Of course, baby-defenders will ultimately pull the "cuteness" card on you. "Babies are CUTE!" they'll shriek, tearfully aghast at your monstrousness. Well, that's a matter of opinion. When it comes to nude centerfolds, for example, even Burt Reynolds was cuter than some dumb baby would be. Sorry, but "cute" and "babies" just don't go together. Unless you're the baby's sweet old granny, and you're already halfway off your rocker anyway.



Of course, if you have a baby yourself, then please disregard everything I just said. Your baby is cute. Really, really cute. It looks just like you. Gootchy-goo!