PORFLE VS. YOU

I thought it might be both interesting and cute to interview you.  I couldn't literally interview you, of course, so I took the liberty of supplying your answers myself.  If for some reason you feel these aren't the answers that you would actually give, or that they don't accurately express your true thoughts and feelings, then it's probably due to some fault of yours.  It's silly to think that I could in any way be held responsible for such a discrepancy.


PORFLE:  How does it feel being interviewed by me?

YOU:  Oh my god, it's such an incredible honor.  Just being acknowledged by you is the greatest and most deeply, emotionally exhilarating feeling I've ever known.

PORFLE:  Oh, ha ha.  How flattering.

YOU:  Well, you are the greatest.

PORFLE:  True.  Do you enjoy having sex with timber wolves?

YOU:  I sure do.  Llamas, too.

PORFLE:  Why are you so incredibly stupid?

YOU:  [thoughtful]  Gee, that's hard to say.  I don't remember ever getting kicked in the head by a mule or anything.  Maybe my mom accidentally drank floor wax or something before I was born.  Or it could have something to do with the fact that I like to make babies laugh by smashing cinder blocks over my head.

PORFLE:  That could do it.  So, who do you like better--the Rolling Stones, The Who, or the Backstreet Boys?

YOU:  Oh, "Da Boyz", definitely.  Like, yo, I am so totally down wit both their great music and their incredible sexual magnetism.  In fact, just fantasizing about their bobbling buttocks gives me a hands-free "blast-off" that would send the space shuttle crashing into Mars.

PORFLE:  How many Barbra Streisand concerts have you been to?

YOU:  Hmmm...it would probably be easier to simply mention the ones I haven't been to.  Let's see...there was that time I was in a coma for two years and missed her "Havin' Sex With Water Buffalos" tour.  And then there was the time that I was in a train wreck while on my way to watch her perform in that big benefit concert for hemorrhoids.  I crawled out of the flaming wreckage and managed to drag myself through forty miles of malaria-infested swampland, but unfortunately I arrived at the Palladium just as Barbra was farting "People" as her final encore.  I got a faint whiff of one of her wonderful Beluga caviar farts, but that was it.

PORFLE:  Are you sure it was a Beluga caviar fart?

YOU:  Oh, yes.  Because when she cuts one of those, she actually makes it sound like the word "Beluga."  You know, like this [imitates huge three-stage fart] "Baaa-LOOOO-gaaaaa."

PORFLE:  Wow!  It would be interesting to hear her perform an "Oysters Rockefeller" fart.

YOU:  She attempted one once, but the first three rows had to be rushed to the hospital and the theater was condemned.  Now she simply ends her shows with the standard "Eggs Benedict" fart, which the kids really love.  And the great thing about it is that it's authentic--she actually eats a huge platter of Eggs Benedict before the show.

PORFLE:  Are you still having an affair with former vice-president Dick Cheney?

YOU:  Yes, but we're trying to cool it off a bit.  I mean, once something's white-hot, it's eventually going to either melt or explode.  Our carnal escapades are just too intense--it got to the point where we were afraid our sexual couplings would rip a hole in the time-space continuum.  Also, we were scaring my neighbor's cats and peeling my good fuschia moire wallpaper off the walls.  Anyway--he completes me. 

PORFLE:  What's your favorite color?

YOU:  Squirrels.

PORFLE:  Are you a religious person?

YOU:  Yes, if you consider Larry the Cable Guy to be a "religion."

PORFLE:  Ever had any interesting celebrity encounters?

YOU:  No.  Well, there was that time I accidentally sat on Dakota Fanning.  But I didn't know it was her until I got home later and discovered her faceprint in my left buttock.  Also, one day on the subway I was listening to Barbra Streisand on my iPod, and, without really being aware of it, I started farting along with her "Eggs Benedict" encore.  I honestly had no idea that Dakota Fanning was standing right behind me.  She had amnesia for a month.  Really, I have nothing against Dakota Fanning--the two incidents were just an unrelated coincidence.  Oh, and there was the time I was emptying my cat's litter box out the window and it landed on--

PORFLE:  Dakota Fanning?

YOU:  No, Patrick Stewart.  Fortunately, he was reciting Shakespeare at the time and didn't notice it.  That night during his performance of "King Lear" at the Globe Theater in London, he still had a pile of cat turds on his head.  To this day, he can't figure out why the reviews were so unfavorable.  Oh, and as luck would have it, Dakota Fanning was in the front row. She finally passed out from the horrific stench in the middle of Act II.

PORFLE:  Based on your own personal experiences, what valuable advice do you have for today's youth?

YOU:  Never pretend to be a brain surgeon just because you think it would be "fun."  Never think that it's a good idea to introduce live chickens into a formal dinner setting.  Never attend your own wedding disguised as a giant duck.  And most of all, never--ever--try to catch Oprah Winfrey if she falls out of an airplane without a parachute.

PORFLE:  Wow...what useless advice.  Your comments are ridiculous.

YOU:  Well, you wrote them.

PORFLE:  No, I didnt.



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. BILLIONAIRES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the hell was that?" M demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Out!  OUT!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. MUSTANG SALLY

I hate any song with the words "Mustang Sally!" in it. It's always sung by some guy with a guitar who fancies himself a storytelling troubador whose job is to mesmerize a roomful of people at a party with his stupid "story song" while he makes goofy facial expressions and "acts out" the various characters in the song. This is especially true when he belts out the phrase "Mustaaaang SALLY!" I don't know why this is supposed to sound so cool and get everybody so excited about his dumbass song, but it is.




Who the hell is "Mustang Sally" anyway? Does she drive a Mustang? Does she look like a horse? And why should we have the slightest interest whatsoever in what goes on in her worthless life while she's scuzzing her way through some moronic "story song"? Just because some doofus songwriter somewhere put the words "Mustang!" and "Sally!" together one night while he was at home drinking alone and then concocted a stupid story for her to take part in, we're supposed to all gather round any idiot who wields a guitar and croaks it out after we're already too smashed to realize what an extravagantly horrifying waste of several precious minutes of our lives it's going to be.



But even worse than this is when the self-appointed entertainer in question, who is invariably some creepy bastard you wouldn't be caught dead associating with under normal circumstances but is now a "star" all of a sudden, has penned a song of his own which is just like the "Mustang Sally!" song but has different names that he's come up with himself, such as "Paraquat Patty" and "Munchies McDougall." And, god help us, chances are he will "talk-sing" the song like the charismatic, divinely gifted storyteller that he is while making eye contact with everyone as he holds them in his magical musical spell one at a time.



"Now Paraquat Patty..." he'll talk-sing while mugging like a brain-addled goon and strumming his cheap guitar, "and Frisco Fatty... ducked into an alley with Heroin Hattie." There's always an alley in these songs, by the way, mainly because "Mustang Sally!" rhymes with "alley" and not much the hell else, and the word has to be included even though it doesn't rhyme with "Patty" or "Fatty" because alleys are one of the cool places that the cool wasted lowlifes in story songs hang out in.



And what happens in that alley--oh my, is it ever entertaining and funny and hip and cool, not. But Mr. Superstar will perform this wretched artifact of his own Shrinky-Dink brain as though he were Woody Guthrie serenading some noble rail-riders around a bubbling cauldron of hobo stew instead of just a bunch of dizzy stoners strewn across somebody's livingroom furniture or vegetating in lawnchairs in the backyard surrounded by bongs and beer cans.



The really, really embarrassing part, though, is when, one by one, these fickle stoners begin to lose interest in the increasingly boring story song, which goes on forever because the derp who wrote it thought it was an epic that would hold listeners in rapt attention till the very last note, and they start getting visibly restless. The Entertainer will notice his fans glancing listlessly around the room, wishing he would shut up so they could go back to having fun, and start to talk-sing louder. "SO, COUGH-SYRUP KATIE..." he'll bark like a TV that's suddenly been turned up too loud, setting everyone's nerves on edge.



Even worse than this, his mugging facial expressions will get broader and more extreme, his eye contact more intense and intimidating, even when various people actually begin conversing amongst themselves about their day or what they saw on TV that afternoon or how freaking boring this clown's interminable song is.



And when enough people have bailed out on his stupid story song, which is only about halfway over by now and still has lots of drugs 'n' booze adventures about Paraquat Patty and Frisco Fatty to recount, he'll zero in on the last hardy listener who still feels a moral obligation to suffer through the rest of the song till the bitter end (it's usually some nice blonde girl who is smiling politely while secretly wishing she were dead), and jolly well make them suffer through it till the bitter end. Meanwhile, the happy hophead party has loudly resumed around them and Paraquat Patty and her friends can go straight to hell as far as they're concerned.



And so, whenever you're at a party full of drunks and stoners and some self-styled songster grabs an acoustic guitar and looks like he's about to utter the words "Mustaaaang SALLY!" or a reasonable facsimile thereof, you should all immediately attack him, tie him up, gag him, and fling him kicking and screaming into the nearest dumpster behind a supermarket or fastfood restaurant somewhere. Because if you don't, he and Mustang Sally are going to buzz-kill your poor, helpless party right back to the Stone Age.
 

PORFLE VS. SPRING!!!

Spring!  When a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.  That's the best time to whack him over the head with a club and lock him in a closet.  "Think about something else, young man!" you yell through the door.  "You're just asking for trouble with all this 'lovey-dovey' crap!"  Don't forget to feed him at least once a day, and make sure he's getting a life-sustaining amount of oxygen in there.  You're already in enough hot water as it is without hanging a murder rap around your neck. 

Actually, my thoughts do turn to love every spring.  I think about how much I love to hate spring's big fat guts.  To me, spring means the return of hot weather, bugs, and bird crap all over my car.  It also means that summer is just around the corner, and I hate summer even more than I hate spring.  "But, porfle!" you would protest if, for some reason, you actually cared.  "Spring is a magical time of beautiful flowers and lush greenery, and the lovely, lilting music of birdsong!"  Well, here's my answer to that--my dog's butt.  Enjoy!

Birds would be a lot more wonderful to have around if they would simply learn to shut the hell up more often.  Think of the times you've tried to sleep a little later than usual, but you kept getting blasted awake by a bunch of birds sitting around in the trees chirping their freakin' heads off.  What the hell are they saying to each other?  It's probably just stupid pointless chit-chat like "Boy, that fat, slimy earthworm really hit the spot" or "Lookit that dumbass down there washing his car" or "FYI--I've got the urge to mate and I'm rarin' to go!  YEE-HAAAA!" 

"SHUT UP!!!" I scream out my window.  "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUUT UUUUUUP!!!"  Invariably, there's some old fart in a fishing hat out watering his lawn or something and he thinks I'm talking to him.  "No, YOU shut up!" he yells back indignantly. 

"I wasn't talking to you!" I shriek at the top of my lungs.  "I was talking to the BIRDS--DUMBASS!"  I love totally winning an argument like that.  Sure, it destroys the poor guy, but he asked for it by getting involved.  Besides, just knowing that he's out watering his stupid lawn while I'm trying to sleep ticks me off.  For all I know, all of those birds making such an insufferable racket might be talking about him.  "Hey, check out the old fart in the fishing hat!  Let's crap on his head!"

Of course, I don't want to give the impression that I don't like birds, because I do.  Birds have saved me an awful lot of money on cat food over the years.  And they make wonderful targets, too.  In fact, anytime you're stuck for something nice to say about anything, you can always say, "Well, it makes a dandy target."  This is especially true of things like Muppets, Paris Hilton CDs, or Carrot Top.  "Fun to shoot at" and "explodes in a pleasing fashion" are other positive ways of describing certain things so that you sound nice. 

But this doesn't work with spring, because you can't shoot at it or blow it up.  You can make it the "target" of caustic, extremely witty barbs as I've done, but that doesn't bother it a bit.  It just keeps barging into your life every year and sitting on your face and braying "HEE HAW!!!" like a donkey.  Only it's an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys.  That's why, whenever someone starts gushing about how wonderful spring is and then asks me how I feel about it, I always tell them:

"Spring is an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys."



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)

PORFLE VS. GLADYS KNIGHT AND THE PIPS

Once, back when I was managing a small nightclub called "Porfle's Playpen" on the south side of Chicago, I was fortunate enough to book Gladys Knight and the Pips for a solid week of what I was certain would be big, big, blockbuster business.  It wasn't every day we had big, big big-name entertainment like that on our stage.  Usually it was people like Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods or Neil Sedaka, or the guy who played Sam Drucker on "Petticoat Junction."  Sure, they're fairly well-known, but nobody wants to see them naked. 

Not that they ever actually got naked, but you know how people are--they hear that a certain celebrity is going to be performing somewhere, and they show up in hopes of seeing them naked for one reason or another.  That's why so many people really went to see Elvis during his declining years--they were hoping his pants would fall down or that tight costume would explode right off of his body or whatever, and they'd get to snap a picture of naked Fat Elvis.  It's also why so many people used to watch "The Golden Girls."  They were hoping, due to some incredibly unlikely but still slightly possible turn of events, to see naked Bea Arthur. 

Anyway, Neil Sedaka was onstage the night I found out over the phone that Gladys Knight and the Pips were confirmed for the following week.  I felt celebratory, so I indulged in something that was rare for me, which was to run out onto the stage and rip Neil Sedaka's pants off.  Then I signalled to Fred, who worked the canned music and lighting effects up in the booth, and he pressed the red button, which released several gallons of water onto Neil's head.  One moment he was in the middle of singing "Laughter In The Rain", and the next moment he was standing there in nothing but a red spangled speedo with little candy canes all over it, dripping like a wet hog.  It was like some kind of horrifying "Flashdance" outtake.  Several of my customers started to throw up, especially the ones who happened to be eating cottage cheese.   

"I hate you!  I hate you!" Neil screamed as he ran offstage, crying.  But it was his last night anyway, so I felt lighthearted and optimistic.  Then, suddenly aware that I might possibly have raised the ire of some of my patrons--especially the Neil Sedaka fans--I gaily announced, "Free club crackers for everyone!"  This seemed to placate the goofy bastards.

Well, the weekend passed slower than molasses on Al Gore's ass, but at last Monday came and it was time for Gladys Knight and the Pips to begin their engagement.  I didn't greet them when they arrived to set up, since back in those days I thought I was better than everyone else and felt it beneath my sanctified magnificence to actually associate with lesser human beings, which included the entire human race except for Ben Gazarra, Robert Loggia, and, of course, Doris Day.  But I did make sure to be sitting at my special private table when the show started, basking in my own greatness and ready to be entertained. 

As the lights dimmed and Gladys Knight and the Pips sashayed onstage, wave after wave of pure excitement washed over my body.  It was just like that time I took a shower.  Fred flicked the switch and the first sweet strains of the pre-recorded "Midnight Train to Georgia" backing track began to waft over the audience.  Gladys assumed her position at the mike to enthusiastic applause as the Pips danced in unison behind her.  I looked around at all the happy-faced customers--or "pigs" as I jokingly referred to them back in the day--who had just lined my pockets with wads of sweet, sweet cash and were even now shelling out top dollar for day-old food that the cafeteria down the street sold to me for practically nothing every night instead of throwing it out.  All was right with the world.

Suddenly, I sensed something was amiss.  Gladys was singing "I'm leavin'...on that midnight train to Georgia" just as beautifully as ever.  Two of the Pips were harmonizing the words "she's leavin'...leavin' on that midnight train" and dancing with their trademark precision choreography.  But the third pip was a different story.  Not only were his movements dreadfully erratic and non-choreographed, but the only sounds coming from his mouth were things like "ZZZRRRKKKK" and "SSSSKKKRRRTT."  As the song drew to a close, I arose from my seat and slowly made my way onto the stage.

"Thought you could pull one over on me, didn't you, Gladys?" I said, hands on hips.

"Huh?  What are you talking about?" she replied, trying to use the old "innocent act" on me.

"Oh, nothing," I remarked nonchalantly.  "Except that one of your so-called 'pips' seems to be, in actuality...A ROBOT!!!"

Her eyes went wide.  "CURSES!!!" she screamed, realizing that the jig was up.  Leaping from the stage, she grabbed a hanging light fixture and swung over the crowd, landing like a cat near one of the exits.  I sprang into hot pursuit.  An off-duty cop rose to stop her, but she gave him a vicious karate chop to the Adam's apple and grabbed his gun.  I dove over the bar and snatched the double-barrelled shotgun from beneath it.  Gladys ducked behind the cop's overturned table and fired.  I returned with a double blast of buckshot that took out the jukebox.

"YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!!!" she shrieked, crashing through the front window.  I sprang from behind the bar and was out the door just in time to see her scurrying up the steps of a huge petroleum storage tank next door to the club.  She turned to exchange fire with me again as several police cars converged on the scene, sirens blaring. 

When she reached the top, she could see that there was no escape.  Laughing maniacally, she emptied her pistol into the tank and raised her arms in victory as flames began to rise out of it.  "TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!!!" she screamed right before the tank erupted into a massive, earth-rattling explosion that could be seen for miles. 

After that, of course, I made it a point to check all further performing acts for robots before allowing them into my club.  Which paid off, too, when the freakin' Partridge Family tried to pass off a "Danny" robot on me.  And there's no telling how many robots had already performed in the club before I was on the lookout for them.  I still have my suspicions about Jose' Feliciano--that incident with him bursting into flames and his head falling off during "Feliz Navidad" is starting to make a little more sense to me now. 

As for Gladys Knight--well, don't ask me how, but, against all odds, she somehow survived that night.  In fact, there she was hosting "The Midnight Special" on NBC the very next Friday night.  The Pips all looked like real people this time, thank goodness, but I'm pretty darn sure Wolfman Jack was a robot. 


(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)
(thanks to Stripcreator.com for the pic)

PORFLE'S "HOLLYWOOD BABBLE-ON"

When you come right down to it, there's nothing in this whole wide world that's more fun and entertaining than looking back at the magic that is Old Hollywood.  And if you disagree with that, then you're just plain stupid!  So let's turn back the clock and revisit the legendary land of make-believe, shall we?  We'll begin with some memorable movie quotes that should evoke the proper mood of golden-hued nostalgia and set our course for Memory Lane... 


"Hey" -- James Caan, "The Godfather"

"The"  -- Marlon Brando, "On The Waterfront"

"My" -- Claudette Colbert, "Cleopatra"

"It's" -- Sylvester Stallone, "Rocky"

"But" -- Judy Garland, "The Wizard of Oz"

"You" -- Joe Pesci, "Goodfellas"

"Instead" -- Meryl Streep, "Sophie's Choice"

"Now" -- Gregory Peck, "To Kill a Mockingbird"

"Or" -- Ben Kingsley, "Schindler's List"


Ha ha, oh boy, does that ever bring back some golden memories.  And now, here's one of those delightful stories from Old Hollywood that may be true, or it may be apocryphal...but if it isn't true, it should be!


"THAT'S AWE, FOLKS!"
 
As the story goes: During the crucifixion scene in the star-studded production of THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD, John Wayne played the Roman centurion who delivered the famous line: "Truly, this man was the Son of God."  Unhappy with the first couple of takes, director George Stevens asked Wayne to try the line again, only this time with "more awe." 

Wayne considered Stevens' advice carefully and, during the next take, dramatically intoned the line "Truly...this man was the Son of God"--and then exploded.  The blast took out three soundstages and killed the entire cast, including a thousand extras, and the resulting inferno destroyed most of what was known at the time as "Little Israel", which was also used in such films as ABBOTT AND COSTELLO STAY HOME and THREE GUYS AND SOME SPINACH. 

Wayne had given the line "more awe", all right!  Missing in action after the explosion, he was discovered three months later in Hackensack, New Jersey, managing a small boutique under the name "Beaufort Shmeck."  The famous actor had no memory of the incident, but was later said to often wake up in the middle of the night screaming, "Gah, prunes!!!"



Wow!  What a story.  That Old Hollywood sure had its share of incredible anecdotes that entertain and astound us to this day.  And here's another one, this time involving popular comic actor Don Knotts during the filming of his classic comedy THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN.


"OH, YOU KNOTT-Y BOY"

It seems Don had an unforeseen problem during the big sex scene in which he and co-star Joan Staley are rolling around "buck-nekkid" and covered with molasses in the back of what, unbeknownst to their characters, turns out to be a float in the city's Founders' Day parade.  Well, Don and Joan are having furious "X-rated" sex all the way down Main Street before their characters realize they're being watched by hundreds of shocked townspeople, in what is to be one of the comedy highlights of the film.  Suddenly, Don stands up right in the middle of a take and shouts, at the top of his voice:  "Hey!  I forgot that this is supposed to be a G-RATED movie!" 

Whoops!  Sure enough, while writing the screenplay, the fact that THE GHOST AND MR. CHICKEN was meant as a wholesome family film had totally slipped Don's mind.  It was only after he'd had sex with former Playboy centerfold Joan Staley approximately sixteen times that this crucial bit of information finally dawned on him.  The scene was then hastily re-written to place Don and Joan's characters (tastefully clothed, of course, and not having sex) at a Chamber of Commerce picnic in honor of Don's character "Luther Heggs."  Attaboy, Luther!

Don later would jokingly refer to the incident as "that funny old slip-up where I accidentally had sex with Joan Staley sixteen times."  Ha, ha--it sure was a humorous mix-up, all right!  But not as humorous as the fact that during filming of Don's next movie, THE RELUCTANT ASTRONAUT... the same mistake happened again!  This time Don inadvertently had sex with attractive co-star Joan Freeman a whopping THIRTY-FIVE TIMES before he remembered that the film was intended for general audiences.  (Sounds like that particular "astronaut" wasn't quite "reluctant" enough!)  The doubly-embarrassed Knotts later admitted:  "It was all my own bone-headed fault, no doubt about it.  I just need to pay more attention while I'm writing those darn screenplays."


And now, here are some more fun movie quotes.  See if you can remember these from your favorite blockbuster films:


"This" -- Vincent Price, "The Ten Commandments"

"I've" -- Jean Harlow, "Grand Hotel"

"Unless" -- Ronald Colman, "The Story of Mankind"

"Because" -- Rock Hudson, "Giant"

"What" -- George Kennedy, "Cool Hand Luke"

"If" -- Fay Wray, "King Kong"


Hoo-boy, you never know what those famous stars are going to say in their classic films!  And finally, here's a terrifying tale from the mist-shrouded mysteries of Old Hollywood's voluminous vault of apocryphal anecdotes.  It's an unnerving urban legend that's reluctantly referred to by the denizens of Dreamland as..."Rhett Butler's Fart."  (Parental discretion advised.)


"BREAKING 'WIND'"

It was during the filming of one of Hollywood's most memorable scenes, as Victor Fleming directed Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh in the unforgettable climax to GONE WITH THE WIND.  All that was left was for Vivian, as Scarlett O'Hara, to breathlessly implore a departing Rhett Butler:  "Rhett, Rhett!  If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?" and for Gable, as the roguish Rhett, to deliver his immortal comeback: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."  Whew...now that's movie history in the making!

There was just one catch...Clark Gable had eaten beans for lunch.  And not just the ordinary portion, but bowls and bowls of them.  It seems Gable was a bean fanatic, known to down a dozen cans in one sitting when the craving was at its peak, and right before the fateful scene was to be shot he had gobbled a record fifteen cans of "Old Faithful" Extra-Strength Ranch-Style Beans while guzzling an entire gallon of Grade A whole milk and six quarts of tutti-fruitti ice cream.  Thus, Gable's innards were positively roiling as Vivian Leigh fed him the line that prompted his historic retort. 

"Rhett, Rhett!" Leigh dramatically intoned.  "If you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?"  Without missing a beat, Gable twisted his ruggedly handsome face into that familiar roguish smirk and confidently proclaimed: "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."  FRRRRRRRRRRT!!! 

The horrendous fart blasted the seat out of Gable's pants and took out thousands of dollars worth of scenery, setting it on fire, while the ghastly stench swept instantly throughout the soundstage like a full-scale gas attack.  Cast and crew who were caught in its wake dropped like flies or stood petrified on the spot. 

Vivian Leigh's hair turned white as she sagged backward and crashed through one of the mansion's front windows.  Paint melted and dripped down the backdrops used to represent the scenery surrounding Tara before they, too, went up in flames.  The hapless Fleming, who had been standing directly behind Gable at "ground zero", went missing for six weeks and was later discovered in a traveling circus, where the amnesia-stricken director was performing nightly as "Stinko, the Chicken Geek." 

When asked about the incident later by famed gossip columnist Louella Parsons, an insouciant and unrepentent Gable gave his customary smirk and remarked: "Frankly my dear, I still don't give a damn."  With that, he threw back his head with a resounding belly-laugh.  Everyone else joined him in laughter, there was a freeze-frame, and the closing credits rolled.  And folks--that's Old Hollywood for you! 



(originally posted at Andersonvision.com)