One evening, as twilight gently descended over my cozy abode and I was just settling into my beloved swivel recliner to watch a Mickey Rooney marathon on TCM, a large foot came crashing through my front door.
It withdrew, and then the entire door was smashed into a million tiny toothpicks by a huge ham-fist. Arnold Schwarzenegger popped into the doorway, his face contorted into a gigantic gap-toothed grin.
“PORFLE!!!” he bellowed. Actually, it sounded more like “POE-WAH-FOOL!!!”
I sat up, startled. “Arnold! What the hell are you doing here? Why did you just wreck my front door?” I hadn’t seen him since the day he’d forced me to play Tarzan with him in the city park on his day off from being Governor of California, and he was literally the last person I expected to come crashing through my front door that evening. Well, except maybe for Billy Corrigan.
Arnold laughed and blundered into my livingroom over the scattered pieces of my door. “Don’t worry, I buy you a new one!” he chortled. Then he lost his balance and fell backward into my big-screen TV set, destroying it in an ear-splitting explosion of sparks, plastic, wood splinters, and other debris.
“My TV!” I cried.
“I buy you also a new TV, ha ha!” said Arnold as he lumbered to his feet. I then noticed that he was carrying a large silver keg under one arm and a decorative beer stein in his hand.
“Are you drunk?” I asked warily.
“No, I yam drinking only bee-yah!” Arnold scoffed. “Bee-yah does not ged you dronk, porfle, ha ha! Everyboddy knows dat!”
He lurched forward a few steps, tripped over a braided throw rug, and launched himself at me. I ducked hastily as the beer keg sailed over my head and crashed through the window behind my chair. Arnold landed on my coffee table with a resounding THWACK! and broke it in half. The impact knocked all the pictures off my walls except for a nude portrait of Phil Donahue on horseback, which had been super-glued there by vandals.
Arnold slowly dragged himself to the edge of my couch and sat with his shoulders hunched, a sheepish look on his face. I could tell he was embarrassed. He looked down at his decorative beer stein, which was now a mocking reminder of his previous frivolity. “Perhaps I haff behaved in a manner which is unseemly,” he muttered apologetically. “It was not goober…goober…”
“Gubernatorial,” I prompted.
He looked up in awe. “I love dat word.”
“Well,” I said, trying to lighten the situation, “what the heck brings you here this evening, Arnold?”
He brightened immediately, revealing his trademark gap-toothed grin again. “For you I haff a wunnerful surprise, porfle!” he beamed. “I know dat you are lonely und mit-out a girlfriend. So tonight I bring my twin sister here for you to haff a blind date with!” He stood up and shouted toward the front door. “OLGA!!! HE NOW ISS VERY MUCH EXCITED TO MEET YOU!!!”
Gripped with apprehension, I braced myself. Suddenly, an eye-watering vision of horror which sent icy chills down my spine filled the doorway. It looked like Arnold in drag. With a wider and even more maniacal grin than that of her twin brother, Olga Schwarzenegger stomped into my livingroom wearing a skintight polka-dot dress and high heels. She looked like she’d just had her hair and makeup done by Tom Savini.
“Hit a crab pose, Olga!” Arnold prompted. She complied with a resounding grunt, bursting the buttons off the back of her dress like slugs from a .45 and richocheting them off the walls. The expression on her face caused my cat to dash straight up the curtains and leap onto a hanging light fixture, hissing frantically. For good measure, Olga threw in a couple of bicep poses and various crunches as Arnold looked on proudly.
“See, porfle?” Arnold beamed. “She almost is as strong and powerful as I am! If not for dah fact dat she is a girl, she would easily become Mr. Universe! But instead, she soon will enter the Ms. Fitness competition!” He pulled a cassette tape out of his hip pocket and inserted it into my tape player, turning up the volume to maximum. Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical” came blasting out of it. “OLGA!!!” he screamed over the noise. “PERFORM FOR PORFLE YOUR SEXY AEROBIC DANCE ROUTINE!!!”
With that, the radiantly-smiling Olga began to hop around and gyrate in a haphazard combination of frenetic calisthenics, gymnastics, and suggestive “Flashdance”-style choreography. She looked like a demented moose in heat trying to back through a turnstile.
“I CREATE THIS DANCE FOR HER MYSELF, PORFLE!!!” Arnold cried over the deafening music. “I NOTICE THAT YOU ARE BECOMING SEXUALLY AROUSED BY IT!!! TRY TO RESTRAIN YOURSELF, HA HAA!!!”
As the music reached its crescendo, Olga wiggled her massive hips coquettishly, gave a girlish wink, and, after a running start, launched herself into the air for a final leaping somersault. She crashed through the wall into the kitchen and collided with my refrigerator, collapsing it like an accordion. Ripping its door off the hinges in an effort to regain her balance, Olga spun through the gaping hole in the wall and staggered back into the livingroom, hurling the refrigerator door like a huge discus and shattering my front windows.
The force of her forward momentum carried her after it and she flipped end-over-end out the window, landing on my car and smashing it flat. Mercifully, she was now out cold. With a blood-curdling shriek of grinding metal, the car rolled backward out of the driveway with Olga sprawled across the crumpled roof and disappeared down the street, picking up speed until it eventually made its way into peak rush-hour traffic. The sound of screeching tires, high-speed collisions, and screams of terror filled the air. Distressed cattle could also be heard.
Olivia Newton-John’s voice faded to silence at last as Arnold stood with his head bowed dejectedly. “Once again I must apologize, porfle,” he said. “I fear perhaps my sister Olga and I have failed to properly rehearse her aerobic dance routine.”
“That’s okay, Arnold,” I said, still shaking. “It could’ve happened to anybody.” Then I thought about it for a moment and added, “Actually, there are probably very few people in the world that this could’ve happened to.”
“It happened to Lou Ferrigno a couple of times,” Arnold mused. Then he gave me a hopeful look. “So…you think maybe you and Olga will now fall in love and have sexual intercourse? And get married and make for me some brand new nephews and nieces to play with?”
“Oh gee, Arnold, I’d love to,” I replied. “Except for one thing…I’m gay.”
His eyes widened in shock. “You are gay, porfle? I did not know dat!”
“Yep,” I lied. “I’m absolutely, positively, 100% gay.”
“Den you must meet my twin broddah, Heinrich! He also iss gay!”
As a jubilant Arnold dragged me kicking and screaming toward his Hummer, it occurred to me that perhaps I should’ve just left well enough alone and agreed to marry Olga. However, I took comfort in the possibility that Heinrich might be prettier.