OOOOH, CITIZEN KANE!!! DON’T SAY ANYTHING BAD ABOUT CITIZEN KANE!!! That’s right, ever since CITIZEN KANE came out in 1941, everybody’s oohed and ahhed their stupid heads off about how great it is. Many call it the greatest film ever made, and if you tell any of these slobbering sycophants anything that isn’t totally slobberingly superlative about it they start jumping up and down and banging their heads into the ceiling and having heart attacks and crashing through walls and stuff. Well, you wanna know what I think about big, fat, fancy-shmancy “greatest film ever made” CITIZEN KANE? HUH?

Okay, I think it’s the greatest film ever made. SHUT UP!!! That still doesn’t make it perfect, which it isn’t, and do you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m not in it. Oh, sure, I wasn’t born yet, and even if I was, Orson Welles probably wouldn’t have put me in CITIZEN KANE anyway. Which just goes to show that Mr. Big-Fat-Cinematic-Genius wasn’t quite so perfect after all. And neither was his terminally me-less movie.

If Orson Welles was so smart, why didn’t he figure out a way to put me into CITIZEN KANE? What–he wasn’t psychic? He didn’t have his own time machine? He couldn’t take a sperm sample from my dad and grow me in a laboratory? I thought he was supposed to be some kind of big deal. Guess not, LOL.

Just imagine how much totally fifty-times-better it would be if I were one of the lead actors. “RKO proudly presents ‘CITIZEN KANE’ starring Orson Welles, Joseph Cotten, Agnes Moorehead, and introducing PORFLE in his stunning motion picture debut!” My popularity, of course, would soon steamroll over that of everyone else in the cast to such an extent that all prints would have to be recalled so that my name could be placed first in the credits in huge letters. “RKO proudly presents PORFLE!!! in ‘Citizen Kane.’ And some other people, yawn.” Eventually, they’d probably just change the name of the movie to CITIZEN PORFLE.

It would’ve been fun to blast Orson Welles and everybody else right off the screen with half my total greatness tied behind my back. And my invaluable contributions to the screenplay really would’ve jazzed up some of the slower scenes. Like that sled scene at the beginning. While little Kane is outside in the snow playing with his sled, I would come roaring over a snowbank in a monster truck and crash into the cabin. “COOL!!!” the audience would shriek in unison.

Bursting out of the flaming wreckage with a shoulder-fired M-47 DRAGON Guided Missile Launcher in each hand, I would heroically wipe out both the attacking Nazi hordes and the squadron of hostile space aliens in flying saucers that were closing in from all sides. This, of course, would lead right into the big naked whipped-cream orgy sequence in which I would have steaming hot sex with Lauren Bacall, Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable, and the Andrews Sisters. As the heart-pounding action reached its “climax” (hee, hee) I would throw my head back, fists raised, and scream to the heavens in extreme closeup, “ROOOOOOOSE-BUUUUUUUD!!!”

After that, the part where Charles Foster Kane takes over that small newspaper and turns it into the largest and most influential paper in the whole world would prove to be a sad anti-climax until I showed up onscreen again to greaten things back up. “I think it would be fun to run a newspaper,” he would say, and I’d grab him by the lapels and scream into his face, “KISS MY ASS, KANE!” and he’d say “Yes, sir!” and start kissing my ass in the middle of Main Street for the next fifteen minutes while all of New York paraded by to take pictures and throw bouquets of flowers at me. “I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD!!!” I’d bellow to my admiring worshippers, later successfully suing James Cameron for stealing the line from me.

The rest of the script would mean nothing to me, of course, since my mere presence was all CITIZEN PORFLE would require in order to be the greatest film of all time. So none of that other stuff that happens in the movie would be necessary. There would be another hour or so of closeups consisting of me being totally fabulous, posing casually in a speedo or berating a waiter in a fancy restaurant because the ice isn’t cold enough, or bulldozing orphanages just for fun while I laughed hysterically. As you might imagine, all of this would be so incredibly great that a special kind of film would have to be invented just to contain it all without the camera exploding into a nuclear mushroom cloud and destroying most of the northeastern United States.

Eventually, there would have to be some kind of an ending, since even the most exquisitely wonderful things must come to an end. So, with the question of “who or what is ‘rosebud’?” still on everyone’s minds, I would break character and step up to the camera, addressing the viewers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I’d intone in my most charismatic voice, “I’m sure you’re all wondering who or what ‘rosebud’ is. Well, idiots–since that is clearly what you all are compared to me–I’ll show you.”

At that point, I would pull my pants down and thrust my bare ass into the lens, revealing the word “ROSEBUD” tattooed across my buttocks. And thus, the greatest film of all time would come to an incredible conclusion with my big, tattooed ass filling the entire screen, forty feet high, as audiences all over the world swooned in unbearable ecstasy. As a final humorous touch, the words “THE END” would then be superimposed over my gigantic butt.

Come to think of it, now that I’ve described what would’ve happened if I had been in CITIZEN KANE, I really can’t blame Orson Welles for not putting me in it. I guess he wanted some of the recognition and fame for himself, even if it meant releasing a grossly inferior movie to the public. And I can only assume that this is why nobody else has ever asked me to be in their movies, either. It’s too bad, really, since filmmakers are cheating the moviegoing public of the orgasmic greatness of me, the finest actor of all time, and dooming them all to lives that are only a hollow shell of what they could have been. Which is why everyone should protest this insidious worldwide conspiracy by marching on Hollywood with flaming torches and burning down all the major motion picture studios until they start putting me in all their movies. And if this doesn’t work, they should just go ahead and burn down the entire city of Hollywood, and rebuild it as Porflewood.

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