PORFLE!PORFLE VS. NETWORK TELEVISION EXECUTIVES

When I was approached by the three major television networks to do a series, my first thought was:  “What unmitigated gall these silly bastards have–daring to address me as though they were equals.”  My indignance was temporarily assuaged when they referred to me as “Your Holiness”, but then I noticed that they were merely on their knees instead of sprawled out facedown in total supplication to me.  This really irked me, and I was compelled...
August 6, 200811 min

When I was approached by the three major television networks to do a series, my first thought was:  “What unmitigated gall these silly bastards have–daring to address me as though they were equals.”  My indignance was temporarily assuaged when they referred to me as “Your Holiness”, but then I noticed that they were merely on their knees instead of sprawled out facedown in total supplication to me.  This really irked me, and I was compelled to release several gallons of molten metal that I keep handy in large swiveled urns around the house.  Panic-stricken, they screamed and backed into corners and onto the furniture to keep from being incinerated, which I found so amusing that I actually decided to entertain their pathetic pleas for my participation in some sort of television program.  But the first subject on the table, of course, would be my list of demands.

“First of all,” I firmly announced, “I want peanuts.  All kinds.  Salted, unsalted, dry roasted, boiled, raw, all shapes and sizes.  I want a variety of every kind of peanuts in the entire world at my disposal at all times.  Every time I hold out my hand, even if I have my eyes closed, I should be able to grab a handful of peanuts.  Do you get that?  Peanuts!  PEANUTS!”

Vincent Buggatti, head of programming for ABC, was the first to hastily jot this down in his notepad.  This seemed to be a point in ABC’s favor until I noticed that Phyllis van Buren, head of programming for NBC, was already on her cell phone to the CEO of the World Peanut Federation, ensuring me a perpetual lifetime supply of peanuts, truckloads of them, twenty-four hours a day, delivered by movie stars and prostitutes.  I made a mental note of this.

Meanwhile, Brendan Gilhooley, the boy genius of CBS who had turned the network from a boring wasteland of old people shows into a fantasy wonderland of brain-rotting crap for teenagers to watch while getting stoned and whacking off, was still struggling with the concept.  “Peanuts?” he muttered with a perplexed look.  “Why?  With the whole world at your demand, with anything you could possibly ever dream of merely a wish away, why in god’s name would you ask for something as trivial and inconsequential as–“

Taking the liberty of interrupting him by releasing a horde of rabid, flesh-eating warthogs, I watched with mild interest as Gilhooley scrambled for his life, first by trying to outrun the carniverous fiends, and then by leaping onto a chandelier and dangling precariously over the slavering beasts for dear life, screaming in mindless terror. 

“What do you think about peanuts now?” I asked.

“Yes!  YES!” he screamed.  “They’re GREAT!!!”

“I thought so.”  With a casual wave of my hand, the warthogs obediently retreated through their secret sliding wall panels.  Gilhooley nervously climbed down from the chandelier as Buggatti and van Buren smirked at him like schoolchildren. 

“My second demand–“

At this, all three instantly sprang to attention in front of me, their notepads, cell phones, and laptops at the ready.  I opened my mouth to speak, and van Buren hastily croaked into her phone, “He’s opening his mouth to speak!”  The unbearable suspense caused Gilhooley to have a massive heart attack and croak right there on the spot.  Bugatti, meanwhile, was having an out-of-body experience and was observing the scene from somewhere near the ceiling.

“My second demand,” I continued, ” is that everyone else who works at the network of my choice, whether in an acting or production capacity, must walk around stark naked all day–” 

The two surviving network executives instantly began tearing their clothes off.  After a few moments of ripping sounds and flying scraps of material they both stood there naked as jaybirds, bug-eyed and hyperventilating as they trembled in anticipation of my next utterance.

“–and they must also hop around clucking like chickens.”

“BAAAAAWK!!!  BWAAAAAWK!!!” they shrieked while hopping jerkily around the room, hands lodged in their armpits as they made flapping motions and darted their heads back and forth.  With a bright smile of childlike amusement, I reached into a bag of chicken feed that I kept handy for such occasions and spread a few handfuls on the floor.  “BWAAAAARK!” Buggatti and van Buren cried in unison as they sprawled onto the meticulously-polished teak floorboards and started pecking hungrily at the chicken feed, their bare butts bobbing up and down in the air.

Suddenly, Gilhooley opened his eyes and sat up groggily.  “Oh my god,” he said, his voice filled with wonder.  “I just died, and…and experienced the afterlife…”  As he spoke, a heavenly light seemed to shine down and cast his face in its otherworldly glow.  “Everyone was there,” he said wistfully,  “beckoning me to join them…it was b-beautiful…”  Tears streamed down his cheeks.  “And then…a deep, wonderful voice said to me, ‘Brendan, it isn’t your time yet.’  And, and then…”  He looked around and saw what was going on.  “Oh, SHIT!” he cried, ripping his clothes off and joining the others as they clucked insanely and pecked at the chicken feed.  “BAAAAAWK!  BWAAAAAWK!” he shrieked.

Well, needless to say, I had no intention of participating in some stupid television program, but I’d found it momentarily entertaining to toy with these network executives for a brief time until they became boring and I had all three summarily ejected from my home by burly armed bodyguards.  They were hesitant to leave at first, but the warthogs soon encouraged them to scramble into their limosines, still stark naked and covered with chicken feed.  In the desperate hope that I might change my mind, they were still hopping around in their seats naked and clucking as loudly as possible out the open windows as their chauffeurs drove them away.  After that, I made a salami and cheese sandwich and watched my hidden camera videos of the whole thing, which of course would be posted on the Internet the next day, before I grew tired of this and popped in a “Howdy Doody” DVD.  It had been quite a nice day, and as I drifted peacefully off to sleep that night, I dreamt of human chickens.

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