Last week I wrote about “PORFLE VS. MORE IRRITATING SAYINGS” because I couldn’t think of anything else to write about, so I just wrote some more about irritating sayings, which I had already done a couple of months ago. A while back I wrote about “PORFLE VS. SPAM”, so this week I thought about doing “PORFLE VS. MORE SPAM.” But I didn’t have anything else to say about spam, damn it.
Let’s see…I’ve already written about John Wilkes Booth, so I don’t think “PORFLE VS. MORE JOHN WILKES BOOTH” would give me all that much to talk about. I don’t really know a heck of a lot about John Wilkes Booth anyway. To tell you the truth, I made most of that other stuff up in the first place. I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t always put 100% factual information in these things. I’ve found that researching facts is a lot harder than just making stuff up and pretending it’s true.
I’ve already said pretty much all I wanted to say about babies, cows, Ensign Chekov, sexual organs, and the Bee Gees. I can’t do “PORFLE VS. MORE BEE GEES” because there aren’t any more Bee Gees. There’s really no point in crabbing about Aunt Bee again, because I already blew her head off with a shotgun in the last one. And I can’t do “PORFLE VS. OCCAM’S OTHER RAZOR” since, as far as I know, Occam only had one razor. I think he was one of those one-hit wonders who make it big and then disappear, like Chilliwack or the guys who sang “Brandy.”
I guess I could talk about “PORFLE VS. ONE-HIT WONDERS”, but I don’t really have anything against them. In fact, I sort of like a lot of them. After all, each and every one of them has exactly one more big Top 40 hit than I have so far. I’m not too crazy about “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero” by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods, though. And “Don’t Pull Your Love Out On Me, Baby” by Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds just makes me want to rip all my clothes off and run naked through a Family Dollar store screaming “GAH!!! PRUNES!!!”
But if I ever ran into Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds and made fun of them for coming out with such a crappy song, they’d probably just say “Well, let’s hear your big million-selling hit song, smarty-pants” and I’d shuffle my feet and mumble “Uhhh…errr…I don’t have one, heh, actually” and they’d all point and laugh at me. While they were laughing, their faces would start swirling around in my vision like when Carrie got the pig’s blood dumped on her at the prom, and I’d hear Miss Collins’ voice saying “Trust me, porfle…you can trust me” and the school principal saying “We’re all very sorry about this…PORKLE” and Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds chanting “PLUG IT UP! PLUG IT UP!” And since I don’t have any telekinetic powers, I wouldn’t even be able to unleash some really cool, horrible revenge on them. Just about the only thing I would be able to do is shake my fists at them and scream, “SHUT UP!!!”
I still can’t think of anything to write about, and now I’ve got “and the sailors say Brandy, you’re a fine girl” stuck in my head. I kinda like it, though. It’s not running-naked-through-Family-Dollar irritating, not like that awful Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds song. The last time I had that thing stuck in my head I got drunk for three days and woke up under the hair dryer at my local laundrymat, wearing a Supergirl costume. Actually, I didn’t…I just made that up. See? I make a lot of this stuff up.
One bad thing about it is that the location of my computer where I write this stuff affords me a clear view into the kitchen, where there’s a big bag of dog food leaning against the wall with the words “DOG FOOD” printed in big letters across the front. So every time I look around trying to think of something to write, I see the label on the bag and think, “DOG FOOD.” Those two words loom prominently in the front of my mind, blocking off everything else that I’m trying to think about. DOG FOOD. After awhile the words begin to lose all meaning, especially when I start to repeat them over and over in my mind. DOG FOOD. DOG FOOD. It starts to sound like some strange heathen chant, or maybe a mysterious form of Oriental martial arts. DOG FOOD. Then I begin to imagine Steven Seagal facing off against a gang of thugs, and he glares menacingly at them and mumbles, “Don’t mess with me, punks. I know…DOG FOOD.” And then he gives it to ’em, chunky-style.
So, I guess I’ve got enough written by now to qualify as a complete whatever-it-is that I write, so I’ll just slap the title “PORFLE VS. WRITER’S BLOCK” on it and call it done. (Some folks call it “incompetence”, I call it “writer’s block”, mmm-hmm.) I did the same thing the last time I couldn’t think of anything to write about, only then I wrote about how I didn’t care about anything enough to write about it and called it “PORFLE VS. ENNUI.” You’ll know I’ve really hit a brick wall when I come out with “PORFLE VS. MORE WRITER’S BLOCK.” Or worse, “PORFLE VS. DOG FOOD.”
Seriously, not having cable TV anymore has really cut down on the things I have to be openly hostile about. Lately I seem to be filled with a raging, all-consuming tolerance that has plunged my entire life into a churning maelstrom of complacency. And it’s tearing me apart.