The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Monday, December 08, 2003
Bah Humbug!
Last year, about this time, I was laid-off from my job with 3 days warning. Fortunately, I had enough money saved up that I could still provide presents to my loved ones. I had to quit smoking, give up comic books (even Batman!), and subsisted on a diet of mostly rice. And let me tell you, it’s not easy shopping for the deposed royal family of Pluto. Fortunately, I blew the last of my cash on presents for everyone, leaving the Christmas tree wobbling next to a retaining wall of wrapped boxes filled with goodies.
Crime-fighting is expensive work. Most of my inherited fortune goes towards removing the stain of evil from the Earth. My job leaves me with enough funds to barely support myself and my essential collection of comic books (the very basis of hope). I’ve even reduced my intake of 4-color gospel, as horrid as that may be, and tried to save funds in the hope of being able to spread the Yule Tide cheer of the season this year and buy Christ-day gifts for my friends and family. Still, my pockets seem empty and one of the causes of this misfortune stays clear in my memory.
Earlier this year, about June I guess, I enrolled in the Hero Exchange Program. I shipped my sidekick, Bobo the Virgin Chimp off to Mexico where he went undercover as an orphan hand-rolling chicken shit cigarettes. I was then provided with a replacement sidekick, a truly terrifying and loud-mouthed Canadian lass by the name of Rush Girl. Canadian superheroes are much like American superheroes, but less effective as there’s less crime there, and with more of an emphasis on recycling. They can also say “Forsooth” and “Nay” in French. Channelling the spirit of Geddy Lee and powered by booze, Rush Girl was an unstoppable juggernaut of mirth and mayhem, jumping from roof to roof while laughing all the way, catching bullets in her teeth, and constantly correcting grammar while adding an “eh” to every sentence.
Contacting eachother through the secure communication lines of the Genius Society of America and couriered self-destructing audio tapes, I finally called upon her for her first assignment abroad. My allies, The Green Mike and the Red Raven left their lair unattended, needing to travel to Tahoe to confront an uprising of fish-people. I was needed to keep a watchful eye on their hometown, and to feed their small friend, Mr. Montana Monty, talking cat. I figured I could use help, so along came Rush Girl.
There was an issue with transport, her Canadian-made teleporter was on the fritz, it’s running system not understanding the intricacies of French. Furthermore, she could not afford a flight down to the states, being that she had also spent most of her money on maintaining her power source. She would not be able to come down and still be able to afford rent on her place. So, of course, I provided her money, the proud, strong American dollar, saying that I would gladly pay for half and she could always pay me back the rest later. I had no reason not to trust her, after all, she apparently was very responsible, had a good job, and would have ample time to pay me back, seeing as how I believed we would continue to see eachother for quite some time. The Thomas Jefferson-bearing bills screamed and struggled a small bit as she forced them into her pocket.
Her visit was relatively uneventful, crime was low, our only real scare came from a policeman casually wielding and playing with a fully automatic rifle in a shopping mall parking lot. We patrolled burrito shops, ate sandwiches, and I showed her the magnificence of THE ROAD. We fooled around in Green Mike’s laboratory a few times, Rush Girl using up the last of his vial of evil DNA, and I attempting to bring life to a frozen pair, a burrito and chimichanga, wanting to see how they would mate and hoping to breed a superior CHIMITO! We drank mimosas and listened to the Adams Family soundtrack.
The weekend wasn’t completely without incident, one morning I awoke from wet dreams involving young blonde pop stars, only to be confronted by the harsh reality of an overfed cat. Montana Monty was half-dead on the floor, moaning and rubbing his belly, covered in his own filth and surrounded by McDonalds wrappers, spent bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and fish eggs everywhere. Fatty tuna hung around his mouth. I dragged him to the bathroom and helped him pump his stomach. Every manner of meat known to man and cat filled the toilet, as well as small drink umbrellas. After loading up the cat with antacids, Pepto Bismol, and “the hair of the dog that bit him” (a term Monty did not take kindly to), I put Monty on a diluted catnip I.V. and left him to rest.
Apparently, Rush Girl’s mind was more open to suggestion than I had realized, and at some point during the night Monty had convinced her to take him out on a massive binge and gorge session. No expense was spared, many a buffet and salad bar were ravaged, bars drank dry, and strippers patronised as if it were the second coming of Ben Affleck. After I finished cleaning up the mess, I suggested to Rush Girl that perhaps she should leave the cat’s feeding to me.
It was the day she left that I gave her the money, allowing her to be able to pay rent. Her first action after that was to head to the store to stock up on wholesome American liquor to bring back to the frigid, dry soil of Canada, a very good amount, enough to keep Dean Martin stocked for a day or two. Two more times I saw her, the money never came, she never seemed to have enough. It didn’t bother me so much, I didn’t care about money compared to her well being, and had started to doubt about ever seeing the money ever again anyway.
The first time I saw her again was when I travelled up to Canada to kick a little ass on the streets of Vancouver, and the second, when she came back down to the golden land of America to help spread awareness of Canadian Thanksgiving. It was during that second trip that she told me she’d rather not fight by my side any longer. It came as a bit of a shock, partially because marriage had been discussed, both for reasons of citizenship, and because she could nicely fill out a Wonder Woman costume, not to mention I’d be able to change my crime-fighting name to Johnny, the Passionate Man. Still, I got over this rejection, after all, I still had all my friends in the Genius Society of America.
She contacted me recently because she had rather unprofessionally left her Arctic Battle Uniform at my Fortress of Fortitude. She demanded it back, mentioning that she needed it as Vancouver had become inhospitably cold and she was in the midst of doing battle with Mr. Zero. She then threatened that if I didn’t send it to her promptly, she would retain possession of my copies of Starman and my Bizarro hardcover. I couldn’t have that! Be careful who you lend your things to out of kindness, the sentiments (and sometimes, items) aren’t always returned. She then made mention of how I might be holding her winter gear out of spite. Now this was really too much. The truth was I had forgotten about it because it was hanging out of sight in the closet in the back of my trophy room. I promptly sent it back to her.
As I called her to let her know it was on it’s way she thanked me and brought up the issue of the money she owed me and gave me another promise of when it was coming. I hadn’t even wanted to discuss the money, it just made me feel cheap to be treated like a loan officer as opposed to a friend, and quite frankly, I still didn’t really care. It did occur to me that the money would have been useful right now, as Christmas is coming up and I’m broke, I probably, unfortunately, won’t be able to afford presents for my family this year, and in return have asked for nothing. This merely guarantees that I will most likely just get a higher ratio of crap I don’t need and don’t want.
Back to the point, she told me that she had just gotten a raise but could not pay me until January. There went my Christmas miracle. As she told me, I could almost swear I could hear the rattle of ice in her glass of expensive Canadian vodka and orange juice, and the squeak of a rag against metal as she lovingly polished the brand new DVD player she had just bought for herself.
The saddest thing about losing my Canuck sidekick, is the fact that yet again this year I probably shall have no one to give a half-eaten, Elvis-singing box of chocolates to on Valentines Day. Oh well, there’s always Bobo, he came back. Rode up from Tijuana on a Harley, with fresh tattoo of a Mexican girl, and a pack-a-day smoking habit. Thank heavens for you, blessed ape!
Crime-fighting is expensive work. Most of my inherited fortune goes towards removing the stain of evil from the Earth. My job leaves me with enough funds to barely support myself and my essential collection of comic books (the very basis of hope). I’ve even reduced my intake of 4-color gospel, as horrid as that may be, and tried to save funds in the hope of being able to spread the Yule Tide cheer of the season this year and buy Christ-day gifts for my friends and family. Still, my pockets seem empty and one of the causes of this misfortune stays clear in my memory.
Earlier this year, about June I guess, I enrolled in the Hero Exchange Program. I shipped my sidekick, Bobo the Virgin Chimp off to Mexico where he went undercover as an orphan hand-rolling chicken shit cigarettes. I was then provided with a replacement sidekick, a truly terrifying and loud-mouthed Canadian lass by the name of Rush Girl. Canadian superheroes are much like American superheroes, but less effective as there’s less crime there, and with more of an emphasis on recycling. They can also say “Forsooth” and “Nay” in French. Channelling the spirit of Geddy Lee and powered by booze, Rush Girl was an unstoppable juggernaut of mirth and mayhem, jumping from roof to roof while laughing all the way, catching bullets in her teeth, and constantly correcting grammar while adding an “eh” to every sentence.
Contacting eachother through the secure communication lines of the Genius Society of America and couriered self-destructing audio tapes, I finally called upon her for her first assignment abroad. My allies, The Green Mike and the Red Raven left their lair unattended, needing to travel to Tahoe to confront an uprising of fish-people. I was needed to keep a watchful eye on their hometown, and to feed their small friend, Mr. Montana Monty, talking cat. I figured I could use help, so along came Rush Girl.
There was an issue with transport, her Canadian-made teleporter was on the fritz, it’s running system not understanding the intricacies of French. Furthermore, she could not afford a flight down to the states, being that she had also spent most of her money on maintaining her power source. She would not be able to come down and still be able to afford rent on her place. So, of course, I provided her money, the proud, strong American dollar, saying that I would gladly pay for half and she could always pay me back the rest later. I had no reason not to trust her, after all, she apparently was very responsible, had a good job, and would have ample time to pay me back, seeing as how I believed we would continue to see eachother for quite some time. The Thomas Jefferson-bearing bills screamed and struggled a small bit as she forced them into her pocket.
Her visit was relatively uneventful, crime was low, our only real scare came from a policeman casually wielding and playing with a fully automatic rifle in a shopping mall parking lot. We patrolled burrito shops, ate sandwiches, and I showed her the magnificence of THE ROAD. We fooled around in Green Mike’s laboratory a few times, Rush Girl using up the last of his vial of evil DNA, and I attempting to bring life to a frozen pair, a burrito and chimichanga, wanting to see how they would mate and hoping to breed a superior CHIMITO! We drank mimosas and listened to the Adams Family soundtrack.
The weekend wasn’t completely without incident, one morning I awoke from wet dreams involving young blonde pop stars, only to be confronted by the harsh reality of an overfed cat. Montana Monty was half-dead on the floor, moaning and rubbing his belly, covered in his own filth and surrounded by McDonalds wrappers, spent bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and fish eggs everywhere. Fatty tuna hung around his mouth. I dragged him to the bathroom and helped him pump his stomach. Every manner of meat known to man and cat filled the toilet, as well as small drink umbrellas. After loading up the cat with antacids, Pepto Bismol, and “the hair of the dog that bit him” (a term Monty did not take kindly to), I put Monty on a diluted catnip I.V. and left him to rest.
Apparently, Rush Girl’s mind was more open to suggestion than I had realized, and at some point during the night Monty had convinced her to take him out on a massive binge and gorge session. No expense was spared, many a buffet and salad bar were ravaged, bars drank dry, and strippers patronised as if it were the second coming of Ben Affleck. After I finished cleaning up the mess, I suggested to Rush Girl that perhaps she should leave the cat’s feeding to me.
It was the day she left that I gave her the money, allowing her to be able to pay rent. Her first action after that was to head to the store to stock up on wholesome American liquor to bring back to the frigid, dry soil of Canada, a very good amount, enough to keep Dean Martin stocked for a day or two. Two more times I saw her, the money never came, she never seemed to have enough. It didn’t bother me so much, I didn’t care about money compared to her well being, and had started to doubt about ever seeing the money ever again anyway.
The first time I saw her again was when I travelled up to Canada to kick a little ass on the streets of Vancouver, and the second, when she came back down to the golden land of America to help spread awareness of Canadian Thanksgiving. It was during that second trip that she told me she’d rather not fight by my side any longer. It came as a bit of a shock, partially because marriage had been discussed, both for reasons of citizenship, and because she could nicely fill out a Wonder Woman costume, not to mention I’d be able to change my crime-fighting name to Johnny, the Passionate Man. Still, I got over this rejection, after all, I still had all my friends in the Genius Society of America.
She contacted me recently because she had rather unprofessionally left her Arctic Battle Uniform at my Fortress of Fortitude. She demanded it back, mentioning that she needed it as Vancouver had become inhospitably cold and she was in the midst of doing battle with Mr. Zero. She then threatened that if I didn’t send it to her promptly, she would retain possession of my copies of Starman and my Bizarro hardcover. I couldn’t have that! Be careful who you lend your things to out of kindness, the sentiments (and sometimes, items) aren’t always returned. She then made mention of how I might be holding her winter gear out of spite. Now this was really too much. The truth was I had forgotten about it because it was hanging out of sight in the closet in the back of my trophy room. I promptly sent it back to her.
As I called her to let her know it was on it’s way she thanked me and brought up the issue of the money she owed me and gave me another promise of when it was coming. I hadn’t even wanted to discuss the money, it just made me feel cheap to be treated like a loan officer as opposed to a friend, and quite frankly, I still didn’t really care. It did occur to me that the money would have been useful right now, as Christmas is coming up and I’m broke, I probably, unfortunately, won’t be able to afford presents for my family this year, and in return have asked for nothing. This merely guarantees that I will most likely just get a higher ratio of crap I don’t need and don’t want.
Back to the point, she told me that she had just gotten a raise but could not pay me until January. There went my Christmas miracle. As she told me, I could almost swear I could hear the rattle of ice in her glass of expensive Canadian vodka and orange juice, and the squeak of a rag against metal as she lovingly polished the brand new DVD player she had just bought for herself.
The saddest thing about losing my Canuck sidekick, is the fact that yet again this year I probably shall have no one to give a half-eaten, Elvis-singing box of chocolates to on Valentines Day. Oh well, there’s always Bobo, he came back. Rode up from Tijuana on a Harley, with fresh tattoo of a Mexican girl, and a pack-a-day smoking habit. Thank heavens for you, blessed ape!
