The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Childhood Memories
To all you virgin readers,
The relationship between writer and reader is an interesting one. It involves a bit of honesty and trust. So, in the interest of building a relationship with my readers, I will tell you a story from my childhood.
This story takes place in my fifth grade days, when I was interned at Pacific Heights Middle School. It was sunny out, and I was walking through the Skyline College parking lot on my way home as a dirty brown El Camino rolled up alongside me. A tinted window rolled down and out popped a gloved and sequined hand which waved to me to stop. A ghastly white face popped out of the window.
“Hi. I’m looking for my dog. Could you help me find him?”, the pale man said, but I knew something was askew.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Umm...Macaulay...um...Mac! He’s a big dog.”
“Uh huh. Nice try Moonwalker! You don’t even like dogs. You’re into monkeys!”
“Well, could you help me find Bubbles?”
“The jig is up Jacko! You’d best just zoom-zoom out of here.”, I was a very smart child.
“I’ve got candy!”, he said in his high falsetto voice as he presented a bowl of Big Hunks, Sour Jacks, Butterfingers, and Red Vines, one of which I believe he was trying to suck on seductively as he opened his glovebox and pulled out a can of pop and a small bottle of pills which made the soda fizz a lot as he handed it to me. He said, “I’ve got Pepsi too, a whole room of it, and a petting zoo.”
I was about to turn and run as a white SUV zoomed up and quickly spun around, screeching to a halt as it pinned the Jackson-mobile against the curb. In the driver seat sat Charleton Heston, grimly cradling a shotgun. He let out a loud moan and in a grizzled voice said, “Dear God, you’re at it again.” Understand that you haven’t heard pain until you’ve heard it from Charleton Heston.
“How did you find me?”, a flustered and reddening Michael Jackson asked, gulping down what I now know to be painkillers.
“Paul McCartney tipped us off after tracking you with a satellite...”, Charleton Heston paused and gasped, “Sweet mercy! You’ve got the mariachi hat with you. I haven’t seen that since...”, he momentarily covered his face with his hands, “Jorge”, softly left his lips as he wiped a tear from his eye.
This moment’s distraction was all the king of pop needed as he threw his foot down hard on the accelerator and peeled out, sparks flying from his car. Heston bit down hard and took off after him, ramming his vehicle against Jackson’s as Jackson attempted to attack him with a whip. Undaunted, Charleton jammed his shotgun against his gas pedal, punched out his windshield, and jumped from the hood of his vehicle to the bed of Jackson’s El Camino, landing on his stomach and putting his arm through the open driver-side window, clutching tightly Jackson’s neck with his powerful left hand. Gasping, Jackson lost control, and the car flipped, sending them flying down towards the race track.
“Look, I’ll donate to the NRA, how much do you want?”, cried Michael
“Not this time you freakish golem, I’m gonna kick the living crap out of you!”
“Then prepare yourself for my special attack!”
From nowhere, music suddenly played and both men started dancing, a look of struggle on Heston’s face as if he were moving against his will. He fell to the ground, and with that, Jackson turned metallic, his glowing arms clutching at Heston’s throat.
“Get your stinking paws off me, you damned, dirty robot!”, Charleston yelled, presenting a magnum from his sleeve and firing a few shots which knocked Jackson back. I wish I could tell you about the rest of the fight but in the heat and excitement I took a sip from the Pepsi Jackson had given me and quickly fell asleep. When I came to some 4 hours later, all that was left were silver bullet casings and what looked to be wolf’s fur.
All in all my childhood was great and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, except for perhaps 20 years as Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion. Good day!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
The relationship between writer and reader is an interesting one. It involves a bit of honesty and trust. So, in the interest of building a relationship with my readers, I will tell you a story from my childhood.
This story takes place in my fifth grade days, when I was interned at Pacific Heights Middle School. It was sunny out, and I was walking through the Skyline College parking lot on my way home as a dirty brown El Camino rolled up alongside me. A tinted window rolled down and out popped a gloved and sequined hand which waved to me to stop. A ghastly white face popped out of the window.
“Hi. I’m looking for my dog. Could you help me find him?”, the pale man said, but I knew something was askew.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Umm...Macaulay...um...Mac! He’s a big dog.”
“Uh huh. Nice try Moonwalker! You don’t even like dogs. You’re into monkeys!”
“Well, could you help me find Bubbles?”
“The jig is up Jacko! You’d best just zoom-zoom out of here.”, I was a very smart child.
“I’ve got candy!”, he said in his high falsetto voice as he presented a bowl of Big Hunks, Sour Jacks, Butterfingers, and Red Vines, one of which I believe he was trying to suck on seductively as he opened his glovebox and pulled out a can of pop and a small bottle of pills which made the soda fizz a lot as he handed it to me. He said, “I’ve got Pepsi too, a whole room of it, and a petting zoo.”
I was about to turn and run as a white SUV zoomed up and quickly spun around, screeching to a halt as it pinned the Jackson-mobile against the curb. In the driver seat sat Charleton Heston, grimly cradling a shotgun. He let out a loud moan and in a grizzled voice said, “Dear God, you’re at it again.” Understand that you haven’t heard pain until you’ve heard it from Charleton Heston.
“How did you find me?”, a flustered and reddening Michael Jackson asked, gulping down what I now know to be painkillers.
“Paul McCartney tipped us off after tracking you with a satellite...”, Charleton Heston paused and gasped, “Sweet mercy! You’ve got the mariachi hat with you. I haven’t seen that since...”, he momentarily covered his face with his hands, “Jorge”, softly left his lips as he wiped a tear from his eye.
This moment’s distraction was all the king of pop needed as he threw his foot down hard on the accelerator and peeled out, sparks flying from his car. Heston bit down hard and took off after him, ramming his vehicle against Jackson’s as Jackson attempted to attack him with a whip. Undaunted, Charleton jammed his shotgun against his gas pedal, punched out his windshield, and jumped from the hood of his vehicle to the bed of Jackson’s El Camino, landing on his stomach and putting his arm through the open driver-side window, clutching tightly Jackson’s neck with his powerful left hand. Gasping, Jackson lost control, and the car flipped, sending them flying down towards the race track.
“Look, I’ll donate to the NRA, how much do you want?”, cried Michael
“Not this time you freakish golem, I’m gonna kick the living crap out of you!”
“Then prepare yourself for my special attack!”
From nowhere, music suddenly played and both men started dancing, a look of struggle on Heston’s face as if he were moving against his will. He fell to the ground, and with that, Jackson turned metallic, his glowing arms clutching at Heston’s throat.
“Get your stinking paws off me, you damned, dirty robot!”, Charleston yelled, presenting a magnum from his sleeve and firing a few shots which knocked Jackson back. I wish I could tell you about the rest of the fight but in the heat and excitement I took a sip from the Pepsi Jackson had given me and quickly fell asleep. When I came to some 4 hours later, all that was left were silver bullet casings and what looked to be wolf’s fur.
All in all my childhood was great and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, except for perhaps 20 years as Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion. Good day!
The Virgin Prince
