The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Greetings citizens!

As you may have noticed, I haven't posted much during the past few days. I've been busy entertaining family for the past few days, my niece, sister, and brother in law came to visit for the holiday season. Between my niece's constant screaming and my brother in law's death-metal blasting throughout the house, I've had some difficulty in concentrating. Committing my thoughts to text has been a virtual impossibility.

My niece may be child-star-cute, but she’s full-blown-diva-whiny, and I’m starting to think maybe I preferred her as a fetus. When even your trusty ape is too afraid to come out from hiding and sling some feces, you know you have a problem. I’m hoping she’ll become better behaved as she ages.

I came away from the holidays with a decent score. I have not the new trenchcoat I'd hoped for, but I did get a decent pair of long-underwear, both Fletch movies, and yet more Pez dispensers to try to find a place to store. My relatives all seem quite pleased with the gifts I've given them, indeed, my niece loved hers. Baby's First Cigar is always a guaranteed hit. I have the added bonus that her little slice of Cuba also helps to keep her quiet, which is an especially treasured thing now that she's no longer allowed pacifiers.

Sunday, Mister Mystere, The Lusty Lascivian, and I all celebrated Roman Day as part of Festivus. Monday, I had a most persistent headache that had been bothering me for the better part of the day and I assume Sunday's wine must be to blame. The feelings of nausea passed quickly however, while the sheer feeling of exhaustion did not.

A heavy rain fell upon us Monday, pouring down from thick gray clouds that seemed all but impenetrable, the sun nowhere to be seen. My place of employment flooded in places, I had to watch my step in order to avoid the agony of soaked socks. The rest of the day was spent recuperating, I engaged in no activities whatsoever for Cowboy and Samurai Day, which had been Monday.

Tuesday was Pirate Day, and many "Aarrrr!"s were had. After work I went to a going away party for an old chum of mine. We barbecued, drank beer, played cards, and consumed all manner of meats. Irish whiskey and fine, heated sake flowed like wine all around us. When Mister Mystere and I finally returned to the Fortress of Fortitude, I found myself too weak to even finish reading a Superman comic and we both promptly passed out.

That of course brings us to today, which is Demon Day! 'Tis the day to speak in rhyme, not a single unmelodic syllable must be muttered by any of us today. And now the day has come to rhyme, as we lead unto Festivus time! That's right, tomorrow is Spaceslut and Robot Day, followed then by Hobbit Day, in which we shall engage in our feat of strength, The Fellowship of the Drunks! Saturday, of course, we celebrate Festivus Proper, and I must say, I'm looking quite forward to it. The last few years have been duds, but this year Festivus will rock most triumphantly, the Virgin Prince will see to this!

It should also be noted that today is New Year's Eve to all you common-folk. This means more partying for me! To my bladder I make no apologies! I was born to par-tay down! The moon's out and I'm howling! 'Tis the best time of year to fill one's body with poisons, and a fine time for a fine thrusting of pelvises as we get down, get on up, and stay on the scene like sex-machines. And tomorrow, when I next lay my wisdom down upon you, it shall be a new year. Of course, the party will only be warming up for me.

Aluminum pole clutched tightly in hand, I'm filled with anticipation. I defy you to find a better holiday than Festivus. There is none, I'm sure, save for perhaps a Pagan holiday filled with non-stop fornicating, though I think those to be only myths, formed from wishful thinking. I doubt any such holidays do exist in these times, though if they do, I'm going to need dates, times, and locations. Just put it there in the comments section. Good. Good citizen.

I'm sure you'll all do your part to help spread Festivus cheer as well. Why, I'd bet that even now Rush Girl is somewhere up in Canada singing Professional Pirate along with Tim Curry. Hooray hooray! I'm preparing for the Airing of Grievances as you read this. I'm thinking of all the wonderful Festivus carols we'll be carolling, seasonal masterpieces like Professional Pirate, Ninja of the Night, The Spaceslut and the Robot, Master Ninja Theme Song, The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins, works of art all!

Anyway, as I write this, there’s a very dull party going on somewhere in very dire need of The Virgin Prince. I’m off to warm spirits now. I suppose I better get to rhyming.

Until next time I make you wince,
be seeing you, The Virgin Prince!

My fellow men and women,

As I stepped outside the house Christmas morning, I found quite a surprise. Lying face down in my neighbor’s yard was the bullet-riddled corpse of Santa Claus. You know, this is exactly the kind of thing that happens when you put a nation in hysterics with a level orange threat warning during Christmas. People worried about imminent terrorist attacks tend to shoot first upon hearing the sound of footsteps on their rooftops. I’m guessing that’s what happened to old Santa.

Santa’s body was in pretty sorry shape. Gophers were nibbling on it when I found it, and based on the size of some of the bites, I’d guess the reindeer tried a bite or two as well. Based on the fact he was in my neighborhood, and judging by the rate of decomposition, I’d guess that Santa probably started inhaling lead pellets sometime around 2:10 pacific time. Boys, girls, eunuchs, and hermaphs, those of you that didn’t get your presents from Santa this year, you know who to blame. The culprits are our unelected president and his band of fear-mongers.

Cursing the short-sightedness of the Republican right, and our country’s increasingly third world dictatorship change in nature, I dragged Santa’s stinking carcas inside my house and threw it on ice. He was stiff, pale, and missing significant chunks from his body, but I figured that maybe with some transplants, surgery, cybernetic implants, some fresh blood, and a dip in the regeneration tank, I could get old Saint Nick back up and running. A huge bucket of stem cells never hurts either.

I sent young Bjorgen the servant boy off to gather up parts for the operation. He started to whine in his funny language, something about abominations and not knowing where to go for parts. I handed him the list for the required items and organs and shoved him out the door. It was better that I didn’t know where he got the items from, again, plausible deniability is one of my closest allies.

Bobo the Virgin Chimp busied himself picking his body free of parasitic organisms, and afterwards scrubbed himself clean with soap and water before getting into his O.R. scrubs. I’ve trained Bobo very well in the art of proper medical practice. Bobo looked very professional in his face mask and rubber gloves. I’m sure if you’d seen him, you too would have been overjoyed to see him with a scalpel.

Bjorgen returned with a big bucket filled with parts. Eyes and ears and internal organs, it was like Christmas all over again. I picked up the bloody bucket and dumped the contents all over an ice filled tray as if I was checking through the spoils of a Christmas stocking.

“Oh boy! A spleen!” I cried out as I sifted through the parts. I continued looking through the goods, realizing I only had soft, mushy fleshling parts. To Bjorgen I yelled, “Bjorgen! Where are my hydraulic joints? Where are my microchips and batteries? Where are the parts for Santa’s rocket-boots? Take this $50 dollar bill and get ye to a Radio Shack, or failing that, a Computer Latrine!” And with that, I shoved Bjorgen back out the door.

Upon the young lad’s second return, I was ready to get to work First, I attached Santa’s new arm. It was covered in tattoos and I figured it either must have come from either a Hell’s Angel or one of the Stray Cats. It was large and muscular and it looked strangely out of place attached to Santa’s flabby form. I then got to the task of replacing Santa’s damaged internal organs. Though devoid of bullet-wounds, his liver was sorely in need of replacement, moreso than anything else. Finally, I got to work installing Santa’s new eyes. His new pair came from two donors, my DNA scanner revealed. One from Lisa “Left-Eye” Lopez and the other from Aaliyah.

After installing Santa’s first new eye with a little “T.L.C.” , heh heh heh, I went to install the second eye and noticed it was a dead eye. “Bjorgen, you fool! This eye is worthless! You grabbed the wrong one!” I yelled at my servant boy as I tossed the worthless piece of soft matter at him. It stuck to his forehead with a wet “thud”. It was too late to search for any more parts, I had to finish the surgery, and by damn, if the entertainment industry could keep Keith Richards up and running, then surely I could get Santa back up on his feet. Even if they were propane-fuelled jet-feet.

Improvising, I hollered to Bobo, “Bobo, fetch me the webcam from on top of the computer! Santa’s going to have himself laser-eyes! Your late-night peep shows will have to wait for a few days.”

My faithful ape did as he was told, returning to my side with the spherical camera in hand. After making a few modifications, I installed the electronic eye in his socket, pushing wires through the soft matter of his head and connecting them to a microchip soldered to his brain.

“Ha ha! The laser-eye functions!” I cried out in delight as I removed the frostbitten stumps that Santa had once called feet with my hacksaw. Tightening the bolts on Santa’s new titanium jet-feet, I decided the time had come to reawaken Santa. But first, a brief dip in the rejuvenation tank. After a half hour, I pulled the lever on the tank, dumping Santa on the floor amid a puddle of pink muck.

“Vakey, vakey,” I said in my best German accent as I thrust a live wire into Santa’s chest, singeing his chest-hair and causing Santa to jump up like a man possessed.

“I’m back!” cried Santa, “Ho ho ho! Crush kill destroy!”

“Hmmm… must be a microchip error.” I thought to myself. I couldn’t help but marvel at Santa 2.0 in all his new-found splendor. He was a sight to behold with his glowing red eye and bullet-proof legs.

“Thank goodness I was able to revive you, Santa.” I told the obese cyborg, “I thought for sure you were a goner.”

“Dear Virgin Prince, I thank you for your efforts, but now I must be off. I have a lot of catching up to do. In gratitude, I have placed Christina Aguilera’s phone number in your stocking. Now I must leave to shove a bag of coal in the president’s ass. Hmmm… let’s make that a crude oil enema. Away I go, machine justice to all!”

With that, Santa flew off on his rocket-boots while I ran to the phone and started digging through my socks.

There you have it little ones, The Virgin Prince has saved the day once more. Next Christmas Eve, you can count on Santa flying across the sky once more, led by a familiar red glow, his laser eye. He’ll know when you’re sleeping and when you’re awake, he’ll know if you’ve been bad or good because his new eye can see heat-spectrums, and the dark means nothing to the new Santa. He can still see you. He can still find you.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Dedicated devotees and superstitious simpletons,

The time of Festivus is nearly upon us! Time to speak in rhyme non-stop, with the wit of a clever demon. Break out your suspenders and codpieces! Pull the togas out of the closets, stuff your stockings with rusty, jagged-edged throwing stars, place a fresh parrot upon your shoulder! Tis the season to par-tay down, to celebrate, to Wang Chung tonight!

Soon I’ll be slipping on my mystical Vice-shoes and running along the air currents, through the air over your rooftops, helping to spread the Festivus cheer. A canned ham at the base of every aluminum pole! A complete and comprehensive listing of grievances thumbtacked to your forehead. A beautiful likeness of myself sculpted out of ice and placed in your front yard. Neatly trimmed sideburns. All these will gained by the good folks celebrating Festivus on Festivus morning, thanks to my efforts. I have a lot to do.

A tradition in my family is the telling of seasonal tales on Festivus Eve. In keeping with tradition, I’ll tell one to you. This is one my father always told me on Festivus Eve.



Santa sat in his sleigh and giggled with girlish glee as his velvet seats tickled him through his red tights. It was 2:47 now, and Santa was in his favorite part of heartland America. He was flying over a small town deep within Texas. It was wholesome Christian country. Good people, Santa thought.

Up front, Rudolph was guiding the sleigh by the light of his nose. He had secretly stopped taking his Ritalin, against doctors orders. This made him hyperactive and somewhat annoying, and the other reindeer wouldn’t play games with him when he was like this. Rudolph hoped this would be the year he finally got that nose ring, or at least a cool tattoo so the chicks would dig him.

Huddled nervously within his bed was Ezekiel Rosenberg, an old Israeli who had grown tired of the situation in Israel and had moved to America to spend the rest of his days in peace. Unfortunately, this community had not been kind to him. Various people had been harassing him for being Jewish and leaving anti-Communist propaganda around his front yard and calling him at 1:15 in the morning and taunting him every night. But not tonight. It was 2:49 and 17 seconds and they still hadn’t called yet.

Rudolph touched down on a peeling wooden roof, with the deer and sleigh behind him. Santa jumped out with his bag of goodies and slid down the chimney, eager to give young Buck Thompson his present. Santa stepped inside, and carefully took young Buck’s present out from his bag. A shiny Red Ryder B.B. gun.

Ezekiel twitched in his bed. This was the night wasn’t it? That’s why they hadn’t called yet. This was the night those crazy backwater townsfolk were going to storm his house and take him out. Ezekiel jumped out of his bed at the sound of footsteps on his roof. Then he heard rustling in his living room, and Ezekiel crept out slowly and cautiously, petrified, to see what was going on.

Ezekiel saw the silhouette of a large man with a pointy hat (or was it a hood?) and a gun in his hand. Ezekiel raised up his own shotgun and fired instantly, his shotgun blast sending Santa flying against the wall, and splattering against it, his blood and guts spilling forth from his stomach like an overturned bowl full of jelly. Santa would never know that Rudolph hadn’t been paying attention and had landed on the wrong roof, by contrast, Ezekiel had never known of Christmas, and would never know, because on Santa’s last breath, he had dragged himself across the floor and strangled Ezekiel with his polar death-grip.

Rudolph never got that nose ring.



Sleep well little ones.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

To those about to rock,

Although many months have passed since it happened, I am still wrapped in a shroud of sorrow for missing the last concert played by the Who. I’ve found nothing that rocks my Amadeus quite the same. I miss the pulse-pounding feeling of a live Who show. To give you an idea of the rock and roll magnificence of the Who, I’ll tell you now what I remember from the show I last attended.

The Bridge School Benefit, Neil Young’s concert to help the less fortunate, always gets quite a turn-out. Indeed, who in their right mind could afford to miss a show featuring the Who?

Tyhm-bot (my elven android sidekick) and I hopped into the Thunderbird, his hover-car, and made way for the Shoreline Amphitheatre. The glove box was filled with rations and protein pills, our bags with togas and journals; the trunk, sodas and lawnchairs. We were ready to par-tay down.

The place was packed when we got there, we were only a few minutes late, having not known the way, and having to carry our lawnchairs back to the car. Security doesn’t allow them inside, as Shoreline has it’s own lawnchair rental service. However, Shoreline security has no way to stop the smuggling in of inflatable Jar-Jar Binks chairs. Nefarious blue-jacketed figures of authority take heed! The resourcefulness of the Virgin Prince knows no bounds!

A cheer, unmatched by any other, exploded throughout the amphitheatre as the Who took the stage. Pete Townshend could have stood there for 15 minutes cleaning his deaf ear with a q-tip and still, there would have been nary an unsoiled pair of pants in attendance. This, of course, does not include Brian Wilson, whom I believe to be no longer in complete control of his bodily functions, but never the less, the Who decided to rock the casbah anyway, and with a twirl of Roger Daltry’s microphone and the furious strumming of Pete Townshend’s guitar, they were off.

If anyone knows how to rock and roll and put on a good show, it’s the Who. In a red-hot rendition of Ring of Fire, they summoned back to our dimension their original drummer. Surrounded by smoke and flame, Keith Moon clawed his way out of the netherverse, pulling himself through a flaming portal in the center stage. If, by chance, Keith Moon hadn’t been the true embodiment of rock and roll before, he certainly had to be now, having crawled from the depths of Hades to put on another show. Amid cheers and chants from the crowd, he seized Zack Starkey (Ringo’s son) and ripped him utterly to shreds. The audience now had souvenirs in sizeable chunks, the front row more drenched than at a Gallagher performance.

I must say I was impressed. I hadn’t seen an attempt at the resuscitation of a deceased drummer since the Page/Plant reunion tour, during which John Bonham rose again with the aid of cybernetic plug-ins and a Pentium chip soldered to his brain. There were problems however, and the poor math-computing power of the chip led to sloppy drum beats, and later, the literal disarming of concert-goers. The Who’s success at reanimation probably stemmed from their choice of magical incantation over technological advancement. They had found the spell while playing a Stevie Nicks record backwards.

Surely you didn’t think her albums were for musical enjoyment?

Near the end of the show, the Who, far beyond smashing guitars, equipped themselves with flame-throwers, machine guns, and other heavy artillery, and proceeded to destroy the stage properly. For good measure, Sheryl Crow was reduced to a smear by means of John Entwhistle’s rocket launcher. Yes, when I was 21, it was a very good year.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Friends and Mortals!

As it worked out, I ended up at the bar yesterday with Blitzen, an old friend of mine and member of Santa’s crew. We had drinks and shared memories of times past. Of course, we brought up the tale of when we first met.

I was just a young lad of 10 that Christmas, way back when. Santa was a little bit more tipsy than usual and had completely missed the roof to my house, landing his sleigh in my front yard. Even as a young lad I had the heightened senses of a hero, and as Santa fumbled with the door and stumbled into my house, I awoke and got up to investigate. There was Santa in the living room, sitting in my father’s armchair eating a bag of Cheetos he had pilfered from our kitchen. That year puberty had started to kick in, and as I walked out into the house in my tight Ghostbusters pajamas, Blitzen saw me through the window and let loose with a loud scream of, “Hey! Check out the Yule log on that kid!”

So embarrassed was I that I ran off to my room and threw on my robe. Running back out, I ran through the living room, over Santa’s toes, and out the front door. Outside, I grabbed the garden hose and gave the reindeer a good spray. They jumped up and squirmed around, the water almost instantaneously forming icicles on their bodies.

“Ha ha!” I laughed, “Who’s stiff now?! By the way, that Santa Claus movie with Dudley Moore sucked!”

The reindeer begrudgingly agreed. They acknowledged that Dudley Moore’s Arthur had been closer to the truth.

Well, that was the first time I met Blitzen. The first time he met me was during one of my many time traveling adventures. Back in 1941, Santa Claus, the reindeer, and I had teamed up to fight the Nazis. That was a swell old time, we had a mistaken battle with the Justice Society, and I got to see Santa shove a bag of coal up Hitler’s ass.

Ah, but that was the past. Yesterday, Blitzen and I were just knocking back drinks and talking. Of course, the subject of Rudolph came up. “Pretty-boy tweaker,” that’s what Blitzen called him.

“That god-damn pretty-boy tweaker! I’m so freakin’ sick of that one-nut, inbred, dwarfen reindeer! Him and Santa’s god-damn nepotism. Of course he’s the frickin’ favorite! He’s the only thing Santa has left after that ‘magical’ drunken night Santa had in the petting zoo all those years ago.”

The information was more than I’d needed to know.

“That punk-ass gully-deer doesn’t even do much. We’ve gotta pull all the weight! Rudolph just runs in front!” Blitzen continued.

“Yeah, but he does have that neat glowing red nose,” I pointed out to my drunken friend.

“Hey, you’d have a bright red nose too, if you had his coke habit.”

I sat stunned for a moment, surprised, “Oh, is that what makes it glow?”

“Nah, that’s the PCP. That stuff does some crazy things. Some guys get the strength of 5 men, some survive falls from the tops of tall buildings. Once I even saw an elf saw through his own arm while building a Holly Hobby play-oven. Didn’t even flinch, that amped-up runt.”

“Geez. That the secret to your flight? Unhealthy doses of PCP?” I asked Blitzen.

“Aw, hell no! I won’t touch that stuff. Nah, Santa mixes pixie dust in with our reindeer chow. It’s pretty clever how he gets it too. Once a year he takes a trip to the land of Faerie. While he’s there he starts ranting and raving about how he doesn’t believe in fairies, and how they’re just this big story made up by the CIA as part of some big conspiracy. Once the fairies start to fall down, he scoops them up and puts them in a bottle, then he starts clapping his hands.” Blitzen said as he gulped down a huge chug of beer.

“Wow, that’s nuts.”

“Yeah, you should see how he gets the pixie dust from them. He has to milk them with tweezers. Then he uses them for paint-detailing when they get too old.”

Blitzen paused for a minute, pulled something from his side and continued on, “Hey, you want to see some nude pictures of Tinkerbell? Mind the bruised nipples.”

I took an admiring look at the 3-inch sex kitten before handing the Polaroid back. I asked him, “Alright. Well if you hate your job so much, why don’t you just retire?”

“Can’t,” Blitzen muttered, “We don’t age, that means we don’t get to retire. You know, I’ve been pulling that damn sleigh for what? 20 centuries? And still, I don’t get to stop until the sun goes supernova.”

“Dude, that sucks. You oughtta think about faking your death and getting some plastic surgery. It worked for Osama.”

“Oh, we know where he is. Santa keeps tabs on everyone, and let me tell you, when it comes to keeping cameras in bathrooms, old Saint Nick makes Chuck Berry look like a serious amateur.”

Blitzen finished the last of his beer and continued on, “Hey, you know, out of everything, you know what bugs me the most? The kids can name Rudolph, but they can’t name the rest of the reindeer. No one can. We’ve been here the longest, we do all the work, and no one knows us. It’s just sick.”

“Aw, I’m sure that’s not true.” I tried to comfort him.

“Oh yeah? You try to name us!”

I stumbled for a minute, unable to think of a proper response. Finally, I let out with, “Oh, you know I’m bad with names, and besides, you’re the only one I hang out with, Plisken.”

“Blitzen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Uh huh. Well it just proves my point is all.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked the whining reindeer, “Well if you’re so hot, why don’t you name all the reindeer then?’

“Alright, I will! Let’s see. There’s Comet, and Vixen, and... uh... Pedro... and Yeltsin... Oh! And Marty in shipping. Aw hell, I don’t know either.” Blitzen sighed as he looked at his empty glass. He yelled at the bartender, “Hey! Barkeep! Another whiskey!”

The man tending the bar walked over to us, “I’m sorry sir. We’re all out of our fine Scotch Whiskey. Ms. Spears drank it all.”

This enraged Blitzen, who then demanded, “WHAT?! Where the hell is that no-talent whore?”

“I believe she’s in the bathroom sir.” the bartender quietly whispered to us.

There she was, blonde, pop-sensation Britney Spears, stepping out of the bathroom and wiping the last of the vomit from her lip. The older men at the bar scooted their stools in closer to hide their drunken erections. I glanced briefly and then turned back, more interested in the beer in my hand. Both were bubbly, but I had a feeling the beer would lead to more interesting conversation.

The ditzy, just-turned-legal-to-drink alcoholic walked over, towards us at the bar. She must have taken notice of me in my black face mask. Blitzen just sat glaring at her.

“Oooh! Who are you?” she asked as she attempted to seat herself on my lap. For an anorexic, she was surprisingly chunky, and was starting to hurt my legs.

“Uh... I’m the Virgin Prince,” I sheepishly told her as I tried to figure a way out of the situation.

“Oooh! A virgin? Me too!” she said without batting an eye, “You want to come back to my place? I’m not a girl...”

“Not yet a talent, yeah, yeah, we know.” Blitzen muttered.

“Hey, who the hell are you?” Britney snapped at him.

“Me?” Blitzen asked rhetorically, “I’m the Devil, we’re on the boat to hell, and I’m going to be standing here long after you’re dead and gone. But you can call me Blitzen.”

“Hey! Screw you! I’ve got money and power! I’ll crush you and be back to Los Angeles by two, drinking coffee!”

Blitzen pulled a dollar bill out and shoved it in her pants, “Yeah, yeah babe. Listen, you’ve done a real good job, I’m sure Virgin will sleep really well tonight. Now howzabout getting off of the Prince’s lap, and taking your act back to the club?”

Britney was furious. She grabbed a drink off of the bar counter and threw it in Blitzen’s face. Blitzen wiped the stinging substance out of his eyes. He licked his lips, he knew this taste. It was the last of the whiskey. The good scotch whiskey. Now he knew this bitch had to die.

“Uh oh.” I said very quietly to myself, “Everytime you spill booze, baby Jesus cries.”

And you definitely don’t want to besmirch Jesus when you’re around a creature of Christmas. Had I not had a pop star pinning my ass to the seat, I would have ran the hell out of the bar. There was bound to be a mess of flying hooves and dyed blonde hair at any minute.

“DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM!?!” Britney screamed at the reindeer.

“Yeah. You’re the girl that took the Pepsi challenge and found out that Fred Durst’s semen really does taste better than Ben Affleck’s.” Blitzen slurred at her.

With that, Britney grabbed the empty whiskey bottle and smashed it down on the counter, breaking it, and charging at Blitzen with the jagged gouging instrument. She let out with a primal animal scream, no doubt a throwback to her feral ancestors in Louisiana. Blitzen sidestepped and Britney flew past him, crashing to the floor, and letting go of the bottle, which rolled away from her and was swiftly picked up and tossed away by one of the bar patrons.

“Ha ha!” Blitzen laughed, “The girl that can’t sing isn’t any good with instruments either!”

Britney pulled her right arm back and let loose with a strong, alcohol-fueled right-hook that contacted with Blitzen’s jaw. Blitzen rolled with the punch and then headbutted her soundly. She stumbled backwards, grabbed a stool, and broke it over Blitzen’s back. Blitzen stumbled up against the bar, his head down. As Britney advanced towards him, Blitzen, feigning pain and distraction, then turned to her and presented HIS right-hook.

And let me tell you. Deer can kick. And hooves hurt.

His hoof made contact with her mouth, knocking cleanly out her two front teeth. There was no question of what she’d be wanting for Christmas this year. The angry Spears jumped at Blitzen and tackled him. The two of them rolled around on the floor, intertwined, locked in bitter struggle.

I knew I had to separate them. Things were going to get worse and cops were going to be called. Acting quickly as Blitzen kicked and knocked her away from him, I slyly let loose with a small blast of atomic vision. The beam entered into her, focused tighter than a needle prick, and completely unnoticeable to one as drunk, and distracted, as she. However, I achieved the desired effect, one of her breast implants began to leak.

Immediately, she noticed as the main source of her star power began to shrink and deform.

“Oh Gawd! I gotta get to my doctor!” she screamed as she ran out the back door and on to her private plane.

As Blitzen wiped the blood from his lip, everyone went back to what they were doing before, and I went about cleaning up the mess.

“You know, I could have taken her. I could have taken her, Virgin.” Blitzen quietly said to me.

“Yeah, I know. But the world needs music. And while that might not relate to her, there’s a lot of lonely old men out there that need her boobies to get through the day.”

I pointed to all the old men scooted up closely to the bar counter.

“See them? Those guys will be talking about this night for weeks. They’ll be talking about this with their buddies at work, hanging out around the water cooler and telling their friends how they got to see Britney Spears’s buttcrack while you had her in the headlock.”

“Wow, I guess I did my good deed for this Christmas, huh? Gave a great gift?” Blitzen asked.

“Just look at the smiles on their faces. There’s your answer.”

“You know, you’re pretty smart for a Martian, Virgin.”

“Plutonian.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Uh huh. Let’s have a drink.”

So we sat at the bar for one last drink. Sometimes it’s just good to be in the company of friends.

“Hey! Look at this!” the bartender exclaimed as he stood up from behind the counter, “Looks like we had another bottle of scotch whiskey after all! It was hidden back here behind the Romulan ale. Care for a fill-up fellas?”

Blitzen pushed his beer mug up, “Make it a tall one.”

“This calls for a toast!” I yelled to my friends, “Gentlemen, to good friends and erections on this holiday season.”

With a loud clinking of glasses, the bar filled with statements of “Hear! Hear!” and “Cheers!”

“You know, I always thought Christina Aguilera was hotter anyway.” said Blitzen as he sipped his whiskey.

“Yeah, I was always rather fond of her assless chaps myself.” I paused, “But you’re a reindeer. She’s a human.”

“Oh, I’m attracted to anything that talks. It’s one of the side-effects of being a mystically-enchanted talking animal... and an alcoholic. Well, not Sharon Osbourne. That bitch is nasty!”

With his last statement, Blitzen promptly passed out, his head thumping against the counter. With that, I left the barkeep a large tip, grabbed Blitzen and walked with him out of the bar. Sitting him down on the curb, I sat beside him and enjoyed a Lucky Strike.

Of course, wouldn’t you know it, Santa Claus walked up.

“Oh dear! What happened to Nixon!?” the fat man asked, concerned.

“You mean Blitzen?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Uh huh.” I paused and thought. It was time for my Christmas gift to Blitzen. I decided a little white lie couldn’t hurt on a white Christmas.

“Yeah, Britney Spears attacked him! The bar is filled with witnesses! Hurt him really badly! Don’t think he’ll ever be able to pull a sleigh ever again!”

“Oh, poor, poor Blitzen. Guess I’ll retire him early. He won’t have to wait for hell to freeze over to get HIS gold watch.”

A slightly vengeful look filled Santa’s eyes.

“As for Ms. Spears... let the punishment fit the crime.” he growled.

In short, this is why this year, Blitzen will be in Hawaii on Christmas Eve, and why Britney Spears will be literally chomping at the bit as she pulls Santa’s sleigh across the sky alongside 8 very randy reindeer.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Good news everyone! I’ve acquired a new servant-boy!

My manor is now kept perfectly spic and span, courtesy of my new friend Bjorgen Tiberius Bleddershpuddle. I’m not sure quite where he’s from, but it matters not, he’s small enough to crawl under the house, and with his poor command of the English language, I can’t understand a word of his pleas for rest. If there’s one term I’m especially fond of, it’s “plausible deniability”.

Some of you might be asking, “But Virgin Prince....”

Ahem.

“But O great and noble Virgin Prince, where did you get a servant-boy?”

Well, I’ll tell you. I bought him dirt cheap, at a wholesale price from a shoe factory in Korea. It was worth every penny! He barely eats, and with those tiny, orphan fingers, there isn’t a spot of dirt he can’t get to. I tell you, those orphan fingers are priceless, all nine of them.

I had initially planned to use young Bjorgen to help out in the assembly of my kites and toyline. That’s right, toyline. I’m expanding. In addition to my fine line of kites, I’ve also developed the Ozzy Osbourne Motorcycle Crash playset, the JFK Jr. radio-controlled plane set (which is just a repainted reissue of the John Denver plane I’d released earlier, which in fact was repaint of a toy design I’d stolen from my father, the Buddy Holly plane set), and also a game I made called “Who’s Dating Winona Ryder This Week?” For the game, one side plays as Winona Ryder, the other as Drew Barrymore, and you try to guess eachother’s boyfriends. It’s really just a slightly modified copy of Guess Who, but it works. Both Milton Bradley and Winona Ryder are suing me over it, but surprisingly, not Drew Barrymore, who instead called me up and asked me out.

Anyway, I had initially planned to use young Bjorgen to help out in the assembly of my kites and toyline, but then realized he’d be much better used to take care of my house. If any of you have ever had a pet, you probably have some sort of idea of how quickly fur gets everywhere, and the sort of constant mess that ensues. With Bobo the Virgin Chimp around, it’s not much different for me. I am sick of cleaning feces from the walls! Blessed servant-boy, he spares me the effort.

Bobo takes some time adjusting to new people however, so I had to introduce him to young Bjorgen. The best way to get used to someone, I’ve always found, is by constant exposure. With that in mind, I sealed Bjorgen in the cage with Bobo and went off for a small while. Sure, there was a little screaming for the first 3 hours but I think they really bonded while I was gone. In fact, when I did come back, they looked like the best of friends, Bobo hugging the shaking young lad and petting his head as he smoked a cigarette.

All in all, things are going pretty well around the old Virgin-lair, the Fortress of Fortitude has never looked better. Anyway, I gotta go. Batman’s getting a new Batmobile for Christmas and I promised Robin I’d help him weld the giant bat-head to the front of the Hummer.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

It occurs to me that upon reading the poem written for my grandfather, some of you might be curious as to how my grandfather could have possibly served in the United States military when my family is, in fact, the royal family of Pluto. Well, I’ll tell you a story.

Back in 1940 (Earth-years), old Gramps (or young Gramps, as he was then) was in deep doo-doo. The time had arrived for him to marry old Grammy (no, she was old even then, like Angela Lansbury). Anyway, Gramps figured he didn’t really want to settle down. Gramps wanted to roam the space-ways and have adventures. He wanted to play tip-the-Reticulan, wrestle the space-bears, and bag himself a sapphire-skinned chick. In short, Gramps wasn’t ready for the entrapment presented by a wedding ring.

So sometime after he got his traditional matrimonial crewcut, and before he was scheduled to arrive for his spandex-tuxedo fitting, Gramps snuck away to his garage, climbed into the space-cruiser, and with a turn of his key, hauled ass off of the beauteous purple planet of Pluto.

Upon reaching space, it occurred to Gramps that he had no place to go to, so he just kind of cruised for a while. After about a week his supply of Yoohoo and Ho-Hos was near exhausted, so Gramps decided to cruise the asteroid belt for some food. After 3 hours of navigating past massive hunks of iron ore floating through space, Gramps found himself what looked like a decent place to eat, a crummy burger joint named Blorg’s Bestial Biped, located conveniently just off of Spaceway 1. It was as Gramps was in the middle of eating his meteopher burger that he witnessed the joint’s manager firing the fry-cook for snorting fungus frog anal dust in the employee washroom.

Having noticed a cheap hotel complex an asteroid or two away, and never one to pass up an opportunity, Gramps applied for a job on the spot. He quickly received it, along with a metallic hair-net and a special paper hat with 3 Bs on it. Gramps was the new short-order fry-cook for Blorg’s Bestial Biped. He wasn’t incredibly overjoyed, never having had to work before, and disdainful of what the abundance of grease in the kitchen would do to his frilly shirts, but he knew the new job would give him a chance to make some money so he could afford to hide out for a while and refuel his ship for a large trip, just as soon as he figured out where to go.

It wasn’t a month before Gramps was caught banging the manager’s stripper girlfriend. Barely escaping the angry burger joint operator’s swinging cleaver, eluding it only by using the stripper as a makeshift human shield, Gramps managed to jump through a nearby window, tearing his best frilly shirt in the process. Running to his ship and ditching the asteroid post-haste, Gramps realized he hadn’t been able to fully refuel his ship for a long trip, nor was he any closer to knowing where to go. Reluctantly, Gramps began to head back to Pluto.

It was as Gramps neared the planetary satellites that his sensors picked up a probe-craft coming from the general direction of either Krypton or Daxam. Crossing his fingers and hoping for the best, Gramps followed after it. The probe led Gramps to Earth.

Earth wasn’t really what he’d hoped. The technology was centuries behind what Pluto had, and the females generally had no more than two breasts. It was a far cry from Magdalena 12, a planet where female members of the galactic police vacationed. He had hoped to eventually make it there, to get a job as a Space-Chippendale, and live the sweet life. But the ship’s fuel cells were drained by the time he reached Earth, and thusly, he was committed.

The story largely ends there. Upon landing on Earth, Gramps spent a few days hiding in a Kansas farm until he heard news of the great war. Jumping up at the chance for action and adventure, he then enlisted in the U.S. military. He picked the navy solely because of the bell-bottoms.

He never did fight though. He got shipped out to an island base where he sat out the war and developed an unholy love for pickled pigs feet. Gramps then set up a secret gambling operation which he ran up until the day Grammy flew into Earth in her Astro Model T. She then dragged his ass, kicking and screaming, back to Pluto. She had wanted to attain queenhood after all, and her biological clock was ticking away. A few sedatives later, they were married. The rest is history.

I had a brainstorm recently. The yo-yo craze has happened, twice. The hula hoop craze is over. The spinning top craze kinda fizzled out. It’s only a matter of time before the kite-craze kicks in! Of course, it’ll never happen as long as companies continue to make the mediocre kites they’ve been making. Go to the store and look at the selection of kites. What do you see? Unicorns? Yuck! Harry Potter? Who the hell wants to fly a kite covered by a bunch of fruity limeys (is that redundant?) dressed in black? Maybe you see a Mickey Mouse kite? Mickey Mouse is played out!

(Ooh, the British spell-check on this copy of Word doesn’t like the term limey too much.)

The companies just aren’t licensing the right things. You gotta make things fresh and new if you want some kind of buzz. You gotta keep in step with what’s cool. This is why I suggest the Missy Elliot kite! My current prototype features Missy Elliot in her trash-bag-suit with a quote on the side that says, “Keep your eyes on my be-dumpy bum bum”. Originally, I had wanted to use her backwards-talking quote, spelling it as closely as I could, “Yits nur flippy-dippy N yanko! Yits nur flippy-dippy N yanko!” but that didn’t fly so well with consumer testing.

Also on the way, I have the RunDMC kite, the Pamela Anderson “Tommy Lee gave me hepatitis” kite, and the Paris Hilton sex-tape kite, which I’m sure will be a big seller. Also planned are the Avril-Lavigne-go-the-hell-back-to-Canada kite, J-Lo’s Butt kite (it’s our biggest one), the 16” by 24” this-much-land-currently-belongs-to-Palestine kite (actual size), Conan the Groper, and the ultra-deluxe inflating Missy-Elliot-in-a-trash-bag-suit kite.

Anyway, I went out to the mall yesterday to try to promote my fine products and find some prospective buyers. To help promote my kites, I myself was wearing my own inflatable trash-bag-suit. Sometime between hitting up the vile Hot Topic and the low-brow Spencer Gifts, I realized I was quite famished. I stopped over at the McDonalds to get some chicken McNuggets (now with fake white meat). After taking my order, the lady serving me asked me what sauce I wanted.

“Honey,” I told her.

“I’m sorry sir, we’re all out. Would you like sweet and sour or barbecue sauce?”

“I said I want honey!”

A violent tussle ensued, and I was ejected from the mall by mall security. My trip to the mall wasn’t a complete loss however. During the excitement of the McDonaldland mayhem, I shoved my pants full of Brother Bear happy meal toys. Also, ONE store was interested in buying my kites, that one store being Sanrio. The only problem is they want the Missy Elliot kites to have Missy Elliot’s head on a cartoon cat body.

Well a buck’s a buck.

As you may have heard, Saddam Hussein just got captured. Initially, I didn’t know how to take the news. I mean, I suppose it’s a good thing, the guy was a bastard and a murderer, and this pretty much confirms that he can’t cause anymore trouble. But I have this overwhelming fear that this is just going to help Bush’s approval rating, and with the Democrats’ front-runner running with a strong anti-war platform, this can’t possibly help them.

Lord knows we don’t need another 4 years of Bush. The time we’ve had with him has been too much already.

Okay, granted I think Saddam needed to be taken out of power, and perhaps we were the only ones that could do it (if not for our military superiority, then for our country’s guilt-free ability to invade the rest of the world and put things the way we like them; lack of respect for other nations is our greatest military asset), but it really just wasn’t appropriate for us to invade Iraq. Certainly not when we did, certainly not for the reasons we stated. If we’d finished the job the first time, or if we’d waited until Iraq actually did something, then I wouldn’t have such a problem with a complete invasion and dismantling of their government.

Now personally, there were two things I would have liked to see happen as far as the war was concerned. One, when Bush declared the war on Iraq, stating his reasons of needing to remove Saddam from power, being that he was a greedy, power-hungry, un-elected tyrant with weapons of mass-destruction, leading a political party that didn’t respect the will of the people, I think Saddam should have then declared war on the U.S., stating his reasons of needing to remove Bush from power, being that he was a greedy, power-hungry, un-elected tyrant with weapons of mass-destruction, leading a political party that didn’t respect the will of the people. Granted, when Saddam led in his invasion force, it would have looked something like Washington crossing the Delaware, what with his small army, but still, it would have been funny and entirely justified.

The second option is, and I’m rather fond of this one, is rather than sending in all their countrymen to die for them, if the two of them had each just gotten on a horse, each armed with a 2x4, and proceeded to wail upon eachother. The winner gets the other guy’s country. I bet Bush would have thought twice then. Originally, I thought they should just tie their left wrists together and have a knife fight, but I decided against that, being that Saddam would have the advantage, having ACTUALLY SERVED in the military for some time, and no doubt gaining some combat experience. I might not like Bush all that much, but if Saddam gutted him from gullet to groin, it would prove that, yes, you can mess with Texas, and we just can’t have that.

Hell, who cares who wins, if it wasn’t for Bush’s 666 birthmark I wouldn’t be able to tell the two of them apart anyway. That’s right. Bush is the anti-christ. I’ll expand more on that later.

And with this post, I’m going to be very closely monitored by the government from now on.

To Hades with you big brother! You’ll never catch the Virgin Prince! I’ll be laughing and jumping from roof to roof, pelting NSA officers with fudge-covered bananas, stopping only to mark my territory on the four corners of the Whitehouse lawn.

In other news, the Orca that starred in Free Willy died from pneumonia. I feel sorry for that poor bastard. He never got used to the wild ocean. This unfortunate noble beast was completely institutionalized by his years spent in captivity, and spent his last years of freedom seeking out the company of humans. Humans, not whales. In the end, he was of course shunned by both.

And it all comes back to one thing, both wars for oil, and whales kept for 30 years in captivity in amusement parks.

Money.

The Virgin Prince loves money too, and in this area, I am not without my own plans for getting rich quick. Some of you may have heard of WWW.BUMFIGHTS.COM. Bumfights, if you couldn’t guess, is a site run by a bunch of guys with money, that then use that money to pay homeless people to beat the living crap out of eachother, in as violent and brutal a manner as possible. The guys then put the fights on tape and sell them, making more money, and continuing to prey upon the inexhaustible supply of homeless people out there. I can’t tell if this is as bad as, or worse than, Girls Gone Wild.

I say to the men behind Bumfights, stop this exploitation of homeless people! Stop using them for your own monetary gain. Instead, allow ME to exploit them for MY monetary gain. Here’s my idea: H.S.L., The Homeless Soccer League. Here’s the set-up, professional soccer players may be good and all, but far too expensive. Here’s where I cut costs. I only have to pay the winning team. That’s right, I set up a table with a massive feast upon it to make the grandest Thanksgiving seem paltry. The winning team eats.

Oh, you may have thought you’d seen some intense bouts of athletic competition before, but have you ever seen a player give it his all like a man does when he’s desperate for a meal? When the H.S.L. plays, you will see men jump 30 feet, float on wind currents, run so fast that their feet don’t touch the ground. The Six Million Dollar Man will have nothing on the man with six cents!

It’ll balance out too, see because the winning team will inevitably get soft, whoever’s the hungriest is bound to win, so eventually everyone eats. Oh okay, I’ll feed the losing team too, but they only get beans and rice. And no booze.

You figured out how I’d make money right? Admission! I don’t have to charge much, my profit margin is pretty much guaranteed. The stands will fill up as people root for their favorite teams, the guys from their neighborhoods. Feel the excitement as the Fillmore Self-Talkers face off against the Tenderloin Screamers! Get caught up in the action as the Mission Street Paint-Huffers take on the Market Street Urinators! Oh, I can see it now, why, in no time at all I’ll have Jim Brown and Pele as announcers at my game!

Jim Brown: Hello there everybody. Welcome to H.S.L. Championship Game. I’m Jim Brown, and here with me is Pele.

Pele: ¿Que?

Jim Brown: Well it looks like the Castro Drinkers have an unbeatable offense this season. Do you think the Haight Street Spacemen stand a chance, Pele?

Pele: ¿Como?

Dennis Miller: I don’t know Pele, looks like Old Joe just might go Enkidu on Cracker over there, but then again Cracker’s got more fishies surrounding him than Tiberius on a good day.

Pele: ¿Que?

Okay, okay, I realize Pele is from Brazil, and speaks not Spanish, but Portuguese. Problem is, I don’t. Anyway, it’s late and I gotta go to bed, so I’ll tell you about the rest of my money-making schemes tomorrow.

Grandfather
I was thinking about the war today
the second world war
the one you served in

How amazing it must have been
serving under General Patton in Easy Company
fighting in North Africa against Irwin Rommel
holding that hill, staving off German forces
your company all broken and still around you

All those promotions turned down to stay
with “Wildman”, the history teacher
“Four-Eyes”, the bespectacled sharpshooter
“Little Sure Shot”, the hard fighting native
your right hand man, “Bulldozer”
the combat happy joes of Easy

What was it like
in the European Theatre of Operations
fighting hand to hand
with the steel-fisted Iron Major?

You wouldn’t know
Sgt. Rock did all that
you spent the war on an island

As I left for work this morning, I found I was missing two things: the button to my nice green coat and my ring.

Fucking gnomes.

Now I’ll admit to perhaps being a bit biased. I’ve hated people of the mythical persuasion for some time now, ever since little Harry Potter and his smarmy little band of annoying, precocious British friends left a bag of flaming dog poop on my porch. Or perhaps it was that time unicorns crapped on my windshield, or the time Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang parked in my driveway, or maybe, it was the time those wood-elves in Berkeley sold me that crappy hemp backpack for way too much, and then it fell apart 3 days later. Stupid tie-dye-wearing wood-elves. Yes, I hate the creatures of myth and legend, and I especially hate gnomes.

Gnomes, with their rosy-red cheeks, Karl Malden noses, and hats that look like traffic cones (a fact I based my defense around at my last vehicular assault trial, and which got me off scot-free. Take that, David the Gnome!) I hate gnomes. Those cutesy little peons that live in hollow tree-stumps, ride foxes, sound like Tom Bosley, and steal your belongings in the middle of the night. Oh, that reminds me of a joke.

Why shouldn’t you shoot a gnome holding a pocket-watch with a magic-missile? Because it might be your pocket-watch!

Heh heh, that one still cracks me up.

Anyway, my green coat is missing it’s button and it looks stupid without it, hardly fitting for a hero of men, such as I. It’s my missing ring that bothers me the most though. I’ve worn that Green Lantern ring everyday for more than a year, ever since my ally from Texas, The Roaming Persian, gave it to me. It wasn’t cheap either. It cost her $100+ bucks. And before I got that ring, I had worn several other Green Lantern rings for a few years beforehand. I feel naked. My finger feels funny, too light perhaps, and if I should present to you my middle finger today, it’ll be to show you how bizarre it looks without my ring of emerald glory on it.

I know the gnomes did it.

You know, gremlins can be pretty bad too, always messing with aircraft, but at least they always bring beer to a party. Or sometimes a bottle of orc-wine. Orc-wine isn’t that bad either. Sure, it tastes foul as hell, and it’s filled with trace-amounts of things you don’t even want to know about, things like blood (it’s anyone’s guess where it’s from) and orc-backwash, and it’s not that unusual to take a swig and find a fingertip in your mouth (again, it’s better not to ask questions), but it gets you bollocksed! A few swigs of that and you’ll be in an out-of-this-world-mellow-stage all night long. And orc-wine is so much more appealing ever since they actually started bottling the stuff in glass bottles, as opposed to sheep intestine, which is what they used to use. Eat your heart out, Two-Buck Chuck!

Not that I like gremlins. I just like them slightly more than gnomes. Gnomes can make a mean stew, but it’s not like they ever make enough, or share. Frickin’ Father Dowling watching little midgets.

My ring wasn’t there, where I always put it, by the computer, this morning. Sure, my uncle was sleeping out there on the couch, he could have moved it, but why? No, it was those damn gnomes. And just maybe that gnome is putting the ring to better use than I did, I just wore it for show, but I have this feeling that wherever that ringed gnome may be, he’s just forming a construct of a green hot tub with green gnome girls in bikinis in it. Bikinis and those stupid pointy hats. Aww, hell. Maybe it’s time I traded in for a Flash ring.

I’m gonna get those gnomes. I’ll get them real good. I know just what I’ll do. I’ll go over to that deli and convenience store just off of El Camino, the one that the gnomes run, and steal myself a bag of Doritos. Let’s see how THEY like it. Yeah, that’ll show ‘em.

Awwwww, heck.... who am I kidding. I can’t do that, I’m no criminal. I’m a fighter of evil, a hero of men. Those stupid gnome Doritos are as safe as ever. Still, I have this persistent feeling that tonight as I cruise around in the Virginmobile, I’m going to “accidentally” run over some “traffic cones”, and if I should find a leprechaun’s pot ‘o gold, you can be damn sure I’ll deposit some ass-pennies!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

I don't feel much like writing today. Last night as I was sleeping, my home was broken into by ninja monkeys.

Again.

There I was, tucked in and cute as a button, sleeping soundly in my sleeping cap, Green Lantern T-shirt and happy-face boxers, under my Pee Wee's Playhouse comforter and Batman bed sheets, dreaming sweet dreams of sharing an apartment with Elvira and Betty Page, and having to dress as a woman to avoid being evicted. I was in the middle of a hilarity-filled scenario in which I was meeting a ravishingly beautiful female friend from the internet for the first time ever, but in my nervousness, had sent her a picture of Don Knotts instead. It was as I was trying to convince Don Knotts to impersonate me and go on the date with her when I heard a loud crash from my kitchen, and woke up immediately.

I jumped up from my bed , eyes still heavy from slumber , and threw on my robe , thinking all the while , "What would Tom Baker do?" I grabbed my cane and ran down the hall, hoping the effects of my waking virility would be unnoticeable by the time I reached the kitchen.

There they were.

Ninja monkeys. Screeching and laughing loudly as they went through my cupboards, and jumping all around my kitchen, leaving monkey-buttprints on my counters. Last time, they had taken all my Pez and broken into my stash of rootbeer. This time, it looked as though they were after Poprocks and Jolt Cola.

“What are you vile simian simpletons doing?!” I cried at the monkeys, “be gone from my residence for the last time you bastardly beasts! ”

I knew should have thought twice about moving into a place with a monkey-dojo up the street, but it was either that or move into the place next to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and I knew I didn’t want to answer the door half as often as that location would no-doubt force me to.

The monkeys screamed and jumped around, scrambling all over the place and knocking the magnets off of my refrigerator, all the magnets except some of the alphabet magnets, which they had spelled out to write “Virgin penis banana monkey fart”. They were no doubt practicing, they had to be working on the world’s greatest novel once again. I kicked at the monkeys scrambling around my kitchen. One of them retaliated by mixing a can of Jolt cola and Poprocks and throwing the fizzing projectile at me.

"Ack! Gross!" I cried as Jolt Cola sprayed my face. I ran to the phone to call my ally, Mister Mystere, the prude from New England, surely he could help. The phone rang thrice before his answering machine picked up.

"Why hello. You've reached the lair of the mysterious Mister Mystere. I must presently be away righting wrongs. I shall be glad to return your phone call upon returning to my abode, but I must know where to call. Please don't leave me in suspense!"

"Mystere! Pick up the phone! ‘Tis I, The Virgin Prince! I need your help!" I hollered into the phone.

"Huhh... wha..?" came Mystere's groggy response as he answered the phone, "what? No, Victoria... I assure you Mystere is a much better last name than Beckham... yes Geri can come too... yes, I like the frilly number, wear that..."

"MYSTERE! WAKE UP!" I yelled into the phone.

"Fuzzamagimmillee, HUH? What? Who is it?"

"It's me, the Virgin Prince. I require assistance!"

"It's 3 in the morning. Go to sleep! The crime'll still be there in the morning." muttered Mister Mystere angrily.

"I'm not fighting crime! I'm at home! I'm being attacked by monkeys! By monkeys, I say!"

"Virgin, just give Bobo a Teen Beat magazine and lock him in his cage." Mystere said as he hung up the phone.

"But it's not Bobo!" I began to protest, but it was too late. There was no one at the other end of the line, and Mystere was no doubt back in the land of slumber, tucked warmly in more dreams of attaining British superstardom.

Bobo! Of course! It takes an ape to beat an ape! Bobo would save the day! I let loose with my special cry, the Virgin Squeal. The scream, the high pitched product of repressed testosterone, echoed throughout my lair, down through the foundations, down to my basement laboratory, where the Virgincomputer's audio receptors recognized the signal and electronically unlocked Bobo the Virgin Chimp's cage. Meanwhile, as Bobo ran upstairs to find me, I was in the kitchen dodging banana-smeared throwing stars as the ninja monkeys continued their assault against me. I halted the stars in mid-air with my atomic vision, but I was gaining no ground, and, lacking my beauty sleep, I was beginning to tire.

Fortunately, Bobo burst into the room with a loud shriek! The ninja monkeys cowered at the sight of this great ape, 3 times their size. Bobo let loose with a devastating barrage of monkey guano, pelting the furry little scoundrels of the Orient and causing them to leap madly, and shriek, in disgust and terror. A furious battle of feces-flinging ensued, desanitizing my kitchen and lasting a good 3 hours, more epic than a civil war battle. Finally, the ninja monkeys retreated, grabbing what was left of the six-pack of Jolt Cola and a package of Poprocks and running out the door, scrambling to their Ford Pinto and speeding up the street, squealing about their score.

"Good job Bobo," I told my ape companion, "Christ, it's late. I've gotta work tomorrow, I'm going to bed." I handed him a magazine, "Here's a Teen Beat, go back to your cage. Nite Bobo." and with that, I went to bed.

Returning home from work today, I found quite a bit of clean-up work ahead of me. In addition to all the monkey-dung stuck to the walls, I found out the ninja monkeys must have gotten into my private film collection. I'm still cleaning all the monkey-gum out of my DVD player.

On a positive note, upon returning to sleep, I was able to finish my dream. Apparently, the punchline to the episode involved Don Knotts being kidnapped during the date and ending up in pictures on NAMBLA's website. (Cue clichéd funny music here) Waw waw waw waw. Good day!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Having travelled a bit in my time, seeing places both average and strange, two places currently stick out in my mind. One, Republitron 874, strange automaton colony of space sector 2354, where bills are passed with collective hive-mind efficiency, business booms, profits maximised, and the native moss-people, the Algores, often called “the Green”, go largely ignored as existing, left to live unnoticed in their ever-shrinking swampland homes. The other, of course, is the state of Oregon.

Oregon, where everyone hates Californians despite the fact that during the gold-rush, the people of Oregon stole half of California’s gold. Oregon, where there’s no sales tax and the people at the gas stations pump your gas for you. Oregon, where it’s officially illegal to shoot bigfoot, a still tree-covered land, a cryptozoologist’s wet dream. Oregon, one of the last holdouts of the small, two-screen theatre, the ones built with class and style, their own subtle charms, so unlike the massive, blocky, soulless megaplexes that seem to dominate the landscape these days. Oregon, where everyone dresses the same, in grey shirts, blue pants, and bright yellow construction helmets. Oregon, where there’s always headlines in the paper about another robot attack.

The last time I was in Oregon I was just passing through really. The Lusty Lascivian and I had decided to take a holiday of sorts, a road trip to investigate some of the people and stories we’d read about in The Weekly World News. We were travelling in a low-key fashion, opting to take Hondabot for transport as opposed to the Virgincycle. Bobo the Virgin Chimp had been left at home in his cage in the Fortress of Fortitude. I had no need for him to draw attention to us on this trip as he so often did with his feces-flinging antics. Armed with a brand-new director’s cut Criterion Collection Trading Places dvd, a cd of Britney Spears’ latest pop hits, and a large bag of monkey-chow, I left Bobo largely in his own capable hands, with my neighbor Bob checking on him once a day and also making sure that my Nethertubbies were still safely locked away in their cryo-prisons.

It was as the Lascivian and I were driving along the coast of Oregon that I noticed whales swimming out in the water near the beach. “Tally ho! Adventure lies before us!” I cried as I spun the car around and sped into the parking area along the beach. As my fingers left the emergency brake I sprung from the vehicle quickly, climbing over and leaping from the opened car door as opposed to walking around it. Like a meth-amphetamine charged lemming I sped down towards the water, the soles of my mystical Vice-shoes barely touching the world beneath me as I ran over dirt and weeds, down to the beach, and then up Battle Rock, a large rock formation leading out into the water, a famous landmark from whence colonists soundly thrashed the British fleet during the revolutionary war.

Without a pause I reached the edge of Battle Rock and leapt from it, gliding through the air and landing on the back of a whale swimming just off the edge of it. I latched on and held tight, lost in the splendor of bare-back whale riding. The beast thrashed and bucked, but could not free itself of my grip, and the Lascivian watched intrigued. Following my lead, he too ran down the hill to the beach and up Battle Rock, but his timing was off, and he dove head-first, trapping his melon in the large aquatic mammal’s blowhole.

So caught up was I in the sport of whale riding, I almost didn’t notice the Lascivian’s body protruding from the back of another large whale, his kicking legs flailing like a pair of loose antlers. Seeing my lecherous ally in trouble, I steered my whale towards his and leapt from it’s back, landing on the other whale. I could barely hear his muffled screams as I grabbed hold of his ankles and began pulling at him with all my might. His screams had turned so high-pitched, I had no doubt he must have been seriously disrupting the sonar of all the whales in a 3 mile radius. With a massive snort, the struggling whale brought it’s mouth above water, sucking in a large gasp of air and letting it loose through it’s blowhole, sending through a high-pressure blast of air, water, and whale mucus, dislodging the Lascivian, and sending us both flying into the side of Battle Rock.

How surprised was I, when rather than splattering against the side of the rock, we found ourselves passing through it, landing, apparently, in a cave hidden by some form of advanced hologram. Inside Battle Rock was a ship embedded into it, no doubt millions of years prior. As we stared at the seamless metal sides of the ship exposed within the cave, a rider-less bicycle rolled up to us, it’s bell chiming. With the sound of a beer can crumpling, it transformed into a painfully thin robot with a bicycle basket for a mouth and handlebar tassels hanging from the sides of it’s head.

“Oh dear!” the robot cried, “You seem to have found my home. I am Huffy, leader of the Posibots, sworn defender of the fleshlings against my vile foes, the nefarious Drunkticon and his troop of evil Negatrons.”

“By Jonas Grumby’s overemphasised girth! Where the heck did you come from?” I asked the robot that largely resembled a pole with legs.

“Millions of your Earth-years ago, my people were involved in a massive civil war on the planet Technotron. Seeking a new energy source to help us fight of the evil Negatrons, my crew of Posibots and I set out into space, but the evil Drunkticon followed us and attacked us, sending us all crashing to the Earth where we laid dormant until 1973 when we were reawakened and assumed Earth-forms.”

“Yeah, cool man. You mind if I turn on the lights?” the Lusty Lascivian asked as he pressed down a large red button on the side of the ship.

“NO, don’t touch that! That’s the homing beacon!” the robot screamed.

Suddenly crashing through the cave ceiling came a beat-up old armchair with torn leather on it. With the sound of old bones creaking and joints popping, it transformed into a much larger robot with what appeared a large pot-belly, fiber-optic stubble, and a pair of metallic y-fronts and sleeveless t-shirt.

“At last, I’ve found you Huffy!” the bigger robot screamed, “Now prepare to meet your doom at the hands of Drunkticon! Negatrons, attack!”

The large robot pulled a bunch of capsules out of his pocket and sprayed them with water, they grew into large, roughly man-shaped sponges.

“Not this time Drunkticon!” the skinny robot proclaimed, pulling out a bunch of crudely painted cardboard cut-outs, “Posibots, assemble!”

“Oh Christ, this is lame” the Lusty Lascivian muttered, “let’s get out of here.”

“So wait, there’s only two of them?” I asked as we crawled out of the cave.

We made it back to the car, stinking of drying whale mucus. We were anxious to leave but I knew there was something I had to do first.

“Hondabot! Transform!” I yelled, the car transforming around me into a massive suit of battle armor. I fired two missiles into the side of Battle Rock, causing the entrance to the cave to collapse and hopefully sealing them in there forever, where no one would ever have to be pissed off by their lameness ever again. Then, it was back to the road for me and the Lusty Lascivian.

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!

In my line of work, that being crime-fighter, mystery-man, super-hero, call it what you will, I’m not without connections and I have amassed quite a bit of knowledge, I have been privy to various bits of information, I know many things I most likely should not. So to you, my loyal readers, I disclose secrets from the vaults of U. S. Intelligence. Juicy W.W.II gossip. Take yourself back now: the year is 1942. Batman comics are all the rage, a young Jack Kirby has begun getting screwed over by the comic industry, a young Albert Einstein is making a name for himself, the atomic age has not yet begun. Journey now with me, backwards! Backwards in time! Come now, take a trip on my magic, swirling ship, roll up for the mystery tour! We go now.

In 1942, Europe was a bloody battleground, its trenches and fields a flashing orgy of death, filled with grunts and moans and spillage of bodily fluids. Every country had scientists hard at work, looking for advances to aid their country in the war. Germany had a proficiency in building reliable machines and was making great effort in the field of genetic research in the attempt to master genetic engineering. Germany’s greatest military weapon was a fusion of their skills. They made a soldier which could perfectly infiltrate enemy lines, Germans who could become, at will, refrigerators. Reliable, German-engineered refrigerators.

The Plan was simple. During bombing runs by the German air-fleet, they would drop refrigerators and bags of rubbish on enemy lines. The Americans, British, and Russians were surely not the type to pass up a reliable refrigerator and would place them in their bases, utilizing them to store food other than K-rations. This gave the Germans access to enemy secrets.

The Russians eventually figured it out and, not to be outdone, started work on their own secret weapon. The Russians, never ones for subtlety, created a whole platoon of soldiers who could become at will Siberian bears. They turned out to be a terrible failure in the field of espionage and intelligence, it seems German suspicion was aroused as officers started noticing a sharp increase in the appearance of Siberian bears in central Germany. Furthermore, the fact that these Siberian bears wore Russian uniforms helped matters none (the Russians never mastered the usage of unstable molecules on clothing). However, the Russian bear-soldiers were determined to be incredibly effective in battle, making their worth that of 10 German refrigerators. Their success as a platoon gained them one of the highest success rates ever, and several have since gone on to father many of Russia’s top female Olympic athletes.

“What happened to the Germans?” you might ask, “how could their plan have possibly failed?” Well, the Germans forgot to take into account the grizzled, gritty, gruff of the American soldiers. The Germans died from bacterial infections, victims of weeks-old General’s Chicken, and other food items left to rot in the back of the shelves.

And what of the Americans? Well, aside from the fact that we had Airboy and the Air Fighters, The Spectre, Captain America, and the Justice Society of America championing our side, the truth is America didn’t need a secret weapon (short of an atomic bomb), we had the U. S. Marines. They were possessed of no special abilities other than bleeding Red, White, and Blue blood. Much like a tube of Aquafresh, leaving pools of blood that looked like liquid Old Glorys. This was moreso a weakness than a strength, as a papercut could expose one’s true identity to the German command. Regardless, neither Russian bear-soldier, nor German refrigerator was a match for a U. S. Marine. After all, American mountain-men had been wrestling bears for years.

Well, there you have it. I hope my story has filled you with the same sense of awe and blind patriotism as it has me. Though I’d like to thank my contact, honor demands I keep him anonymous to protect his identity. There’s nothing wrong with pseudonyms though. So Beorge W. Gush, wherever you are, I salute you. Thanks for the use of your father’s file.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

God is dead. That’s right, God is dead. I’m not saying just another cliché line either. On September 12th, Johnny Cash died. That’s right. God was the man in black.

Now it’s a little known fact that roughly every 300 years God comes down to Earth and walks among us as a mortal. Why he does it, I don’t know, he’s God. Maybe it’s to get some human perspective, maybe it’s to take a break from omnipotency. Couldn’t say. But he does it pretty consistently and he generally has a decent run, usually getting a full hundred years. It’s not hard for him to pull off, assuming he’s not trapped in the middle of a war or harsh conditions wherever he may be living at the time. He never craves red meat, spirits, or tobacco, and he can zap the cholesterol out of anything he eats with his mind. He has no problem following a diet consisting of rice and cornmeal and he can control his own metabolism to stay fit. But his previous time around, he tried something different. The day before he died, a small girl gave him an apple. And you know what? He liked it.

And God died. And the girl grew up. And she always had apple trees in her yard everywhere she lived for the rest of her life. And God got to thinking, up in Heaven. Maybe he’d been going about things the wrong way. He’d been a blacksmith, a tailor, a monk, a soldier, but had he had the full human experience? He’d never kissed another. Gotten drunk. Eaten steak. Used harsh language. Had a kid (not the normal way, omnipotent man-gods created by thought don’t count.) So he got back to taking care of his Godly business for another 331 years.

He returned on the 26th of February, 1932. He popped out of a woman this time, instead of just appearing like he normally did. There was no need to be punctual, after all, people aren’t completely ordered. He grew up, for real this time, the son of cotton farmers. He spit and cussed and got smacked by his mother for it. He went to see Hank Williams play. He smoked, he drank, he did pills. He burned down half a forest when his truck caught fire. He was afraid of snakes. He played the best songs ever made about Jesus. He was a real man.

Anyway, he’s gone now. Died September 12th. He didn’t get the full hundred years. Living, really living, getting the full human experience, chewed him up pretty well. But he got 81 years. Not a bad run.

Now he’s back in Heaven, he’s got Godly duties to catch up on. There’s a lot that’s happened in the past 81 years and he’s not happy about all of it. I suspect we’ll see some changes. For now, I’m waiting to see George W. Bush get struck down by a guitar thrown from above.

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

Huzzah! Here I am! The 90˚ of right in the triangle of good and evil! How go your dull and dreary lives, lowly mortals? 'Tis I, the Virgin Prince, eccentric visitor from another planet, here to regale you with my tales of grand adventure, debauchery, tragedy, and lechery. Soak your finest silk shirt in 36 ounces of your own drool as you stare slack-jawed at the computer, your eyes locked on to my amazing words, as inseparable as a member of British parliament and a toothless Welsh whore, or Congressman to intern, Republican to oil. Gaze upon my flawless phrasings and priceless predicates and numerous nouns until your brain implodes from sheer incomprehension and your scalp sinks down to your nasal cavities. Or perhaps you'll be spared your mind, if not your sanity, by clawing out your eyes in a clear admission of defeat. Eyes never again to be forced to confront such perfection as the binary beauty of a few effortless keystrokes on my part, smooth as C+++ base molasses, delivered from my digital silver tongue.

Having tucked away my trenchcoat and treading out into the mundane world, disguised as a normal mortal man on his way to a menial job this morning, I came upon a lad as I strolled down the street towards the bus stop. The fellow claimed to recognize me, citing a multitude of experiences in a computer laboratory from high school. His tales of having once bested me at TANK followed by a sound thrashing at Spectre Supreme and an unfulfilled promise of an epic battle of wills and wits between us set in the world of Warcraft 3 left me nodding my head and smiling politely, digging through my pockets for spare change as I tried to move past him.

Quickly he was on the subject of something called a "web-page" and "flash-animations" all made possible through something called an "inter-net". From that point on, his self-contained conversation was of little consequence and was largely forgotten by myself almost upon the very point of hearing it. However, he then made mention of something called a "Blog" which I at first assumed to be a computer game like Pong or Frogger, but later realized was some manner of electronic journal, written by individuals and then made available to the masses. The general public all over the world (except for perhaps China and a few other locales) could read the words of one such as I!

The world could be blessed with my knowledge! My masterful words could be spread across the Earth to all the simple minds of my admirers, old, new, and soon to come. People could sully themselves silly upon reading of my terrific tales as their minds grew forgetful of their bladders. My name could be known across the world, to urine-bathed Inuit, to clicking Nubian tribesman, to scar-eyed German! No longer would my fan-base be limited mostly to a small town of fishermen and bootleggers. I could now be a hero to simple-minded rubes everywhere! I couldn't wait to tell of my discovery to my teammates in the Genius Society of America, surely this gem of knowledge would win me back my Alpha male status from the Lusty Lascivian.

I shook the scruffy lad's hand and walked off, wiping diligently my hand off with my handkerchief for the remainder of the trip to work, where I then washed my hands thrice both before and then after trimming my eyebrows until they were both perfectly even and symmetrical, and jar-collecting my urine. Upon the completion of my shift I returned to the bathroom, shedding my pants and putting on my mask and costume. I leapt out the window, running along air currents towards the hidden mountain lair of the Genius Society.

I was greeted there by Mister Mystere (formally known as Mr. E before a rather nasty battle between him and the lawyers dispatched by National Periodical Publications, nasty buggers, just nasty). I told him of the "inter-net" and the other things I'd been told. Realizing we'd need a computer to access this marvel, Mr. Mystere suggested we try the Computron. I'd forgotten of its existence, the thing had been mothballed in 1972 after it'd been determined that computers were nothing more than a passing fancy. We walked to the old gym-sized building out back which housed the Computron and pried the lock loose from the door. We stared at the massive wall of machinery in front of us.

"Simply amazing." I remarked

"Yes, it was built in the late 60s by one of our charter members, Todd the Mod. He built it over the course of 3 sleepless days after a night of contemplating the possibility of entire universes existing as specks on his fingernails."

"Ah yes, I recall. He used to run around with the X-Beatnik. What were his powers again?"

"Something having to do with the pills he carried. He didn't need to sleep or something."

"Ah, right. What ever happened to him?"

"I'm not sure, the Genius Society stopped hanging around him sometime between when he changed his name to Todd the God and then again to just GOD."

Mister Mystere started shoveling coal into the furnace connected to the machine and the Computron whirred and clicked into action. Spirals spun, glass tubes filled with gas, and old Tesla coils sparked with new life. The computer screen began to display old code from its core programming.

_MOTT THE HOOPLE
MOBY GRAPE
PLASTIC FANTASTIC LOVER
end of line_

Mister Mystere typed in the command to "find internet". Within 10 minutes the screen had loaded. 3 hours later we had found Blogspot.com.

"Amazing." I said to myself, "128 kilobytes of ram, 500 kilobytes of disc space. Is there anything this machine can't do? Surely, any mortal man would kill us for this technology if they knew we had it. Governments would fight wars!"

"I"ve heard the machines they make are even better now," Mister Mystere said, "I've heard they make computers now small enough to fill a small closet."

"Preposterous!"

So that was my day. And now you get to marvel at my wondrous life, thanks to this glorious blog.