The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
How Was Your Weekend?
Valued Friends,
I woke up from a very strange dream this morning, one involving Britney Spears as the principal villain. Though I can't recall the specifics, I do remember that she killed a bunch of people and had acquired the ability to change shape, going at will from human to plastic doll. In the end, revealed for her murderous crimes, she faked her own death, locking herself inside a trailer and setting it on fire. Her mother merely sat there and watched from the comfort of a picnic bench as the trailer was consumed by flame, finally exploding and throwing free a small Barbie-like doll. No one gave much notice to the toy, save for I, who pulled the arms and legs from it. Metal wires snapped from inside the limbs as I tore the beast apart, ending Britney's reign of terror, then discarding the pieces in flames as her menace melted away forever.
My Rockin' Chicken alarm clock sounded and I was snatched from Nemo's realm, dragged back into the world of the waking. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stood up, stumbling to the chicken alarm clock and silencing it with a firm tap on the top of it's head. From there I dragged myself into the living room and grabbed the tape of music that good ole' Rush Girl had sent me, returning to my room and placing my tape in the stereo by my bed, playing it at a volume loud enough to block out the sound of the Pink, Dixie Chicks, and electronic dance music coming from my sister's bedroom. What wouldn't I give to instead be assaulted by the sound of Bach, Beethoven, or Wagner for a change? Or even, god forbid, the swinging sounds of Vic Mizzy.
I opened my window to let in the fresh light of a new day, the sun smiled down on me from up above, pelting me with raisins. I pulled away from the window and began to dress myself, blue birds flying in and assisting me, pulling my dress shirt onto my back, and then, clutching my necktie in their beaks and wrapping it around my neck. They do this everyday, save for the days of glorious hangovers, when they keep their distance on the power lines outside. One tried to assist me once on such a day, but asphyxiated and fell to the floor upon flying into the stream of gaseous vodka emanating from my mouth. On the days of hangovers, I generally throw on my tie in the comfort of a moving public bus on my way to work, my hair generally resembles Christopher Walken's.
Today, as I waited for the bus, Puttin’ On The Ritz played through my head, and I chatted with a girl fresh out of high school, whom may or may not have been legal, considering all the flirting she does. It wasn't a pressing concern. She continued to talk to me throughout most of the bus ride, interrupted only by another male on the bus that tried to take over the conversation with her, a thinly veiled attempt to get in her pants. Not that I was bothered much.
My morning newspaper was strangely absent from my second bus stop, and the bus I attempted to board tried to drive off without me. My comic-reading on the second bus was interrupted by a socially-awkward looking fellow, who asked to read one of mine, and then questioned me about comics and manga until he eventually started talking about "W”’s appearance on television. I myself was too tired to truly pay attention, still exhausted from my crazy weekend.
I'd left with allies for Santa Cruz late Saturday night, crammed with four others into the Mysteremobile, a car truly meant for two. Mister Mystere himself was at the wheel, I sat beside him, my face pressed against glass. In the back sat The Lusty Lascivian, Immoral B, and Dave Cane, who'd been drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon since 1:00 in the afternoon. His temperament was irritable and belligerent, his words slurred. Immoral B, by contrast, sat in the back polishing his collection of toothbrushes, lovingly sliding each one into the toothbrush holsters on his utility belt. The Lusty Lascivian merely laid there, eyeing others' food and chugging deeply from a bottle of whiskey that was shared between the three of them.
The journey was a long and semi-torturous one, the crew in the back complaining loudly. I made myself useful trying to tune in a decent radio station, but there were none to be had, the hills blocked out the radio waves. We settled temporarily for Spanish dance music until Immoral B started gouging out his ears with a found spoon. Our only salvation came in the form of Donovan, whose song was over as quickly as it started. Then the car was filled once more with the sound of grumbling from the back.
Finally, we made it to our intended destination, the lair of The Red Rightwing and The Carolling Canuck. They fed us well on culinary delights culled from the pages of cookbooks reserved for kings from kingdoms long gone with names long forgotten, in addition to protein packs and spirits bartered from the maenads themselves. Our hunger sated, we journeyed outward, out to a place of karaoke and bowling. Upon arriving however, no Taco was sung, no Falco hummed, no B-52s horribly warbled through. We were refused at the door by a small, shifty man, who spoke with the sound of rusty nails grinding together, and whose forehead ended where our kneecaps began.
My inebriated friends walked off, hopes crushed, but not I. I smelled something amiss, something awry, and it would require investigation before I could simply walk away. As my allies headed off in search of alcohol and dancing, I ducked around the corner of the building, pulling on a fake beard and a Bubba Gump hat. Quickly I walked past the man at the door, hurrying inside where I was immediately assaulted by the ear shattering sounds of the piss-poor songs of Grease, sung flat and out of key by the drunken patrons of the bar.
“What would prompt the doorman to turn away such a fine young group of Americans, plus one Canadian, such as us? Surely, there’s something they’re hiding.” I thought to myself as I wandered through the neon-lit building. The karaoke bar checked out, it was filled with eardrum shattering wails and the song listings contained an inordinately large amount of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, but seemed relatively normal otherwise. The bowling alley attached to the bar likewise seemed normal, though the players seemed to be a stiffer lot than usual. The arcade, too, was inconspicuous, though the selection of games was weak. Absent were the Tron machines of my youth, the Xybots, the Double Dragon, the Rampage, the Dragon’s Lair. Even Journey The Videogame was sadly not present.
The place was dull, certainly, but seemed to be normal in all respects that mattered. I had decided to take my leave and catch up with my friends when the thirteen rum and Jolts I’d gulped down reminded me of their presence in my system. Like angry midgets jumping up and down on my bladder, the alcohol made clear to me that it wished to be set free from it’s captivity inside me. I ran to the bathroom, anxious to send the offending presence from my insides to it’s freedom through porcelain passageways.
The business at hand taken care of, I readied myself to leave, when I noticed a closed stall with an “out of order sign” on it. Strange, I thought, in a place so obviously upkept. I opened the closed door with a quarter pulled from my pocket. The latrine certainly LOOKED functional, and for that matter, was cleaner than most White House bathrooms (if you ignore the coke), almost as if it had never been used. My suspicion prompted me to reach for the flush handle.
The floor fell out from under me, sending me tumbling, falling downwards through a small shaft and landing firmly on packed dirt. I lifted my head up to view my surroundings, but could not see them past the men in red robes surrounding me. Dim light reflected slightly from the iron skeleton masks they wore. I recognized their type. The Crimson Skulls, a small, cult-like movement dedicated to returning rule of the U.S. to Britain. They funded their organization through the sale of bootleg Harry Potter movies and books, some of which delved into the pornographic in a strange boarding-school-fetish kind of way. Trouble brewing.
“My brothers!” a leader cried out from among them, “We have an intruder among us! Seize him!”
Quickly there was a multitude of arms around me and hands gripping as the robed men swarmed me. They held fast, keeping me firmly in place.
“Nay!” I cried, “I’ve come to join you my brothers! I yearn for daily tea-time and English muffins at breakfast! I crave the forceful decision-making of Parliament and the subtle beauty acheived from the order of Robert’s Rules! Long have I wished for currency beautified with images of the Queen! I’m offended by the lack of unnecessary “U”s present in the spellings of American words! Please, take me among your ranks!”
“Very well,” the leader said somberly, “if you truly wish to join us, the intensity of your beliefs will allow you to survive our test of strength. BRING OUT BIG BEAR!”
From the back of the room, the sound of grunting and rustling became noticeable, and grew louder, no doubt the cause of the noise moving closer. The robed men released me and moved away to the back of the room, putting a good amount of distance between us. As the robed men cleared away, I saw why. Advancing toward me, the beast was none other than a growling, drooling Barbara Bush, dressed in skintight spandex with titanium kneepads and shoulderpads covered in corse, dark fur.
Needless to say, the beast lunged at me and we engaged in violent, brutal struggle. Ten minutes we fought, a messy, exhausting battle, my beautious face mere inches away from her blood-craving maw, her snapping teeth shooting spittle at my fair visage. Finally, I was able to crawl behind her and direct pressure on her windpipe with a firm grapple, until she eventually passed out. I stood tall over the hulken form sprawled out on the ground, wiping the blood from my lip and the sweat from my brow which trickled downwards into my face mask.
“Tranq the beast!” the leader cried, prompting two darts to be shot into the rump of Barbara Bush.
“He has passed the test. Gentlemen, remove your hoods!”
The robed men all around lowered their hoods, revealing powdered wigs sitting on top of their skull masked heads.
“I’ve fooled you all!” I cried at the robed men, “I’m a flag-waving, patriotic nephew of my Uncle Sam! And you’ve provided me with the means to fight your society of dandys!”
Quickly I pulled some amyl nitrate from a pouch in my belt and placed it under Barbara Bush’s nose. “Be seeing you!” I cried as I jumped up swiftly, grabbing for the ceiling and climbing my way back up the shaft I had fallen down through. Below me, I could hear the screams of the robed men as a frothing Barbara Bush tore through them. Their cries for mercy merely made me climb faster. Back, back into the bathroom from whence I’d came. Out the bathroom door I went, forcing it open with an Albertson’s card, due to a defective doorknob.
I was once more left standing on the cool, Santa Cruz streets, without purpose. I supposed it would probably be best to return to my friends, and so I did, The Carolling Canuck and I dancing into the wee hours to such classic hits as “Back That Ass Up”. Finally, our reserves of energy exhausted, and our money transmuted into consumed vodka drinks, we returned home, to rest, to dream, to ready ourselves for a new day.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I woke up from a very strange dream this morning, one involving Britney Spears as the principal villain. Though I can't recall the specifics, I do remember that she killed a bunch of people and had acquired the ability to change shape, going at will from human to plastic doll. In the end, revealed for her murderous crimes, she faked her own death, locking herself inside a trailer and setting it on fire. Her mother merely sat there and watched from the comfort of a picnic bench as the trailer was consumed by flame, finally exploding and throwing free a small Barbie-like doll. No one gave much notice to the toy, save for I, who pulled the arms and legs from it. Metal wires snapped from inside the limbs as I tore the beast apart, ending Britney's reign of terror, then discarding the pieces in flames as her menace melted away forever.
My Rockin' Chicken alarm clock sounded and I was snatched from Nemo's realm, dragged back into the world of the waking. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stood up, stumbling to the chicken alarm clock and silencing it with a firm tap on the top of it's head. From there I dragged myself into the living room and grabbed the tape of music that good ole' Rush Girl had sent me, returning to my room and placing my tape in the stereo by my bed, playing it at a volume loud enough to block out the sound of the Pink, Dixie Chicks, and electronic dance music coming from my sister's bedroom. What wouldn't I give to instead be assaulted by the sound of Bach, Beethoven, or Wagner for a change? Or even, god forbid, the swinging sounds of Vic Mizzy.
I opened my window to let in the fresh light of a new day, the sun smiled down on me from up above, pelting me with raisins. I pulled away from the window and began to dress myself, blue birds flying in and assisting me, pulling my dress shirt onto my back, and then, clutching my necktie in their beaks and wrapping it around my neck. They do this everyday, save for the days of glorious hangovers, when they keep their distance on the power lines outside. One tried to assist me once on such a day, but asphyxiated and fell to the floor upon flying into the stream of gaseous vodka emanating from my mouth. On the days of hangovers, I generally throw on my tie in the comfort of a moving public bus on my way to work, my hair generally resembles Christopher Walken's.
Today, as I waited for the bus, Puttin’ On The Ritz played through my head, and I chatted with a girl fresh out of high school, whom may or may not have been legal, considering all the flirting she does. It wasn't a pressing concern. She continued to talk to me throughout most of the bus ride, interrupted only by another male on the bus that tried to take over the conversation with her, a thinly veiled attempt to get in her pants. Not that I was bothered much.
My morning newspaper was strangely absent from my second bus stop, and the bus I attempted to board tried to drive off without me. My comic-reading on the second bus was interrupted by a socially-awkward looking fellow, who asked to read one of mine, and then questioned me about comics and manga until he eventually started talking about "W”’s appearance on television. I myself was too tired to truly pay attention, still exhausted from my crazy weekend.
I'd left with allies for Santa Cruz late Saturday night, crammed with four others into the Mysteremobile, a car truly meant for two. Mister Mystere himself was at the wheel, I sat beside him, my face pressed against glass. In the back sat The Lusty Lascivian, Immoral B, and Dave Cane, who'd been drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon since 1:00 in the afternoon. His temperament was irritable and belligerent, his words slurred. Immoral B, by contrast, sat in the back polishing his collection of toothbrushes, lovingly sliding each one into the toothbrush holsters on his utility belt. The Lusty Lascivian merely laid there, eyeing others' food and chugging deeply from a bottle of whiskey that was shared between the three of them.
The journey was a long and semi-torturous one, the crew in the back complaining loudly. I made myself useful trying to tune in a decent radio station, but there were none to be had, the hills blocked out the radio waves. We settled temporarily for Spanish dance music until Immoral B started gouging out his ears with a found spoon. Our only salvation came in the form of Donovan, whose song was over as quickly as it started. Then the car was filled once more with the sound of grumbling from the back.
Finally, we made it to our intended destination, the lair of The Red Rightwing and The Carolling Canuck. They fed us well on culinary delights culled from the pages of cookbooks reserved for kings from kingdoms long gone with names long forgotten, in addition to protein packs and spirits bartered from the maenads themselves. Our hunger sated, we journeyed outward, out to a place of karaoke and bowling. Upon arriving however, no Taco was sung, no Falco hummed, no B-52s horribly warbled through. We were refused at the door by a small, shifty man, who spoke with the sound of rusty nails grinding together, and whose forehead ended where our kneecaps began.
My inebriated friends walked off, hopes crushed, but not I. I smelled something amiss, something awry, and it would require investigation before I could simply walk away. As my allies headed off in search of alcohol and dancing, I ducked around the corner of the building, pulling on a fake beard and a Bubba Gump hat. Quickly I walked past the man at the door, hurrying inside where I was immediately assaulted by the ear shattering sounds of the piss-poor songs of Grease, sung flat and out of key by the drunken patrons of the bar.
“What would prompt the doorman to turn away such a fine young group of Americans, plus one Canadian, such as us? Surely, there’s something they’re hiding.” I thought to myself as I wandered through the neon-lit building. The karaoke bar checked out, it was filled with eardrum shattering wails and the song listings contained an inordinately large amount of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, but seemed relatively normal otherwise. The bowling alley attached to the bar likewise seemed normal, though the players seemed to be a stiffer lot than usual. The arcade, too, was inconspicuous, though the selection of games was weak. Absent were the Tron machines of my youth, the Xybots, the Double Dragon, the Rampage, the Dragon’s Lair. Even Journey The Videogame was sadly not present.
The place was dull, certainly, but seemed to be normal in all respects that mattered. I had decided to take my leave and catch up with my friends when the thirteen rum and Jolts I’d gulped down reminded me of their presence in my system. Like angry midgets jumping up and down on my bladder, the alcohol made clear to me that it wished to be set free from it’s captivity inside me. I ran to the bathroom, anxious to send the offending presence from my insides to it’s freedom through porcelain passageways.
The business at hand taken care of, I readied myself to leave, when I noticed a closed stall with an “out of order sign” on it. Strange, I thought, in a place so obviously upkept. I opened the closed door with a quarter pulled from my pocket. The latrine certainly LOOKED functional, and for that matter, was cleaner than most White House bathrooms (if you ignore the coke), almost as if it had never been used. My suspicion prompted me to reach for the flush handle.
The floor fell out from under me, sending me tumbling, falling downwards through a small shaft and landing firmly on packed dirt. I lifted my head up to view my surroundings, but could not see them past the men in red robes surrounding me. Dim light reflected slightly from the iron skeleton masks they wore. I recognized their type. The Crimson Skulls, a small, cult-like movement dedicated to returning rule of the U.S. to Britain. They funded their organization through the sale of bootleg Harry Potter movies and books, some of which delved into the pornographic in a strange boarding-school-fetish kind of way. Trouble brewing.
“My brothers!” a leader cried out from among them, “We have an intruder among us! Seize him!”
Quickly there was a multitude of arms around me and hands gripping as the robed men swarmed me. They held fast, keeping me firmly in place.
“Nay!” I cried, “I’ve come to join you my brothers! I yearn for daily tea-time and English muffins at breakfast! I crave the forceful decision-making of Parliament and the subtle beauty acheived from the order of Robert’s Rules! Long have I wished for currency beautified with images of the Queen! I’m offended by the lack of unnecessary “U”s present in the spellings of American words! Please, take me among your ranks!”
“Very well,” the leader said somberly, “if you truly wish to join us, the intensity of your beliefs will allow you to survive our test of strength. BRING OUT BIG BEAR!”
From the back of the room, the sound of grunting and rustling became noticeable, and grew louder, no doubt the cause of the noise moving closer. The robed men released me and moved away to the back of the room, putting a good amount of distance between us. As the robed men cleared away, I saw why. Advancing toward me, the beast was none other than a growling, drooling Barbara Bush, dressed in skintight spandex with titanium kneepads and shoulderpads covered in corse, dark fur.
Needless to say, the beast lunged at me and we engaged in violent, brutal struggle. Ten minutes we fought, a messy, exhausting battle, my beautious face mere inches away from her blood-craving maw, her snapping teeth shooting spittle at my fair visage. Finally, I was able to crawl behind her and direct pressure on her windpipe with a firm grapple, until she eventually passed out. I stood tall over the hulken form sprawled out on the ground, wiping the blood from my lip and the sweat from my brow which trickled downwards into my face mask.
“Tranq the beast!” the leader cried, prompting two darts to be shot into the rump of Barbara Bush.
“He has passed the test. Gentlemen, remove your hoods!”
The robed men all around lowered their hoods, revealing powdered wigs sitting on top of their skull masked heads.
“I’ve fooled you all!” I cried at the robed men, “I’m a flag-waving, patriotic nephew of my Uncle Sam! And you’ve provided me with the means to fight your society of dandys!”
Quickly I pulled some amyl nitrate from a pouch in my belt and placed it under Barbara Bush’s nose. “Be seeing you!” I cried as I jumped up swiftly, grabbing for the ceiling and climbing my way back up the shaft I had fallen down through. Below me, I could hear the screams of the robed men as a frothing Barbara Bush tore through them. Their cries for mercy merely made me climb faster. Back, back into the bathroom from whence I’d came. Out the bathroom door I went, forcing it open with an Albertson’s card, due to a defective doorknob.
I was once more left standing on the cool, Santa Cruz streets, without purpose. I supposed it would probably be best to return to my friends, and so I did, The Carolling Canuck and I dancing into the wee hours to such classic hits as “Back That Ass Up”. Finally, our reserves of energy exhausted, and our money transmuted into consumed vodka drinks, we returned home, to rest, to dream, to ready ourselves for a new day.
The Virgin Prince
