The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Saturday Blues
Neosapiens, Neanderthals, and Nincompoops,
I slept a rough night last night, constantly awoken by a trickle of jellybeans tossed at me through the grating of the ventilation shaft leading to my room. The cause? An infestation of goblins living throughout the ducts of my house. First there were rats spreading droppings and Hanta Virus throughout the nooks and crannies of my garage, and now goblins in the air conditioning system. Finally, desperate to get some sleep, I had Bobo the Virgin Chimp plug up my duct grating with some of his home-made adobe. Brushing the jellybeans from my pillow and placing a clothespin on my nose, finally I was able to get some sleep.
I dreamed troublesome, frustrating dreams, one in which I was a cartoon chasing Paris Hilton, trying to get some pants on her, but she continually eluded me, despite my possession of such gadgets as a jet pack, a rocket-powered pogo stick, metal pellet-filled caviar, and a super-magnet. At one point I very nearly succeeded, having gotten one pant leg around her left ankle, but was completely undone as I ran into a fake tunnel entrance painted on the side of a cliff. “Glug glug!” she sounded as she ran off, exposed, leaving a trail of floating currency in her wake, and zipping left and right, crashing parties, uninvited. Finally, I got so fed up with the whole scenario that I just tacked up a sign that said “Paris Season” to a tree. This prompted a whole forest-full of hidden hunters of to jump out and shoot her, many of them equipped, fittingly, with night-vision goggles. Her thin, elongated nose spun around her head a few times until she grabbed it and straightened it on her face, prompting her to comment to me, “You’re De$picable”, an emphasis placed on the S that implied to me that such a word would be spelled with a dollar sign.
The finale of that deplorable dream just caused me to instead be plagued by worse dreams, dreams of goblins running around me and jabbing me with sporks, eating my food, shaving my ape, jumping up and down on my genitals. My sole waking thought was one of getting rid of these deplorable beasts, and I was fully aware of the fact that I would have to crawl through the ducts of my house myself in order to exterminate them, especially now that I am without servant boy. Oh, how I miss having an underfed orphan of indeterminate origin around to do my dirty-work for me. Crawling around in such filthy conditions will no doubt require me to dress in the deplorable manner of a common man, in such detestable garments as jeans and tee shirts. I look so very splendid today, too. Today, I have hair that would make even Kyle MacLachlan jealous.
Looking as splendid as I do, clean-shaven and fresh, it’s a shame I should be wasting my Saturday at work. The things I do out of kindness and greed. I should be out flying a kite, wearing a Green Beret’s cap, flying my kite higher than low-flying planes as I set new records for height, and clutching tightly a bottle of rum while in the company of friends. Perhaps I should be dressed in the dandiest fineries and socializing amongst my comrades, partaking of gin & tonics and martinis, while enjoying the finest examples of what modern film has to offer, namely, Japanese splatter films, and anything featuring a masked luchador. I could be subtly destroying the ecosystem of the Moss Beach tide pools with my chain-smoking, while Mister Mystere and I search out and collect small pebbles shaped like penises. We could be on the road in search of Jonathan Richman, or Rudy Ray Moore, or some other pop-culture hero of men, blasting One Night In Bangkok as we go. Even still, I could be working on more literary masterpieces, brought forth from my own mind. Heaven forbid, I could be fighting crime, standing vigilant on a rooftop somewhere, my trenchcoat billowing majestically in the wind.
I’ll be spending this fine Valentine’s Day at work, surrounded by salesmen salivating for an angry fix, waiting for that naive customer with an open billfold and a lack of knowledge of the market, to whom they can make a sale with a hefty profit for themselves on the side. I suppose it matters not that I’ll be spending this Valentine’s Day without the gentle attentions of a female, Rush Girl is somewhere in Vancouver engaged in the lascivious and lowbrow work of running a kissing booth, hopefully not contracting mouth herpes, or some other dreadful saliva-borne virus, and regardless, feels nothing but disdain towards this annual February holiday. Were I tempted to celebrate this holiday properly for just one time in my life, I suppose I could always make chit-chat with the slender and attractive girl outside running the hot dog stand, whom serves to customer and salesman alike, gratis examples of yet another fine product of Kraut engineering, of which there are many here, along with a side of soda. Not that I’ll be sampling a dog myself, what with my boycott of the American beef industry.
Sitting here, a grumbling in my belly, counting customers and watching sales made, entertained only by the occasional passing glance of an attractive female, some fiddling with the internet, and the occasional washroom trip, in which I can view the neon green by-product of a Rockstar breakfast. To entertain myself, I’ve taken to thinking in Vietnam terminology, counting every hour as “x days and a wake-up”. The sun beats down too heavy from between clouds too sparsely spaced, causing myself, naturally a creature of the night, to seek refuge within the cool dimness of the showroom. I sit and covet my keyboard with the intensity of an owl on a shiny metal button. The glory of my written word is my only escape.
Another 6 hours of this, then I can return home to a pile of unwashed laundry, a necessity to pack, a room that needs cleaning, a series of phone calls that need to be made, arrangements to be carried out, a sink-full of dishes, a depressing review of the current state of my finances, a most certain return to the bottle, and the somewhat appealing-sounding extermination of every goblin from all the crawl-ways and ducts of my lair. Then sleep, and a brand new day.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I slept a rough night last night, constantly awoken by a trickle of jellybeans tossed at me through the grating of the ventilation shaft leading to my room. The cause? An infestation of goblins living throughout the ducts of my house. First there were rats spreading droppings and Hanta Virus throughout the nooks and crannies of my garage, and now goblins in the air conditioning system. Finally, desperate to get some sleep, I had Bobo the Virgin Chimp plug up my duct grating with some of his home-made adobe. Brushing the jellybeans from my pillow and placing a clothespin on my nose, finally I was able to get some sleep.
I dreamed troublesome, frustrating dreams, one in which I was a cartoon chasing Paris Hilton, trying to get some pants on her, but she continually eluded me, despite my possession of such gadgets as a jet pack, a rocket-powered pogo stick, metal pellet-filled caviar, and a super-magnet. At one point I very nearly succeeded, having gotten one pant leg around her left ankle, but was completely undone as I ran into a fake tunnel entrance painted on the side of a cliff. “Glug glug!” she sounded as she ran off, exposed, leaving a trail of floating currency in her wake, and zipping left and right, crashing parties, uninvited. Finally, I got so fed up with the whole scenario that I just tacked up a sign that said “Paris Season” to a tree. This prompted a whole forest-full of hidden hunters of to jump out and shoot her, many of them equipped, fittingly, with night-vision goggles. Her thin, elongated nose spun around her head a few times until she grabbed it and straightened it on her face, prompting her to comment to me, “You’re De$picable”, an emphasis placed on the S that implied to me that such a word would be spelled with a dollar sign.
The finale of that deplorable dream just caused me to instead be plagued by worse dreams, dreams of goblins running around me and jabbing me with sporks, eating my food, shaving my ape, jumping up and down on my genitals. My sole waking thought was one of getting rid of these deplorable beasts, and I was fully aware of the fact that I would have to crawl through the ducts of my house myself in order to exterminate them, especially now that I am without servant boy. Oh, how I miss having an underfed orphan of indeterminate origin around to do my dirty-work for me. Crawling around in such filthy conditions will no doubt require me to dress in the deplorable manner of a common man, in such detestable garments as jeans and tee shirts. I look so very splendid today, too. Today, I have hair that would make even Kyle MacLachlan jealous.
Looking as splendid as I do, clean-shaven and fresh, it’s a shame I should be wasting my Saturday at work. The things I do out of kindness and greed. I should be out flying a kite, wearing a Green Beret’s cap, flying my kite higher than low-flying planes as I set new records for height, and clutching tightly a bottle of rum while in the company of friends. Perhaps I should be dressed in the dandiest fineries and socializing amongst my comrades, partaking of gin & tonics and martinis, while enjoying the finest examples of what modern film has to offer, namely, Japanese splatter films, and anything featuring a masked luchador. I could be subtly destroying the ecosystem of the Moss Beach tide pools with my chain-smoking, while Mister Mystere and I search out and collect small pebbles shaped like penises. We could be on the road in search of Jonathan Richman, or Rudy Ray Moore, or some other pop-culture hero of men, blasting One Night In Bangkok as we go. Even still, I could be working on more literary masterpieces, brought forth from my own mind. Heaven forbid, I could be fighting crime, standing vigilant on a rooftop somewhere, my trenchcoat billowing majestically in the wind.
I’ll be spending this fine Valentine’s Day at work, surrounded by salesmen salivating for an angry fix, waiting for that naive customer with an open billfold and a lack of knowledge of the market, to whom they can make a sale with a hefty profit for themselves on the side. I suppose it matters not that I’ll be spending this Valentine’s Day without the gentle attentions of a female, Rush Girl is somewhere in Vancouver engaged in the lascivious and lowbrow work of running a kissing booth, hopefully not contracting mouth herpes, or some other dreadful saliva-borne virus, and regardless, feels nothing but disdain towards this annual February holiday. Were I tempted to celebrate this holiday properly for just one time in my life, I suppose I could always make chit-chat with the slender and attractive girl outside running the hot dog stand, whom serves to customer and salesman alike, gratis examples of yet another fine product of Kraut engineering, of which there are many here, along with a side of soda. Not that I’ll be sampling a dog myself, what with my boycott of the American beef industry.
Sitting here, a grumbling in my belly, counting customers and watching sales made, entertained only by the occasional passing glance of an attractive female, some fiddling with the internet, and the occasional washroom trip, in which I can view the neon green by-product of a Rockstar breakfast. To entertain myself, I’ve taken to thinking in Vietnam terminology, counting every hour as “x days and a wake-up”. The sun beats down too heavy from between clouds too sparsely spaced, causing myself, naturally a creature of the night, to seek refuge within the cool dimness of the showroom. I sit and covet my keyboard with the intensity of an owl on a shiny metal button. The glory of my written word is my only escape.
Another 6 hours of this, then I can return home to a pile of unwashed laundry, a necessity to pack, a room that needs cleaning, a series of phone calls that need to be made, arrangements to be carried out, a sink-full of dishes, a depressing review of the current state of my finances, a most certain return to the bottle, and the somewhat appealing-sounding extermination of every goblin from all the crawl-ways and ducts of my lair. Then sleep, and a brand new day.
The Virgin Prince
