The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
The Time Is Almost Nigh
Slack-jawed simians,
Two days now left until I make my way through the spaceways to Virgo 13, stopping first in the not quite as distant, but equally strange land of Canada. There, Rush Girl and I have a bottle of Vodka to drink between the two of us, the brand of which has since been discontinued for causing excessive hairiness in Russian lads. If you think about it, that's quite a feat. The other bottle I picked up, a discontinued rum by the name of Cabana Boy, has similarly been pulled off the market for complaints from the Chinese government that it caused poor eyesight. Representatives of the company claimed that an inordinately high amount of squinting was not unusual at all, however, United States retailers decided that the sugary treat just wasn't worth the risk, even if it did boast a half-naked boy in shorts on the bottle. This second bottle, will be sent to the Carolling Canuck, down in the sea-breeze swept streets of Santa Cruz merely as a token of appreciation for good friends and fine hospitality. Should she choose to share the bottle with The Red Rightwing, well, that's her own decision.
Two days now. Two days. I can't believe it. The preparation for this trip has been absolutely hellish, nightmarish at the least, and when I'm finally in the soft, sweet-smelling, and anchor-tattooed arms of Rush Girl herself, it'll be a large burden free from my shoulders. I despise airports and the unreliability of commercial flight. Airport security and Canadian Customs, I like even less, as I'm generally given the third degree at every passing, regardless of the dignified way in which I dress, my princely good looks, and endearing smile. While I’ll be the first to say that camouflage-clad, automatic rifle-toting soldiers are completely out of place in civilian airports, the thing that puzzles me the most is the canteens the soldiers carry at their sides. Is there really such a concern of soldiers dying of thirst in airports? Do commanding officers go to sleep at night with fears of their charges not being able to make the 50-foot trek to soda machine in the Burger King near the entrance to B Concourse?
I must say, I do hate seeing men in full military uniforms in civilian areas, such as the man up the block from me that wears full Marine fatigues to take out the trash. It’s creepy and unsettling. Such as the time Rush Girl and I saw police officer playing with a monstrous rifle, from the looks of it, automatic, in the parking lot of the Tanforan shopping mall. That was in very poor taste. It was almost as distasteful as the lads that dressed as gang-banging thugs (in masks), paramilitary soldiers (in masks), and terrorists (in masks) brandishing presumably (and hopefully) fake rifles last Halloween. While I may be a wholehearted supporter of first-amendment rights, there are some things that I think just shouldn’t be done. There was palpable level of tension and uneasiness in the night-air of Santa Cruz as a result of these masked men very visibly brandishing guns. We were left with no recourse but merely to hope that these were simply costumes. Perhaps this may come off as paranoia to you, but then, I doubt you went to high school in a town where on one particularly memorable Halloween, a group of men dressed as ninjas robbed a bank not 3 blocks from us using very real katana blades. This is all quite true.
There are some common misconceptions about Canada, one of which is that the country is just like America, but with a different name. The truth is, though remarkably similar on the surface, so much so that it would not be difficult for a Yankee or Canuck to make the transition from one to the other, the remarkable differences lie in the subtleties. There are no debit/credit cards in Canada, merely one or the other. Liquor is incredibly inconvenient to buy, while marijuana is conversely easier to come by. The images of flashing men on crosswalk street signs in Canada are decidedly humorous compared to our own. Pizza is cheap and easy to come by in Canada, while a good burrito or deli sandwich is near impossible to find. In addition to English, Canadian government documents are usually also available in French and at least three different Asian dialects, while Spanish is strangely absent, and Tagalog, unheard of. There is universal free health care in Canada, while here in America, such a concept produces hate-filled rants about communism from rightwing disc jockeys.
Another huge misconception is that Canadians are friendly. This is a half-truth. People are generally more friendly in Canada than here, and the streets of their big cities feel safe and non-threatening, however, Canada too, has it’s share of jerks. There are men I’ve met in my short time there that would sooner grunt or stay silent than talk to you. There are others that delight in insulting Chelsea Clinton and make bold statements of lascivious acts they’d performed on her mother, all without any sort of provocation. There’s a sometimes subtle, but generally obvious case of nationalistic penis-envy where Canada is concerned. Whether deserved or not, there is a delightment had by Canadians in the mocking of America and her sons and daughters, a more subtle tone of which can even be sometimes viewed on their government web-sites. Passive aggression runs rampant in Canada. Perhaps it’s our own fault for picking on our northern cousins for so long, and it’s no lie that there is plenty to be made fun of here in the U.S., especially right now with the current Fuhrer in power of the country and a ‘roided grab-ass lascivian running California. Still, Canadians aren’t that bad, Oregonians are bigger assholes by far, their aggression far less passive in their treatment of Californians, their animosity 10 times that of the San Franciscan that hates the New Yorker.
I suppose that San Franciscan would be me.
I’m sidetracking. The point is, I’ll be glad to be in Canada. Weather permitting, I’ll be on a plane a few hours from now, this time tomorrow, sipping soda, and with a little luck, watching an in-flight movie, hopefully not a J-Lo vehicle, on United Airlines, where it’s always okay to undress the stewardesses with your eyes as you savor a rum and coke. Bobo the Virgin Chimp won’t be coming along with me, rather, he’ll be staying comfy in my Fortress of Fortitude, along with the Virgin robots, and my neighbor, Bob, who’ll be in charge of looking after the place. I leave the safety of the world in the capable hands of my ape and robots, and the cleanliness of my estate and the feeding of my ape to Bob. Bob works for a construction company I think, at the very least I know he owns a truck, and I believe he enjoys fishing and drinking beer. In return for watching my lair, I’ve allowed him access to refrigerator, as long as he stays away from my vials of evil D.N.A. next to the dairy compartment. Also, I made him promise not to touch my video collection nor the third row of my bookshelf.
I must admit to feeling a slight amount of guilt in leaving my ape, however, I am hoping for some gentle times with Rush Girl, and Bobo’s propensity for feces-flinging and public displays of self-gratification at inappropriate times would, I think, hurt the mood. Any grunting heard at any point from her modest abode I wish to come from none other than I, and even without an ape present, I know it’ll take all of my effort to get Rush Girl to dress in the Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera-inspired outfits I have planned for her. Oh, but how splendid she will look in pigtails with white, puffy fuzz-balls in her hair! I must say, I’m quite looking forward to this trip. I can barely hold my hands steady to pack away the crotchless Wonder Woman outfit!
Drat! That’s the alarm! I must take my leave of you now, gents and ladies, it seems the forces of evil need combating once more. And while I can not promise that you’ll all be in my thoughts, I’m certain that I’ll be in yours, and that is good enough for me.
Where are my pants? Never can find them when I need them. Did they stretch?! Oh wait, these are Kelly Osbourne’s. That explains the ample bosom-room in my frilly shirt. Ah, here they are. Where are my keys?
I simply must run! Until next time, a good day to you all!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Two days now left until I make my way through the spaceways to Virgo 13, stopping first in the not quite as distant, but equally strange land of Canada. There, Rush Girl and I have a bottle of Vodka to drink between the two of us, the brand of which has since been discontinued for causing excessive hairiness in Russian lads. If you think about it, that's quite a feat. The other bottle I picked up, a discontinued rum by the name of Cabana Boy, has similarly been pulled off the market for complaints from the Chinese government that it caused poor eyesight. Representatives of the company claimed that an inordinately high amount of squinting was not unusual at all, however, United States retailers decided that the sugary treat just wasn't worth the risk, even if it did boast a half-naked boy in shorts on the bottle. This second bottle, will be sent to the Carolling Canuck, down in the sea-breeze swept streets of Santa Cruz merely as a token of appreciation for good friends and fine hospitality. Should she choose to share the bottle with The Red Rightwing, well, that's her own decision.
Two days now. Two days. I can't believe it. The preparation for this trip has been absolutely hellish, nightmarish at the least, and when I'm finally in the soft, sweet-smelling, and anchor-tattooed arms of Rush Girl herself, it'll be a large burden free from my shoulders. I despise airports and the unreliability of commercial flight. Airport security and Canadian Customs, I like even less, as I'm generally given the third degree at every passing, regardless of the dignified way in which I dress, my princely good looks, and endearing smile. While I’ll be the first to say that camouflage-clad, automatic rifle-toting soldiers are completely out of place in civilian airports, the thing that puzzles me the most is the canteens the soldiers carry at their sides. Is there really such a concern of soldiers dying of thirst in airports? Do commanding officers go to sleep at night with fears of their charges not being able to make the 50-foot trek to soda machine in the Burger King near the entrance to B Concourse?
I must say, I do hate seeing men in full military uniforms in civilian areas, such as the man up the block from me that wears full Marine fatigues to take out the trash. It’s creepy and unsettling. Such as the time Rush Girl and I saw police officer playing with a monstrous rifle, from the looks of it, automatic, in the parking lot of the Tanforan shopping mall. That was in very poor taste. It was almost as distasteful as the lads that dressed as gang-banging thugs (in masks), paramilitary soldiers (in masks), and terrorists (in masks) brandishing presumably (and hopefully) fake rifles last Halloween. While I may be a wholehearted supporter of first-amendment rights, there are some things that I think just shouldn’t be done. There was palpable level of tension and uneasiness in the night-air of Santa Cruz as a result of these masked men very visibly brandishing guns. We were left with no recourse but merely to hope that these were simply costumes. Perhaps this may come off as paranoia to you, but then, I doubt you went to high school in a town where on one particularly memorable Halloween, a group of men dressed as ninjas robbed a bank not 3 blocks from us using very real katana blades. This is all quite true.
There are some common misconceptions about Canada, one of which is that the country is just like America, but with a different name. The truth is, though remarkably similar on the surface, so much so that it would not be difficult for a Yankee or Canuck to make the transition from one to the other, the remarkable differences lie in the subtleties. There are no debit/credit cards in Canada, merely one or the other. Liquor is incredibly inconvenient to buy, while marijuana is conversely easier to come by. The images of flashing men on crosswalk street signs in Canada are decidedly humorous compared to our own. Pizza is cheap and easy to come by in Canada, while a good burrito or deli sandwich is near impossible to find. In addition to English, Canadian government documents are usually also available in French and at least three different Asian dialects, while Spanish is strangely absent, and Tagalog, unheard of. There is universal free health care in Canada, while here in America, such a concept produces hate-filled rants about communism from rightwing disc jockeys.
Another huge misconception is that Canadians are friendly. This is a half-truth. People are generally more friendly in Canada than here, and the streets of their big cities feel safe and non-threatening, however, Canada too, has it’s share of jerks. There are men I’ve met in my short time there that would sooner grunt or stay silent than talk to you. There are others that delight in insulting Chelsea Clinton and make bold statements of lascivious acts they’d performed on her mother, all without any sort of provocation. There’s a sometimes subtle, but generally obvious case of nationalistic penis-envy where Canada is concerned. Whether deserved or not, there is a delightment had by Canadians in the mocking of America and her sons and daughters, a more subtle tone of which can even be sometimes viewed on their government web-sites. Passive aggression runs rampant in Canada. Perhaps it’s our own fault for picking on our northern cousins for so long, and it’s no lie that there is plenty to be made fun of here in the U.S., especially right now with the current Fuhrer in power of the country and a ‘roided grab-ass lascivian running California. Still, Canadians aren’t that bad, Oregonians are bigger assholes by far, their aggression far less passive in their treatment of Californians, their animosity 10 times that of the San Franciscan that hates the New Yorker.
I suppose that San Franciscan would be me.
I’m sidetracking. The point is, I’ll be glad to be in Canada. Weather permitting, I’ll be on a plane a few hours from now, this time tomorrow, sipping soda, and with a little luck, watching an in-flight movie, hopefully not a J-Lo vehicle, on United Airlines, where it’s always okay to undress the stewardesses with your eyes as you savor a rum and coke. Bobo the Virgin Chimp won’t be coming along with me, rather, he’ll be staying comfy in my Fortress of Fortitude, along with the Virgin robots, and my neighbor, Bob, who’ll be in charge of looking after the place. I leave the safety of the world in the capable hands of my ape and robots, and the cleanliness of my estate and the feeding of my ape to Bob. Bob works for a construction company I think, at the very least I know he owns a truck, and I believe he enjoys fishing and drinking beer. In return for watching my lair, I’ve allowed him access to refrigerator, as long as he stays away from my vials of evil D.N.A. next to the dairy compartment. Also, I made him promise not to touch my video collection nor the third row of my bookshelf.
I must admit to feeling a slight amount of guilt in leaving my ape, however, I am hoping for some gentle times with Rush Girl, and Bobo’s propensity for feces-flinging and public displays of self-gratification at inappropriate times would, I think, hurt the mood. Any grunting heard at any point from her modest abode I wish to come from none other than I, and even without an ape present, I know it’ll take all of my effort to get Rush Girl to dress in the Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera-inspired outfits I have planned for her. Oh, but how splendid she will look in pigtails with white, puffy fuzz-balls in her hair! I must say, I’m quite looking forward to this trip. I can barely hold my hands steady to pack away the crotchless Wonder Woman outfit!
Drat! That’s the alarm! I must take my leave of you now, gents and ladies, it seems the forces of evil need combating once more. And while I can not promise that you’ll all be in my thoughts, I’m certain that I’ll be in yours, and that is good enough for me.
Where are my pants? Never can find them when I need them. Did they stretch?! Oh wait, these are Kelly Osbourne’s. That explains the ample bosom-room in my frilly shirt. Ah, here they are. Where are my keys?
I simply must run! Until next time, a good day to you all!
The Virgin Prince
