The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Absence and Tax Time
To my many enthusiasts,
I never seem to be able to write lately, always being so busy, and my page is sadly left unchanged. I know how you, the mortals, my adoring public, so desperately hang on my every word, so anxiously awaiting the teaches of the ever-loving Virgin Prince. I've been busy, struggling against agitated factions of militant Neptunians and cleaning monkey-guano from my shower drain. Opposing the unchecked aggression of the militant right, doing my part to combat their hate-filled schemes. I've swam the seas and delved into the deep clutching waters of the Atlantic, fending off yet another Atlantean uprising. My nights have been spent slouching over a desk lit by crude light, writing words of admiration for my lady-love. I've fallen slowly and slightly into a realm of mild insanity, a combination of exhaustion and a diet consisting of mostly Yoohoo and Twinkies.
Oh but it's good to be back.
And you've all been busy little beavers since I've been gone, haven't you? I know you have. Why the airs are positively filled with the stenches caused by your detestable acts of fornication, and the population will no doubt increase quite a bit again in the next 9 months, with the ratio of guffawing, slack-jawed by-products of matching chromosomal donors no doubt taking an even further leap into the lead. You've been polluting our skies, haven't you, putting along excessively in your massive exhaust-belching cars. Our landfills are no doubt more filled to the brim, their stacks of rubbish higher than the norm due to your week-long junk food and tabloid binges. I'm sure there's a nice new section of forest missing due to your interest in People magazine, and your thirst for the knowledge of whom Paris Hilton is screwing this week. I say to heck with you, vile ruffians! Consider yourself under the ever-watchful eye of the Virgin Prince once more!
Every discarded jar of pickled pigs feet will be counted, every stray can of Easy Cheese noticed! Every game of grab-ass that a teenager should take part in on a public bus shall be seen by me! I will be the witness to your excessive use of cell-phone ring-tones and loud blaring of mediocre rap songs! No more shall you back that ass up! In fact, were I not as massively hung-over as I am, I’d be sorely tempted to go out into the world with a yard stick and give you all a sound thrashing at super-speed. But no, today I’ll be content to look at Yvonne Craig and her divine rack. I seem capable of little more.
Ah, the magnificent Yvonne Craig. Such a shame that she chose to disappear into the faceless void of real estate. I could fill tomes with words of admiration for television’s Batgirl. It can be truly said that she filled out her costume nicely, that tight Batgirl uniform that made even sitting down a tricky negotiation, and that the few parts of her that were exposed, namely her eyes and her magnificent smile, were certainly fine examples of divine artistry, and to cover such things would be, without doubt, a sin against man and god alike. As it was, the limits of good taste were already being pushed in the occasional partial-covering of her naiad-like face. I can recall even now that it was her brief appearance on Star Trek that triggered my massive attraction to redheads, as well as to girls with green skin.
Here I sit in the guise of my mild-mannered alter ego, my mask firmly tucked inside my jacket pocket and my necktie tightly double-winsored around my neck. I’m filled with concern over the necessity of doing my taxes, and as the clock ticks down to the due date, I remain unsure as to the matter of what forms need to be filled with what information, and how one deals with things such as inheritances. Does Bobo the Virgin Chimp count as dependent? A civil union?
Back to the subject of dependents, does the shrunken bottle-city in my care with a population of 4 million from a planet long dead count? I might actually make a large amount of money that way. Can I write off the many pairs of knee-pads I’ve purchased for the sake of crime-fighting? Well, they were for training potential sidekicks actually, but that is part of the business of superheroing. How about the time I went to Benihanas disguised as the vile Incestuous Eye, so that I could infiltrate the nefarious ranks of the Secret Brotherhood of Strife? Does that count as a business dinner? Lord knows, the malevolent Bovine Man alone has four stomachs, and the expense of the sheer amount of Tempura and Unagi George W. Bush was able to cram down his mayonnaise lubricated throat left me constricted to a diet of canned tuna for two months. By the end of it, there was so much mercury in my system that I could tell the temperature with my urine samples. Were I the type to go for R. Kelly’s brand of strangeness, there’d no doubt be a large flock of silver-haired 7th grade girls roaming the streets, mad as hatters.
Being a flag-waving, patriotic nephew of my uncle Sam, I know I must attend to my taxes upon reaching home. But first I must stop by the store and pick up some groceries so that I might make my dinner. Standard stuff really, spinach, gingo fruit, gummi berry juice, Miraclo tablets, Vitamin 2X, Vitamin M, some Nth Metal supplement, and for my spice rack, some white dwarf star fragment. Just normal stuff for a growing boy.
Oh? You don’t believe that George W. Bush was at Benihanas with me? That he’s a sitting member of the Secret Brotherhood of Strife? He is I tell you, and he was there! He’s been a member of many evil super-groups, among them the Baby-Stompers Union, the Subterranean Mutants League, the Oedipal 8, the Brotherhood of the Red Flame, the Clan of Mists and Shadows, the Blood Cult of Tempes, the American Women-Haters Club, the Tyranny Society, Amway, the Polluto-Creeps, the Dreadrats Motorcycle Gang, Blue Meanies, the Secret Circle of Baal, the Folded Wing Triad, and the Montgomery Gay Alliance. I’ve never heard of that last group, they’re not in any of the crime files I recall, but I know that Bush put a lot of effort into keeping his time with them secret, moreso even than his time with the Baby-Stompers. It’s amazing what you can learn by going through the President’s wallet. It’s even more amazing what one man can accomplish in one year of duty-ditching.
So yes, the Prez was there. I should recall. Shortly after our chef did the trick where he makes a volcano with slices of onion, Captain Texas (as Bush likes to be called, both in public, and in private with his wife) pulled out his two six-guns and started shooting at our chef’s feet, laughing madly and demanding that he dance. I finally became so fed up with his behavior as I was trying to enjoy my Toro, that I grabbed my Harvey Wallbanger and tossed it into the Texan’s face. The drink immediately dripped off without sticking, the massive amount of oil pouring through Bush’s veins, and even seeping through his pores, effectively makes him unsulliable. I tell you, his slippery skin has ruined many a “Pie-in-the-face” gag.
Fortunately, the alcohol in my drink did sting his eyes, and as he covered his face, I slammed his head down hard into the still quite-hot grill. A smell of soy-basted Texan filled the air before his unconscious body slumped to the floor. Surprisingly, my actions didn’t betray my true identity to the other members of the Brotherhood, but rather just gained me several looks of grateful approval from them. That’s when I got his wallet, and some nude pictures of his daughters from his pocket which I held on to so that I might later make some money with them on the internet. Oh man, do I have to report that on my taxes?
Shit. I’ve got to do my taxes.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I never seem to be able to write lately, always being so busy, and my page is sadly left unchanged. I know how you, the mortals, my adoring public, so desperately hang on my every word, so anxiously awaiting the teaches of the ever-loving Virgin Prince. I've been busy, struggling against agitated factions of militant Neptunians and cleaning monkey-guano from my shower drain. Opposing the unchecked aggression of the militant right, doing my part to combat their hate-filled schemes. I've swam the seas and delved into the deep clutching waters of the Atlantic, fending off yet another Atlantean uprising. My nights have been spent slouching over a desk lit by crude light, writing words of admiration for my lady-love. I've fallen slowly and slightly into a realm of mild insanity, a combination of exhaustion and a diet consisting of mostly Yoohoo and Twinkies.
Oh but it's good to be back.
And you've all been busy little beavers since I've been gone, haven't you? I know you have. Why the airs are positively filled with the stenches caused by your detestable acts of fornication, and the population will no doubt increase quite a bit again in the next 9 months, with the ratio of guffawing, slack-jawed by-products of matching chromosomal donors no doubt taking an even further leap into the lead. You've been polluting our skies, haven't you, putting along excessively in your massive exhaust-belching cars. Our landfills are no doubt more filled to the brim, their stacks of rubbish higher than the norm due to your week-long junk food and tabloid binges. I'm sure there's a nice new section of forest missing due to your interest in People magazine, and your thirst for the knowledge of whom Paris Hilton is screwing this week. I say to heck with you, vile ruffians! Consider yourself under the ever-watchful eye of the Virgin Prince once more!
Every discarded jar of pickled pigs feet will be counted, every stray can of Easy Cheese noticed! Every game of grab-ass that a teenager should take part in on a public bus shall be seen by me! I will be the witness to your excessive use of cell-phone ring-tones and loud blaring of mediocre rap songs! No more shall you back that ass up! In fact, were I not as massively hung-over as I am, I’d be sorely tempted to go out into the world with a yard stick and give you all a sound thrashing at super-speed. But no, today I’ll be content to look at Yvonne Craig and her divine rack. I seem capable of little more.
Ah, the magnificent Yvonne Craig. Such a shame that she chose to disappear into the faceless void of real estate. I could fill tomes with words of admiration for television’s Batgirl. It can be truly said that she filled out her costume nicely, that tight Batgirl uniform that made even sitting down a tricky negotiation, and that the few parts of her that were exposed, namely her eyes and her magnificent smile, were certainly fine examples of divine artistry, and to cover such things would be, without doubt, a sin against man and god alike. As it was, the limits of good taste were already being pushed in the occasional partial-covering of her naiad-like face. I can recall even now that it was her brief appearance on Star Trek that triggered my massive attraction to redheads, as well as to girls with green skin.
Here I sit in the guise of my mild-mannered alter ego, my mask firmly tucked inside my jacket pocket and my necktie tightly double-winsored around my neck. I’m filled with concern over the necessity of doing my taxes, and as the clock ticks down to the due date, I remain unsure as to the matter of what forms need to be filled with what information, and how one deals with things such as inheritances. Does Bobo the Virgin Chimp count as dependent? A civil union?
Back to the subject of dependents, does the shrunken bottle-city in my care with a population of 4 million from a planet long dead count? I might actually make a large amount of money that way. Can I write off the many pairs of knee-pads I’ve purchased for the sake of crime-fighting? Well, they were for training potential sidekicks actually, but that is part of the business of superheroing. How about the time I went to Benihanas disguised as the vile Incestuous Eye, so that I could infiltrate the nefarious ranks of the Secret Brotherhood of Strife? Does that count as a business dinner? Lord knows, the malevolent Bovine Man alone has four stomachs, and the expense of the sheer amount of Tempura and Unagi George W. Bush was able to cram down his mayonnaise lubricated throat left me constricted to a diet of canned tuna for two months. By the end of it, there was so much mercury in my system that I could tell the temperature with my urine samples. Were I the type to go for R. Kelly’s brand of strangeness, there’d no doubt be a large flock of silver-haired 7th grade girls roaming the streets, mad as hatters.
Being a flag-waving, patriotic nephew of my uncle Sam, I know I must attend to my taxes upon reaching home. But first I must stop by the store and pick up some groceries so that I might make my dinner. Standard stuff really, spinach, gingo fruit, gummi berry juice, Miraclo tablets, Vitamin 2X, Vitamin M, some Nth Metal supplement, and for my spice rack, some white dwarf star fragment. Just normal stuff for a growing boy.
Oh? You don’t believe that George W. Bush was at Benihanas with me? That he’s a sitting member of the Secret Brotherhood of Strife? He is I tell you, and he was there! He’s been a member of many evil super-groups, among them the Baby-Stompers Union, the Subterranean Mutants League, the Oedipal 8, the Brotherhood of the Red Flame, the Clan of Mists and Shadows, the Blood Cult of Tempes, the American Women-Haters Club, the Tyranny Society, Amway, the Polluto-Creeps, the Dreadrats Motorcycle Gang, Blue Meanies, the Secret Circle of Baal, the Folded Wing Triad, and the Montgomery Gay Alliance. I’ve never heard of that last group, they’re not in any of the crime files I recall, but I know that Bush put a lot of effort into keeping his time with them secret, moreso even than his time with the Baby-Stompers. It’s amazing what you can learn by going through the President’s wallet. It’s even more amazing what one man can accomplish in one year of duty-ditching.
So yes, the Prez was there. I should recall. Shortly after our chef did the trick where he makes a volcano with slices of onion, Captain Texas (as Bush likes to be called, both in public, and in private with his wife) pulled out his two six-guns and started shooting at our chef’s feet, laughing madly and demanding that he dance. I finally became so fed up with his behavior as I was trying to enjoy my Toro, that I grabbed my Harvey Wallbanger and tossed it into the Texan’s face. The drink immediately dripped off without sticking, the massive amount of oil pouring through Bush’s veins, and even seeping through his pores, effectively makes him unsulliable. I tell you, his slippery skin has ruined many a “Pie-in-the-face” gag.
Fortunately, the alcohol in my drink did sting his eyes, and as he covered his face, I slammed his head down hard into the still quite-hot grill. A smell of soy-basted Texan filled the air before his unconscious body slumped to the floor. Surprisingly, my actions didn’t betray my true identity to the other members of the Brotherhood, but rather just gained me several looks of grateful approval from them. That’s when I got his wallet, and some nude pictures of his daughters from his pocket which I held on to so that I might later make some money with them on the internet. Oh man, do I have to report that on my taxes?
Shit. I’ve got to do my taxes.
The Virgin Prince
