The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Vicars and Vulgarians,

Surviving my recent trip through the sky with the president, I’ve come to re-evaluate things. After gathering up my scattered comics from across the countryside (thank Kirby for polybags), there was no sign of the President or his men anywhere. I was left to assume that he must have escaped from yet another act of sheer idiocy unscathed. Typical. In better news, the pilot of the downed flight turned out okay, after getting him proper medical attention, it was determined that the bullet had merely creased his skull, though the blood loss had caused him to pass out. The staff at the hospital wanted me to stay and answer a bunch of questions, but you just can’t keep a good mystery man against his will, and after telling them it was Bush who had indeed shot him, I was gone, courtesy of a smoke pellet and the nearest window. Last I heard, the police were going to ask George W. (accompanied by Johnny Cochran) some questions, at his convenience of course, and only for an hour. That’s, of course, if he actually feels like doing it.

Why do I have this feeling that somehow Clinton is going to get blamed for the shooting, and people are going to believe it?

Returning home to my lonesome and worried ape, I was greeted with my fuzzy slippers and the day’s paper. Bobo had also made me some tea, but as a general rule, I don’t eat or drink anything the monkey makes for me, well meaning as he may be. I won’t even touch the cookies he bakes in his Holly Hobby oven.

The front page of the newspaper greeted me with the news that the two Bush daughters had gone into comas, and in smaller print, that some “foul-smelling piñata candy” was believed to be to blame. The rest of the article went on to explain how broken up the Bush was family was about the whole situation and the efforts to make the girls’ stay in the hospital seem as normal as possible, going as far as to constantly keep lit cigarettes in the girls’ hands and supplying them with an intravenous drip of Jack Daniels. The article ended with Bush making a declaration of war on Mexican candy companies and stressing the importance of holding them accountable for their actions.

Between the story in the paper and the events of my botched government mission, I got to thinking of just how fragile life is. How very delicate our loved ones can be, and how quickly they can be snatched away from us by an unfortunate working of fate. I’m reminded to show my appreciation for the people I admire and express the depths of my love for those loved by me. So to you, my dark-haired (not naturally) beauty, wherever you may be, to you, my buxom angel, my brilliant gal of more than ample bosom, I express my undying love and admiration for you. You command nothing short of my full level of respect. I love you, Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.

As for my dear Rush Girl, you too, are swell.

How completely you entrap me with lovely sound of your voice as you sing the Russian melodies and Doukhobor anthems of your heritage. So haunting, the strange tongue you speak, words I can’t understand, repeated within the confines of my skull over and over again. How I miss the shining smile you present me in the good times, the giggle you make as we wrestle over pieces of salami, and the mildly irritated laughter I get from you upon singing you songs written personally for you, and mocking your weak, deteriorating bones. I have loved every hug, every kiss, every moment you’ve spent near me, and still, to this day, feel weak and overwhelmed when I look in your eyes.

Rush Girl, my Canadian powerhouse, my spunky Canuck, how you impress me with your sheer genius, oh, how you cause me to pause, dumfounded, every time I look upon your face, and still see the most beautiful girl ever. Blessed be your hips and ample bosom, praised be your dainty nose and your soft, smooth stomach, so delightful to lay kisses upon. Thank the maker for your iron liver, which allows you to drink even me under the table. How splendid your sense of style, the flashy colors you wear, the cut of your hair; whatever color it may be always seems to suit you.

I miss you intensely my darling, and soon, very soon, I will be at your side. It will be then I can experience the joy of your smile and your child-like personality. In person, you will impress me with your brilliance, your humor, your style, the fun personified that you are. I can’t wait to take part in hijinks with you once more, shenanigans we will have! Soon, my darling, I’ll be singing Tim Curry in your ear once more. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it once more, and I’ll continue to say it still. It is ultimately the only thing I can say to truly express it all. I love you, now, always, forever.

Be well, my Shmoopy, wherever you may be.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

To my tech-savvy tuners-in,

I was drafted into a government assignment over the weekend, I had little choice in the matter if I wished to remain on relatively good terms with the federal government. As appealing as avoiding squads of policemen and National Guardsmen sounds, it’d be easier to just go on the stupid mission. I’d prefer it if my trusty ape and I didn’t have to dodge the bullets of SWAT sharpshooters or get involved in high-speed chases with the likes of Erik Estrada. It’s actually quite common in times of war for the President to call upon the services masked mystery men, a trend which was started way back when Roosevelt first called upon the services of the Justice Society of America. Of course, the Justice Society had to stop a band of Nazi-controlled Valkyries with the power of the Spear of Destiny behind them. I get nothing so lofty.

Lt. Chedes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation pulled up in an inconspicuous black Ford in front of the abandoned Methodist church where we’d agreed to meet. Stepping into the vehicle and being whisked away to the nearest military base, I wasn’t given much of a briefing by the agent of what was expected of me, only that what I was about to embark upon was top-secret, and all information was on a strictly need to know basis. From the military base, I was placed on a jet heading for Washington. Before I knew it, I was standing in the center of the oval office, mere feet from the President himself.

The last time I’d been in the White House, a few years earlier, I’d been busy raiding from George’s well-stocked kegs of beer (it was nothing good, just Coors and Bud, you need a Democrat for something tasty like Bass), before being chased off by the irate President and a slew of Secret Service agents, all of them running after me with guns blazing. Now, the poster-boy for nepotism, the Texan tyrant, stood before me with a shiny six-gun at each side. Knowing him now for the foul villain he is, a card-carrying member of the Secret Brotherhood of Strife, being in the same room as him turned my stomach, and alcohol was not to blame. On the wall, was a map of the world with places circled on it that the President hoped to some day blow up. Next to the map, a cork-board hung, with a report from Vice-President Dick Cheney tacked to it, which stated that George had earned four gold stars this month. The top of the paper was stamped with an image of a squirrel giving a thumbs-up and saying “Good job!”

“So what is it, George?” I asked the warmonger in chief.

“That’s Mr. President,” he said in the snotty way he’s known for.

“You ain’t my president,” I retorted in an equally snippy manner, “so what do you want? You going to send me in to Afghanistan to scoop up Osama Bin Laden?”

“Nah, I’ve had him in holding in Guantanamo Bay for a few months now, figure I’ll announce his capture a week before elections.”

“Then what?”

“I’m flying down to Iraq to take care of some business. Just need someone to watch over me for the trip.”

“And I get stuck with it. Great.”

“Spiderman was busy.”

So there we were, me, the President, and a handful of Secret Service agents flying in the back of a military plane on our way to Iraq. Bush was ordering around his agents to make sure the crates of guns in the back were locked down tightly, and estimating how much opium he could keep in the cargo hold once the weapons were unloaded. Before long, he’d gotten himself into a passionate discussion about the Three Amigos. This led to the unfortunate boast that he too could shoot the arms and legs from a piñata.

“Look,” he barked to one of the secret service men, “I’ll show you. Bring out that piñata I keep around, the Mexican in the sombrero.”

“Mr. President, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” I quickly told Bush.

“Shut up! I’m the President! My daddy says I can do anything I want!” the President screamed, adding an angry squeal at the end.

“Suit yourself.” I told him as an agent propped up the piñata on a crate. I sat back and thumbed through an issue of Airboy.

“Now, on behalf of the great state of Texas and the U. S. of A., I sentence you to death!” Bush told the paper-maché Mexican.

With a loud “yee-haw!” George grabbed his six-shooters and fired madly at the piñata, missing terribly and screaming, “DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!” The plane suddenly began to tilt forward and descend. I ran up to the cabin to see what was the matter.

“You idiot! You shot the pilot!” I cried at Big W.

“Fly the plane! Save us!” the acting President cried.

“Why would I know how to fly a plane? I’ve got flying Vice-shoes! Weren’t you trained to fly planes? Didn’t you serve in the National Guard?!”

“I don’t have to answer that.” Bush said flatly.

“Mr. President, we think it’d be best if we evacuated the plane,” one of the shades-wearing Secret Service agents told the President as he leaned over his shoulder.

“Hmmm… you’re probably right. Make sure you grab that piñata so I can execute him for defying me. Let’s see how that paper Mexican likes the gas chamber!”

The piñata just stayed where it was, propped up on the crate, smiling its paper smile as the agent threw open the side door to the plane.

“Aye sir!” Two secret service agents cried, both running up to the piñata, one placing it in a chokehold and holding his gun at its head, the other keeping his gun levelled on it from a foot or two away. With their captive in hand, they both ran and jumped out of the side door of the plane, parachutes already on their backs. They’d no doubt flown with the President before.

“Well, Mr. Prince, looks like there’s only one parachute here. Guess that goes to the President. Too bad you’re not the most important and powerful man in the world,” Bush bragged as he grabbed a bag from the storage area and placed the straps over his shoulders. He paused a minute before jumping out the door, and began singing, “I am the President, it’s so great! I am the President, oh yee-haw! I am the President, you wish you were me…” while thrusting his groin forward, shaking his ass, and pointing his fingers up in the air, before he was abruptly pushed out the door of the plane by the last agent, who then jumped out after him.

“Cocky bastard,” I thought to myself as I walked to the front cabin and dragged out the unconscious pilot, grabbing a parachute from the parachute storage and strapping it to his limp form, then strapping another to myself. Bush, in all his wisdom, had jumped off the plane wearing my backpack, depriving me of $100 worth of comic books. I had really been looking forward to reading the latest issue of Fables too.

“I am so totally voting for Kerry.” I told myself as I shoved the pilot out of the plane, and then jumped after him.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince