The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Flying The Friendly Skies
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
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.
The Virgin Prince
