The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
The Fragile Life
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
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.
The Virgin Prince
