The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Catching Up
My amorous automatons,
I’ve not written for a terribly long time. Dreadfully sorry for my prolonged absence, but it would seem the current administration, here in the United States of America, doesn’t take kindly to people that take part in exposing the truth about the president, and furthermore, is intolerant of camera enthusiasts that take photographs of secret government prison camps. In truth, I was merely trying to figure out what ever happened to the kid that played “Paul” on the Wonder Years.
But apparently my excuse was not good enough for the men dressed in black with the M-16s, and as they pounded away at my stomach with the butts of their rifles, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that perhaps I should have been searching for Alan Thicke instead. Certainly, a search for Alan Thicke would have been far less noticed, he, being one of Canada’s less notable imports.
In fact, when I think of the crap Canada has unloaded upon us in recent years, absolute trite garbage such as the Bare Naked Ladies, Alanis Morisette, Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain, and Mike Myers, one almost tends to think the only way to return the favor would be to exile the majority of our Detroit-based celebrities (of note, within this talentless clique, the Insane Clown Posse and Kid Rock) to their northern land, if only to counter-balance the massive influx of utter drivel into our own fair nation.
Back to the point, I was trussed up and thrown in my very own cell within the prison walls of Guantanamo Bay. In the cell across from mine was a man that bled wine, and was obvious as a threat, if not for his message of peace and defiance of government, then at least for his inherent Middle-Eastern-ness. In the cell to my left was a kind-hearted Palestinian lad that had made the mistake of loudly criticizing the genocide being perpetrated by the Israeli government, while in the midst of a Hollywood fundraiser for the Republican Party. The cell to my right contained a Briton. Of all my fellow prisoners, he was easily my favorite, as we would pass the time away by tapping the lyrics of “Tainted Love” in Morse code to each other, alternating verses, by way of our cement cell wall.
The time I spent in Guantanamo wasn’t all bad. During our brief hour of daily “outside time” those of us with unbroken fingers occasionally played dodgeball, though we quickly grew tired of our wounds re-opening and promptly switched instead to croquet. The fact that our makeshift ball was, in fact, a pig’s bladder, lessened the appeal of the game as well, both due to the mess it made upon contact with our crisp uniforms, and due to the huge bacterial risk it presented to those of us still healing from the open sores on our necks, which had developed after we’d spent a few days in our choke-collars. The guards at the prison occasionally chose to play dodgeball with us as well, though as they aimed downward at us from their towers, they sidestepped the inconvenience of rotting swine-organs by instead pelting us with teargas and rubber bullets.
In the few months I was there I made friends with a militia-man that had declared his own country somewhere in Montana, and taught me the fine art of whittling. He started to teach me the methods of moonshining as well, but that soon stopped once old “Hey-Zeus” in the cell across from mine started swapping us blood for cigarettes. Every thin white line across "Old Beardy's" forearm corresponds to a night when many of us in the cellblock stuttered, slurred, and warbled the lyrics to the Who’s “My Wife”. The thicker scars on his arms likewise mark reference to nights in which I was so plastered that I added “ear-ly in the mor-ning” to the end of every verse.
All in all, the experience wasn’t all that different from my childhood experiences of daycare at the YMCA. A little more fun perhaps, and possibly a bit cleaner.
In all truth, however, I have never seen such savagery as I did at Guantanamo Bay. The military served up hot dogs with ketchup! To my disgust, some of the prisoners were actually hungry enough to attempt to eat these intestine-wrapped crimes against man and god! I started trading up my cigarettes for smuggled packets of mustard, though all I could get was the yellow crap, getting the British kind was nothing more than a frustrating, unfulfilled wet-dream.
The ketchup, I later found out, is part of the plot to slowly convert the world into a Republican mindset. It’s what Reagan was working towards when he declared ketchup a vegetable, for the sake of our public schools, way back when. You see, a person’s inherent Republican-ness can be gauged by how much ketchup they eat. Simultaneously, an overuse of this sugary tomato-based sauce in the diet of an individual leads to the gradual depletion of the nutrients necessary to the subject’s brain, thus affecting rational thought and decision-making, thereby making Republican platforms easier to swallow. What starts as the ill-conceived notion of putting ketchup on hot dogs leads to the substitution of other condiments, be they tarter sauce, salsa, barbeque, or other, it makes no difference. These “gateway dogs” lead to ketchup on fish, ketchup on eggs, ketchup on corn, even devolving so far down as to a level of depravity at which French toast is eaten with ketchup, though at this point it is called “Freedom toast”, and itself is soon discarded in favor of flapjacks, due to having ever been associated with the French.
It breaks down roughly like this: during the point at which a person enjoys ketchup on hot dogs, they’re still on the fence about the war on terror. Once they’re putting ketchup on fish, they’ve started to feel animosity over the loss of crop-picking jobs that Mexicans have cost the hard-working people of this country. At eggs, it becomes clear that Communists ARE out to get us, thank God and Jesus we have FoxNews to keep us informed! By the time ketchup has made its way towards commingling with the bread group, the science of trickle-down-economics makes sense, and the misfiring synapses of the brain are seeing the logic of helping the lower classes by giving all the money to the rich.
Don’t even get me started on Thousand Island.
I’ve gotten off-track. All this useful knowledge aside, the indignities at the prison continued. Aside from my objections about the lack of vegan or even kosher meals as options to keep myself safer from America’s mad-cow-poisoned beef, there were still worse atrocities at Guantanamo! I saw bagels served with butter, as if denying us of Lox wasn’t already bad enough! I saw salads served with bits of fried chicken in them, and milkshakes made without real ice cream! The pizza they served us was that disgusting kind they used to serve in the cafeteria in elementary school, and our tuna came from yellowtail, not albacore! I ignored the fact that the apples in our meals were of the bland, red-delicious variety, and that our mashed potatoes came from a powdered, instant-mix, but what finally sent me over the edge was the prison chef’s attempt at serving me a cheeseburger, topped with that atrocious, processed American cheese.
This deliberate dismissal of fine cheddars everywhere, was a slap in the face of every man in the prison whose granddaddy had fought in World War Two. Though I’ll admit they were lured by the prospect of one day driving around in a finely engineered German vehicle, our Granddaddies knew damn well when they were helping to liberate France from her Hessian captors, that they were fighting and dying so that their sons, and grandsons, would never again have to eat loathsome, oil-based, quasi-plastic, processed cheese.
At that moment, I felt a stirring inside me, and the loud, proud voice of Johnny Cash filled my ears as the Ballad of Ira Hayes played within my head. I was shaken with a force as if I’d caught the bullet meant for Alexander Hamilton, and the wig-wearing Federalist within me shed a patriotic tear. “My grandmother riveted planes so that I wouldn’t have to eat Kraft singles!” was my grand battle-cry.
A massive riot broke out then and there, and the collective force of the prison’s poorly-fed populous was unleashed, tearing doors from their very hinges and clawing at the very walls of the prison with the power and passion of primal anger. One group of prisoners broke into the office of our warden and raided his personal supply of Tapatio hot sauce, pouring it on their enchiladas and tossing aside the packets of Taco Bell Fire sauce we’d all been cruelly equipped with. I, myself quite shaggy and depraved at this point, having long been cut off from Yoohoo, lost my mental restraint and blew a hole in the wall with my atomic vision, bringing in natural sunlight upon my shoulders, and freeing me to the world. Quickly I made my escape, whooping and hollering all the way.
It’s not as if I’m totally without souvenirs. The guards at the prison were constantly taking photos of all of us and I’m sure I could float one of the guys a few bucks to get double-prints and send me some for my photo album. I assure you, I’ll send you all a few once they’re developed. Get your refrigerator magnets ready for when I send out Christmas cards! I’m wearing a white beard and Santa cap, but you’ll know it’s me by the electrodes attached to my genitals.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I’ve not written for a terribly long time. Dreadfully sorry for my prolonged absence, but it would seem the current administration, here in the United States of America, doesn’t take kindly to people that take part in exposing the truth about the president, and furthermore, is intolerant of camera enthusiasts that take photographs of secret government prison camps. In truth, I was merely trying to figure out what ever happened to the kid that played “Paul” on the Wonder Years.
But apparently my excuse was not good enough for the men dressed in black with the M-16s, and as they pounded away at my stomach with the butts of their rifles, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that perhaps I should have been searching for Alan Thicke instead. Certainly, a search for Alan Thicke would have been far less noticed, he, being one of Canada’s less notable imports.
In fact, when I think of the crap Canada has unloaded upon us in recent years, absolute trite garbage such as the Bare Naked Ladies, Alanis Morisette, Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain, and Mike Myers, one almost tends to think the only way to return the favor would be to exile the majority of our Detroit-based celebrities (of note, within this talentless clique, the Insane Clown Posse and Kid Rock) to their northern land, if only to counter-balance the massive influx of utter drivel into our own fair nation.
Back to the point, I was trussed up and thrown in my very own cell within the prison walls of Guantanamo Bay. In the cell across from mine was a man that bled wine, and was obvious as a threat, if not for his message of peace and defiance of government, then at least for his inherent Middle-Eastern-ness. In the cell to my left was a kind-hearted Palestinian lad that had made the mistake of loudly criticizing the genocide being perpetrated by the Israeli government, while in the midst of a Hollywood fundraiser for the Republican Party. The cell to my right contained a Briton. Of all my fellow prisoners, he was easily my favorite, as we would pass the time away by tapping the lyrics of “Tainted Love” in Morse code to each other, alternating verses, by way of our cement cell wall.
The time I spent in Guantanamo wasn’t all bad. During our brief hour of daily “outside time” those of us with unbroken fingers occasionally played dodgeball, though we quickly grew tired of our wounds re-opening and promptly switched instead to croquet. The fact that our makeshift ball was, in fact, a pig’s bladder, lessened the appeal of the game as well, both due to the mess it made upon contact with our crisp uniforms, and due to the huge bacterial risk it presented to those of us still healing from the open sores on our necks, which had developed after we’d spent a few days in our choke-collars. The guards at the prison occasionally chose to play dodgeball with us as well, though as they aimed downward at us from their towers, they sidestepped the inconvenience of rotting swine-organs by instead pelting us with teargas and rubber bullets.
In the few months I was there I made friends with a militia-man that had declared his own country somewhere in Montana, and taught me the fine art of whittling. He started to teach me the methods of moonshining as well, but that soon stopped once old “Hey-Zeus” in the cell across from mine started swapping us blood for cigarettes. Every thin white line across "Old Beardy's" forearm corresponds to a night when many of us in the cellblock stuttered, slurred, and warbled the lyrics to the Who’s “My Wife”. The thicker scars on his arms likewise mark reference to nights in which I was so plastered that I added “ear-ly in the mor-ning” to the end of every verse.
All in all, the experience wasn’t all that different from my childhood experiences of daycare at the YMCA. A little more fun perhaps, and possibly a bit cleaner.
In all truth, however, I have never seen such savagery as I did at Guantanamo Bay. The military served up hot dogs with ketchup! To my disgust, some of the prisoners were actually hungry enough to attempt to eat these intestine-wrapped crimes against man and god! I started trading up my cigarettes for smuggled packets of mustard, though all I could get was the yellow crap, getting the British kind was nothing more than a frustrating, unfulfilled wet-dream.
The ketchup, I later found out, is part of the plot to slowly convert the world into a Republican mindset. It’s what Reagan was working towards when he declared ketchup a vegetable, for the sake of our public schools, way back when. You see, a person’s inherent Republican-ness can be gauged by how much ketchup they eat. Simultaneously, an overuse of this sugary tomato-based sauce in the diet of an individual leads to the gradual depletion of the nutrients necessary to the subject’s brain, thus affecting rational thought and decision-making, thereby making Republican platforms easier to swallow. What starts as the ill-conceived notion of putting ketchup on hot dogs leads to the substitution of other condiments, be they tarter sauce, salsa, barbeque, or other, it makes no difference. These “gateway dogs” lead to ketchup on fish, ketchup on eggs, ketchup on corn, even devolving so far down as to a level of depravity at which French toast is eaten with ketchup, though at this point it is called “Freedom toast”, and itself is soon discarded in favor of flapjacks, due to having ever been associated with the French.
It breaks down roughly like this: during the point at which a person enjoys ketchup on hot dogs, they’re still on the fence about the war on terror. Once they’re putting ketchup on fish, they’ve started to feel animosity over the loss of crop-picking jobs that Mexicans have cost the hard-working people of this country. At eggs, it becomes clear that Communists ARE out to get us, thank God and Jesus we have FoxNews to keep us informed! By the time ketchup has made its way towards commingling with the bread group, the science of trickle-down-economics makes sense, and the misfiring synapses of the brain are seeing the logic of helping the lower classes by giving all the money to the rich.
Don’t even get me started on Thousand Island.
I’ve gotten off-track. All this useful knowledge aside, the indignities at the prison continued. Aside from my objections about the lack of vegan or even kosher meals as options to keep myself safer from America’s mad-cow-poisoned beef, there were still worse atrocities at Guantanamo! I saw bagels served with butter, as if denying us of Lox wasn’t already bad enough! I saw salads served with bits of fried chicken in them, and milkshakes made without real ice cream! The pizza they served us was that disgusting kind they used to serve in the cafeteria in elementary school, and our tuna came from yellowtail, not albacore! I ignored the fact that the apples in our meals were of the bland, red-delicious variety, and that our mashed potatoes came from a powdered, instant-mix, but what finally sent me over the edge was the prison chef’s attempt at serving me a cheeseburger, topped with that atrocious, processed American cheese.
This deliberate dismissal of fine cheddars everywhere, was a slap in the face of every man in the prison whose granddaddy had fought in World War Two. Though I’ll admit they were lured by the prospect of one day driving around in a finely engineered German vehicle, our Granddaddies knew damn well when they were helping to liberate France from her Hessian captors, that they were fighting and dying so that their sons, and grandsons, would never again have to eat loathsome, oil-based, quasi-plastic, processed cheese.
At that moment, I felt a stirring inside me, and the loud, proud voice of Johnny Cash filled my ears as the Ballad of Ira Hayes played within my head. I was shaken with a force as if I’d caught the bullet meant for Alexander Hamilton, and the wig-wearing Federalist within me shed a patriotic tear. “My grandmother riveted planes so that I wouldn’t have to eat Kraft singles!” was my grand battle-cry.
A massive riot broke out then and there, and the collective force of the prison’s poorly-fed populous was unleashed, tearing doors from their very hinges and clawing at the very walls of the prison with the power and passion of primal anger. One group of prisoners broke into the office of our warden and raided his personal supply of Tapatio hot sauce, pouring it on their enchiladas and tossing aside the packets of Taco Bell Fire sauce we’d all been cruelly equipped with. I, myself quite shaggy and depraved at this point, having long been cut off from Yoohoo, lost my mental restraint and blew a hole in the wall with my atomic vision, bringing in natural sunlight upon my shoulders, and freeing me to the world. Quickly I made my escape, whooping and hollering all the way.
It’s not as if I’m totally without souvenirs. The guards at the prison were constantly taking photos of all of us and I’m sure I could float one of the guys a few bucks to get double-prints and send me some for my photo album. I assure you, I’ll send you all a few once they’re developed. Get your refrigerator magnets ready for when I send out Christmas cards! I’m wearing a white beard and Santa cap, but you’ll know it’s me by the electrodes attached to my genitals.
The Virgin Prince
