The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Reindeer: The True Party Animal
My faithful readers,
The other night, at about 2:00 in the morning, I awoke to a loud pounding at my door. Stumbling out of my bedroom in my bathrobe with the ducks on it, I slowly dragged my feet towards the door. It was Blitzen. That old alcoholic reindeer was at my door with a case of beer and a floozy on each arm. I opened my door to inspect the goods. One of the girls was a hot blonde in a tight haltertop and very short, very tight shorts. The other was a cute Asian girl with red streaks in her hair, a pink tee-shirt, and sparkly black pants. Blitzen, of course, had on a very loosened necktie and sky-blue scarf. A Lucky Strike was in his mouth and hung from his lip when he spoke.
“Hot damn! It’s good to be in California in January! I used to only get to see the world in December,” my reindeer buddy said, “how ya doin’ there Virgin?”
“Hey there Blitzen,” I said to my hoofed compatriot, “it’s good to see you. A bit late though isn’t it?”
“Aw heck, you only live once, even if it is forever. Have a beer!” he said as he shoved a bottle in my hand.
“You know, it’s a Wednesday night and I have to be up in five hours...”
He’d brought Pabst Blue Ribbon. Well, we superhero-types are supposed to be nocturnal anyway.
“Heck, come on in Blitzen.”
“I brought along Bambi here, so’s we could both have some company.” Blitzen whispered in my ear as he pointed out the blonde girl.
“Thanks, old chum, but it won’t be necessary. My heart belongs to another. Perhaps Bobo might be in need of a playmate.”
“Forget the ape!” my reindeer pal wheezed, “I’ll keep ‘em both to myself then. You’re still pining after that Canadian gal huh?”
“Well, yeah. I guess so.” I shrugged.
“Well she’s up in Vancouver right now, let’s break out the Twister!” Blitzen yelled as he sprayed us all with the foam from a shook up bottle of Pabst.
18 rounds we played, 18 long, difficult rounds. I’d expected the ability to contort which I had mastered during my years of training in a Nepalese temple would make me the guaranteed victor. I was wrong. There was the added difficulty of Blitzen’s occasional drunken stumbles, which often resulted in a deer hoof stepping downward on my groin. Furthermore, the girls themselves could contort with the best of them, and their skill was merely the result of a few years of training, “on stage” they told me. Enviable harlots! If only I had been able to get such profitable training, rather than having to shave my head and live off of a diet of grubs for 3 years, I might never have stopped!
Finally, I could take no more Twister. I’d had far too many things I’d not expected shoved in my face, and quite frankly, I wanted to head to the restroom to check on what level of discoloration I had below the belt. Having won the previous 17 rounds, I conceded the last round to either Bambi or Magenta, I can’t remember which. Blitzen, of course, had found the rum by this time.
After 15 minutes in the restroom, a liberal application of salve, and a proper wardrobe change, I attended once more to my guests. When I returned, Blitzen was in the kitchen charming the ladies, the three of them sipping and gulping at tall glasses of rum and Jolt Cola.
“I see you’ve taken to standing on your hind legs, old chum.” I commented to my reindeer buddy.
“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Four legs good, two legs better.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Before long we’d finished the bottle of rum and moved on to gin. We quickly sunk into terrible place of depravity. Before long, we were standing in the kitchen with our pants around our ankles, my boxer shorts exposed, putting our hands together and making lifelong pacts. Then we got to the business of singing lusty sea-chanteys. In short time, Blitzen had begun running around the house exposing himself, I, barely averting my eyes in time, each time. We had, without a doubt, had far too much to drink. Our eyes spoke volumes of our condition, filled with looks of lust, confusion, or being near-death. And what did the large volume of alcohol floating around in our bellies lead to?
“Hey! Let’s go out and fight crime!”
So there we were, out in a cold alleyway at 5 in the morning on a Wednesday night. Bambi and Magenta stood there shivering in their barely-there clothing, the frigid air transforming their now very-visible nipples into something capable of chiseling rock. Blitzen stood leaning against a wall, quickly smoking his way through a pack of Lucky Strikes. I myself stood tall above them, perched on a rooftop, drunkenly alert to signs of crime. There’s not a lot going on at 5 in the morning.
Finally, I saw a young lad spraying graffiti on a wall the next block over. “Crime ho!” I yelled down to my compatriots at ground level. They took off running to catch the criminal at work. Blitzen was the first one to reach the vandal, and caught him off-guard with a left hook, before reaching behind his back with his upper right leg and producing a knife.
“Whoa!” I cried to the reindeer as I leapt down from above, placing myself between him and the young punk, “What are you doing?!”
“I’m taking out the bad guy!” Blitzen said defiantly.
“Since when do good guys defeat villains by punching them in the jaw and then knifing them?”
“That’s what Yul Brenner did in The Ultimate Warrior!”
“That was a movie! And it was in the post-apocalyptic future! You don’t see me driving around in a dune buggy and hoarding water like Mad Max do you?”
“Well crap, should we tie him up then and leave a note for the cops with a red hoof print on it?” my reindeer chum asked me.
“Aw, let’s just go home. I’m tired.” I said with a long sigh.
“Alright, I think me and the girls were about ready to hit the sack anyway.” Blitzen agreed exhaustedly. The two girls nodded in agreement, their skin had started to turn blue from the cold.
Off to bed I headed, to sleep for an hour before work, and dream of warm Vancouver mornings. Four hours later, at work, I felt like death. Reindeer are fun, but I don’t think I could handle the life of an antlered quadruped myself.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
The other night, at about 2:00 in the morning, I awoke to a loud pounding at my door. Stumbling out of my bedroom in my bathrobe with the ducks on it, I slowly dragged my feet towards the door. It was Blitzen. That old alcoholic reindeer was at my door with a case of beer and a floozy on each arm. I opened my door to inspect the goods. One of the girls was a hot blonde in a tight haltertop and very short, very tight shorts. The other was a cute Asian girl with red streaks in her hair, a pink tee-shirt, and sparkly black pants. Blitzen, of course, had on a very loosened necktie and sky-blue scarf. A Lucky Strike was in his mouth and hung from his lip when he spoke.
“Hot damn! It’s good to be in California in January! I used to only get to see the world in December,” my reindeer buddy said, “how ya doin’ there Virgin?”
“Hey there Blitzen,” I said to my hoofed compatriot, “it’s good to see you. A bit late though isn’t it?”
“Aw heck, you only live once, even if it is forever. Have a beer!” he said as he shoved a bottle in my hand.
“You know, it’s a Wednesday night and I have to be up in five hours...”
He’d brought Pabst Blue Ribbon. Well, we superhero-types are supposed to be nocturnal anyway.
“Heck, come on in Blitzen.”
“I brought along Bambi here, so’s we could both have some company.” Blitzen whispered in my ear as he pointed out the blonde girl.
“Thanks, old chum, but it won’t be necessary. My heart belongs to another. Perhaps Bobo might be in need of a playmate.”
“Forget the ape!” my reindeer pal wheezed, “I’ll keep ‘em both to myself then. You’re still pining after that Canadian gal huh?”
“Well, yeah. I guess so.” I shrugged.
“Well she’s up in Vancouver right now, let’s break out the Twister!” Blitzen yelled as he sprayed us all with the foam from a shook up bottle of Pabst.
18 rounds we played, 18 long, difficult rounds. I’d expected the ability to contort which I had mastered during my years of training in a Nepalese temple would make me the guaranteed victor. I was wrong. There was the added difficulty of Blitzen’s occasional drunken stumbles, which often resulted in a deer hoof stepping downward on my groin. Furthermore, the girls themselves could contort with the best of them, and their skill was merely the result of a few years of training, “on stage” they told me. Enviable harlots! If only I had been able to get such profitable training, rather than having to shave my head and live off of a diet of grubs for 3 years, I might never have stopped!
Finally, I could take no more Twister. I’d had far too many things I’d not expected shoved in my face, and quite frankly, I wanted to head to the restroom to check on what level of discoloration I had below the belt. Having won the previous 17 rounds, I conceded the last round to either Bambi or Magenta, I can’t remember which. Blitzen, of course, had found the rum by this time.
After 15 minutes in the restroom, a liberal application of salve, and a proper wardrobe change, I attended once more to my guests. When I returned, Blitzen was in the kitchen charming the ladies, the three of them sipping and gulping at tall glasses of rum and Jolt Cola.
“I see you’ve taken to standing on your hind legs, old chum.” I commented to my reindeer buddy.
“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Four legs good, two legs better.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Before long we’d finished the bottle of rum and moved on to gin. We quickly sunk into terrible place of depravity. Before long, we were standing in the kitchen with our pants around our ankles, my boxer shorts exposed, putting our hands together and making lifelong pacts. Then we got to the business of singing lusty sea-chanteys. In short time, Blitzen had begun running around the house exposing himself, I, barely averting my eyes in time, each time. We had, without a doubt, had far too much to drink. Our eyes spoke volumes of our condition, filled with looks of lust, confusion, or being near-death. And what did the large volume of alcohol floating around in our bellies lead to?
“Hey! Let’s go out and fight crime!”
So there we were, out in a cold alleyway at 5 in the morning on a Wednesday night. Bambi and Magenta stood there shivering in their barely-there clothing, the frigid air transforming their now very-visible nipples into something capable of chiseling rock. Blitzen stood leaning against a wall, quickly smoking his way through a pack of Lucky Strikes. I myself stood tall above them, perched on a rooftop, drunkenly alert to signs of crime. There’s not a lot going on at 5 in the morning.
Finally, I saw a young lad spraying graffiti on a wall the next block over. “Crime ho!” I yelled down to my compatriots at ground level. They took off running to catch the criminal at work. Blitzen was the first one to reach the vandal, and caught him off-guard with a left hook, before reaching behind his back with his upper right leg and producing a knife.
“Whoa!” I cried to the reindeer as I leapt down from above, placing myself between him and the young punk, “What are you doing?!”
“I’m taking out the bad guy!” Blitzen said defiantly.
“Since when do good guys defeat villains by punching them in the jaw and then knifing them?”
“That’s what Yul Brenner did in The Ultimate Warrior!”
“That was a movie! And it was in the post-apocalyptic future! You don’t see me driving around in a dune buggy and hoarding water like Mad Max do you?”
“Well crap, should we tie him up then and leave a note for the cops with a red hoof print on it?” my reindeer chum asked me.
“Aw, let’s just go home. I’m tired.” I said with a long sigh.
“Alright, I think me and the girls were about ready to hit the sack anyway.” Blitzen agreed exhaustedly. The two girls nodded in agreement, their skin had started to turn blue from the cold.
Off to bed I headed, to sleep for an hour before work, and dream of warm Vancouver mornings. Four hours later, at work, I felt like death. Reindeer are fun, but I don’t think I could handle the life of an antlered quadruped myself.
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 11:08 PM
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Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Musings And Adventures
To all you virtuous citizens,
As you may be aware, Bush is planning on starting up the draft again. The old draft-dodger and duty-ditcher wants more young American kids to send off to Iraq to fight his father's war. More people to die while killing innocents so that Bush can stick to his normal routine of laying in his Texas-made bathtub (the one with the longhorns attached and a gun rack on the side) and masturbating amidst several gallons of crude oil. With a pile of CIA-provided coke in the soap dish, he soaks and watches his rubber duck float atop petrol, bobbing to the left and the right, as it narrowly avoids the bullets fired from Bush's six-shooter. After eventually tagging "Queer Ducky" as he moves to the left, always as he moves to the left, Bush throws off his cowboy hat and sinks down in the tub, submerging his head under the blessed oil. It is as he returns to the surface that he fills his head with thoughts of lethal injections and finds himself attaining an erection. As he gets to the process of self-manipulation, he thinks, "thank God for this oil! Good lubrication AND it powers my truck."
Of course, being a Texan, he HAS made love to the truck, utilizing the tailpipe in a most unsavory manner.
Back to the point, Bush wants a draft, just as he wants more war. Though he's not advertising this fact (he does want to get re-elected after all), he's already had people start to fill the vacancies left in the long-unused draft boards. The draft will start up immediately after the start of his second term, and this is all the more reason he must not win the election. He must be defeated, just as he was last time, but this time he mustn't be handed the Executive office anyway, as he was the last time, thanks to the largely Republican-president-appointed Supreme Court. I find it ironic that one so quick to avoid the Vietnam War himself is so eager to create and maintain his own. What a presidency it's been, we've had the ambiance of another Vietnam abroad while achieving the subtle overtones of Germany, 1938 at home.
In short, I'm asking you all to not vote for Bush. Because he's an idiot, because he's a war-monger, because I don't want to get drafted. Because it's bad enough he's already sucked my friends back into military service, even though they already completed their terms. Because he's lost sight of what this country's really about. Acceptance of all people (Muslims and the French too), inherent undeniable rights (not Patriot Acts), that all people are created equal (not special restrictions for homosexuals).
From the start of his presidency, the constitution has been widely ignored and abused. This MUST NOT BE. The constitution is the cornerstone of our country, the one thing that gives us stability, the only deterrent we have against our country falling apart, the only protection from a dictatorship (such as the one we've been watching slowly build). The constitution is one of the most progressive things ever written, and I think, the only basis for a government that was ever written realistically, not based on ideals such as the late U.S.S.R and most other governments follow in which every person must do their part in order for the country to function efficiently. That level of trust is a fairytale. The constitution's strength lies in the fact that it assumes that all people have a tendency towards corruption and serving their own ends, and thus the constitution has certain safeguards in place.
These safeguards are worthless however, when the constitution is blatantly ignored and abused. For example, our forefathers made painstaking efforts to prevent one political party from ever gaining complete control of the government through carefully-worded safeguards in the constitution. However, the Republican-majority Supreme Court justices, whose job it is to interpret and follow the constitution, ignored the constitution and gave control of the executive branch to the LOSING presidential candidate, leaving us with one party, the Republican party, in control of the Executive, Legislative, and yes, Judicial branches. Look how quickly they've worked to undermine the constitution, stripping the citizenry of several rights (including the right to vote, I would think based on our last presidential election) utilizing such things as the Patriot Act.
The whole thing sickens me. Things can not function without balance, and there is no balance in a one-party government, ESPECIALLY when it's the Republican party running the show. Let us wrestle control away from the near-Nazi extreme right. Let us have a government for the people by the people!
As a sidenote, is anyone else as bothered as I regarding the recent French-bashing our country has put forth? Does it strike anyone else as being wrong that a country which so loudly proclaims to believe in free speech should vilify the French for vocally disagreeing with our war? That we should consider embargoes due to a difference of opinion? What is with all this ridiculous behavior of referring to food items as "freedom fries" and "freedom toast"? There is no freedom in being told to rename food items because the government wants everyone to follow them blindly and some people won't submit! Has everyone forgotten that we never would have won the Revolutionary War without the French winning it for us? Has everyone forgotten that the French gave us our proudest icon, the Statue of Liberty, and they did it simply to be nice?
All of you people out there bashing the French for the wrong reasons need to pull your heads out of your asses. Mock them for folding to the Nazis, mock them for their cinema, their silly-sounding language, the rudeness of Parisians, but DO NOT mock the French because Bush tells you to. Controlling your wording is a form of mind-control and don't you forget it. Next time you go into a McDonald's to pick up your mad-cow burger, make sure you order some FRENCH fries, and proclaim it damn loud.
I promised you an adventure, didn't I?
Well there I was, last night, standing on the roof of El Faro, looking down upon The Road. A super chicken burrito in hand, I stood as a sentinel in the cool, cool night, my eyes ever-alert for signs of trouble. The area was clear and so I continued onward, for everyone knows you go anywhere, find anything, if only you follow The Road.
I journeyed down, down to the corpse-town of Colma, where there's more dead than living, and every block is punctuated with a cemetery. Colma, where the zombies control city council, and the shopping complexes are built on the dirt of unholy consecrations. Colma, where the Target store is stocked with an abundance of shovels, and the Bed, Bath, and Beyond carries a wide selection of coffin liners.
You can't take a step without tripping over a tombstone in Colma, they've even started squeezing them in between the entrance to the K-Mart and the quarter-operated kiddy rides that grace the front of the store. Up the hill, in the Toys R' Us they've even overtaken one of the aisles. The kids don't like the death aisle too much, crammed there between the videogame section and the Fisher Price toys, but it's appropriate, for everyone knows, that Toys R' Us is haunted. Boxes fly from the top shelves at night, whether there's staff present or not. Some mornings the staff come in to find the place trashed. It's just part of the job.
Toys R' Us is where I was, I was in the mood to accessorize. While I was there I was checking out an intriguing new toy line, Heroes of 70s Rock. I had in my hand the color-change Cat Stevens figure, the packaging proudly proclaimed "put figure in cold water to change to Yusef Islam". On the shelf sat a “Marvin Gaye and Father Two-Pack” set, advertised as having “Real Knife-Fighting Action”. I stood there staring at it and was left wondering if this was how far the toy companies had let themselves sink. What happened to the Zartans and Dr. Mindbenders of my childhood?
I wasn't left much time to ponder the thought. An large group of Orcs came in through the front door, along with a ninja-monkey, the prerequisite Caucasian male trying too hard to look and act like one of them, and a cute goth chick. It never ceases to amaze and annoy me, the inherent female genetic trait that causes them to seek out and be with the worst possible examples male-dom out there. The Orcs sauntered in, dragging their long-handled battle axes, their movements scored by a boombox blasting 50 Cent that one of them carried. The Caucasian in the back trailed behind a bit, unnatural in dragging his axe and unaccustomed to the weight. He continually stopped to pull up the back of his sagging loincloth. The monkey I recognized. He was one of the bastards that lives up the street from me.
Though my knowledge of the Orc-mind told me that they would be drawn to the Nerf crotch-rockets, I knew that under the guidance of a ninja-monkey, they would instead make a beeline for the Pixie Sticks. Silently I followed and observed them, keeping myself hidden from notice behind a large display of talking Britney Spears dolls. The monkey hopped up and down and screeched excitedly as he pointed at the Pixie Sticks. Quickly, the ragtag group of Orcs and Orc-groupies began lining their pockets with the sugar-treat. They snatched them all until there was nothing left to grab.
"And what of us? Where is our promised bounty?" the Orc-leader asked of the ninja-monkey.
The ninja-monkey merely screeched in return. Having picked up some knowledge of monkey-speak from my time spent living with Bobo the Virgin Chimp, I translated the monkey's cries as something like, "Yes, yes, patience! Soon you'll have your Cheez Whiz and kipper snacks." I couldn't yet act, the store was too full, and a battle with Orcs was certain to be destructive on a large scale. There would be an added difficulty with the ninja-monkey present, he would funnel their chaos into order and give them an increased effectiveness. I would have to let them get away with the crime of shoplifting for now.
Out the doors of the Toys R' Us went the Orc raiding party, myself slowly following them with a good deal of distance between us. Three Orcs stopped at the quarter-operated horse out in front and fought over who would be the one to ride it. Meanwhile, the Caucasian lad was by the gumball machines, pumping quarters in to add to his collection of Homies, the goth girl merely stood outside smoking.
“We're in a hurry you fools! No quarters for you!” the ninja-monkey screeched at them.
The Orcs hung their heads and walked away, grumpily. The monkey was in the lead, rapidly consuming his Pixie Stick spoils, pouring them into his mouth, rubbing the sugar powder on his gums, snorting two up his nose, rubbing excess into his skin. Ninja-monkeys are notorious sugar-junkies, I know, they've pilfered root beer and Pop Rocks from my manor on enough occasions.
I trailed them to a supermarket. I knew that serious trouble would soon start and that with this large batch of hungry Orcs, no artificial cheese or compressed meat product would be safe. In the doors they stepped, and quickly they shuffled off to where canned foods are kept, in the aisles they lustily drooled at the sight of processed cheese, and molested cans of Spam with their eyes. The temptation was too much and the frenzy began.
"Goongala!!!" the Orc-leader cried as he raised his mighty axe and let it swing through the shelves. Their was an explosion of meat and cheese everywhere and the Orcs madly grabbed at the half-opened cans, putting them to their mouths and sucking out the food stuffs inside. The Caucasian lad tried to emulate this but found his gums quickly bleeding and badly cut. Again, the goth girl just stood there smoking, and doing her best to look unimpressed and perhaps, depressed.
As the Orcs swung their axes madly, shattering containers of food, and engaging in a feast of gorging that was practically an orgy. The monkey slipped away silently, sneaking off to the candy section. He had used the Orcs, they had provided him with convenient distraction, though they were far too dim to realize what was happening.
The ninja-monkey went mad surrounded by so much sugar. He wrapped himself in loops of Red Vines, rolled around on the floor amidst a pile of Neccos while rubbing his nipples with Hershey bars, and shoving his mouth full of any sweets he could get his hands on. I knew I’d have to take out the monkey first. If he regrouped with the Orcs, there was no saying how much damage they could do. I ran off to the fresh meats department and grabbed a large block of dry ice, then to the condiments section to grab a large amount of honey. Despite the cold-resistance which comes naturally as being a Plutonian, my fingers were starting to burn from holding the cold block.
I ran to the aisle next to the candy aisle and started climbing up the shelf. With a large block of dry ice and 10 large containers of honey beside me, I laid on top of the shelf and peeked over the other side, down at the monkey. He was laying there on the floor amidst a pile of candy, sticking Twinkies on his fingers, and other unmentionable places. It was then I struck, pouring the contents of the honey jars upon the monkey. It coated his fur and sunk into every spot on his body. He screeched loudly, it was no doubt an unpleasant feeling. That’s when I started pelting him with chiseled-off chunks of dry ice, which quickly cooled down the temperature of the honey considerably, making it near-impossible for the downed ninja-monkey to move. He stared at me angrily, able only to froth at the mouth, his spittle the color of Skittles.
The ninja-monkey dealt with, I ran off to deal with the Orcs. First I handled the hangers-on, the Caucasian lad I pushed over after pulling his sagging loincloth around his knees. I bound his hands behind his back, leaving him useless, and then moved on to the goth girl. I pulled a brightly colored and gaudy Hawaiian shirt over her shoulders. It was enough to leave her unable to function. That left only the three Orcs.
There was no getting around it. Fisticuffs were necessary.
One of the smaller Orcs lunged at me, I sidestepped and pushed him as he passed me, redirecting him into a large display of pickled pigs feet. The jars fell atop him, many shattering and covering him in brine. Wet, discolored pigs feet were strewn about the floor. I grabbed at a can of ground coffee, quickly puncturing a hole in it with my atomic-vision, and shoving it into the lead Orc’s mouth. He choked and tried to spit as coffee grounds filled his mouth, leaving his mouth dry and tasting unpleasant.
He swung at me and knocked me back, screaming at his remaining underling, “Argh!!! Find the Half and Half! FIND THE HALF AND HALF!!!”
The underling ran off to the dairy section, leaving the Orc-leader and I alone. I gritted my teeth. The mighty Orc swung at me with his massive axe, sending me leaping backwards. I avoided the jagged blade, but it caught my sleeve, tearing at my jacket. My nice, green jacket.
“Fiend!” I cried, leaping at the villain. My face caught the full force from a mighty right hook, I came crashing down once more into store shelves. Quickly, the Orc was upon me, raining blows down upon my handsome visage. It was then I had a moment of clarity. What a crime it would be if the world were deprived of my beauty. How many adoring females would end their lives if they were faced with a world in which they couldn’t gaze lovingly upon my magnificent countenance? The world needs my strong chin, my beauteous eyes, my gleaming teeth.
With a summoning of all my strength, I threw a punch at the bitch-man’s face. I realized that his strength could indeed be his weakness. He’d been besting me in battle because he was larger, stronger, and tougher. But even the manliest of men are humbled and broken by a solid kick to the groin. So kick the Orc in the groin is what I did. First once, then twice, then thrice. Four times my foot had crushed the villains genitals and still I continued on. I had to be certain.
Shortly after the Orc had passed out, his underling returned, carrying a carton of Horchata. Seeing his leader downed, he dropped the cartoon and charged at me, screaming all the way. I was no longer in the mood to fight and instead threw a couple of pickle-relish filled prophylactics at the ground before his feet. He slipped upon one and flew headfirst into my fist. With that, the entire crew of ruffians were incapacitated.
With expert timing, the cops arrived. I stood tall and proud among the downed villains.
“Did you do this?” the lead flatfoot asked me.
“Why yes, yes I did,” I proudly told the policemen, “and 3 aisles down under a mass of honey and dry ice you’ll find a ninja-monkey with at least 100 stolen Pixie Sticks in his possession.”
And for this they confiscated my Safeway Club Card.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
As you may be aware, Bush is planning on starting up the draft again. The old draft-dodger and duty-ditcher wants more young American kids to send off to Iraq to fight his father's war. More people to die while killing innocents so that Bush can stick to his normal routine of laying in his Texas-made bathtub (the one with the longhorns attached and a gun rack on the side) and masturbating amidst several gallons of crude oil. With a pile of CIA-provided coke in the soap dish, he soaks and watches his rubber duck float atop petrol, bobbing to the left and the right, as it narrowly avoids the bullets fired from Bush's six-shooter. After eventually tagging "Queer Ducky" as he moves to the left, always as he moves to the left, Bush throws off his cowboy hat and sinks down in the tub, submerging his head under the blessed oil. It is as he returns to the surface that he fills his head with thoughts of lethal injections and finds himself attaining an erection. As he gets to the process of self-manipulation, he thinks, "thank God for this oil! Good lubrication AND it powers my truck."
Of course, being a Texan, he HAS made love to the truck, utilizing the tailpipe in a most unsavory manner.
Back to the point, Bush wants a draft, just as he wants more war. Though he's not advertising this fact (he does want to get re-elected after all), he's already had people start to fill the vacancies left in the long-unused draft boards. The draft will start up immediately after the start of his second term, and this is all the more reason he must not win the election. He must be defeated, just as he was last time, but this time he mustn't be handed the Executive office anyway, as he was the last time, thanks to the largely Republican-president-appointed Supreme Court. I find it ironic that one so quick to avoid the Vietnam War himself is so eager to create and maintain his own. What a presidency it's been, we've had the ambiance of another Vietnam abroad while achieving the subtle overtones of Germany, 1938 at home.
In short, I'm asking you all to not vote for Bush. Because he's an idiot, because he's a war-monger, because I don't want to get drafted. Because it's bad enough he's already sucked my friends back into military service, even though they already completed their terms. Because he's lost sight of what this country's really about. Acceptance of all people (Muslims and the French too), inherent undeniable rights (not Patriot Acts), that all people are created equal (not special restrictions for homosexuals).
From the start of his presidency, the constitution has been widely ignored and abused. This MUST NOT BE. The constitution is the cornerstone of our country, the one thing that gives us stability, the only deterrent we have against our country falling apart, the only protection from a dictatorship (such as the one we've been watching slowly build). The constitution is one of the most progressive things ever written, and I think, the only basis for a government that was ever written realistically, not based on ideals such as the late U.S.S.R and most other governments follow in which every person must do their part in order for the country to function efficiently. That level of trust is a fairytale. The constitution's strength lies in the fact that it assumes that all people have a tendency towards corruption and serving their own ends, and thus the constitution has certain safeguards in place.
These safeguards are worthless however, when the constitution is blatantly ignored and abused. For example, our forefathers made painstaking efforts to prevent one political party from ever gaining complete control of the government through carefully-worded safeguards in the constitution. However, the Republican-majority Supreme Court justices, whose job it is to interpret and follow the constitution, ignored the constitution and gave control of the executive branch to the LOSING presidential candidate, leaving us with one party, the Republican party, in control of the Executive, Legislative, and yes, Judicial branches. Look how quickly they've worked to undermine the constitution, stripping the citizenry of several rights (including the right to vote, I would think based on our last presidential election) utilizing such things as the Patriot Act.
The whole thing sickens me. Things can not function without balance, and there is no balance in a one-party government, ESPECIALLY when it's the Republican party running the show. Let us wrestle control away from the near-Nazi extreme right. Let us have a government for the people by the people!
As a sidenote, is anyone else as bothered as I regarding the recent French-bashing our country has put forth? Does it strike anyone else as being wrong that a country which so loudly proclaims to believe in free speech should vilify the French for vocally disagreeing with our war? That we should consider embargoes due to a difference of opinion? What is with all this ridiculous behavior of referring to food items as "freedom fries" and "freedom toast"? There is no freedom in being told to rename food items because the government wants everyone to follow them blindly and some people won't submit! Has everyone forgotten that we never would have won the Revolutionary War without the French winning it for us? Has everyone forgotten that the French gave us our proudest icon, the Statue of Liberty, and they did it simply to be nice?
All of you people out there bashing the French for the wrong reasons need to pull your heads out of your asses. Mock them for folding to the Nazis, mock them for their cinema, their silly-sounding language, the rudeness of Parisians, but DO NOT mock the French because Bush tells you to. Controlling your wording is a form of mind-control and don't you forget it. Next time you go into a McDonald's to pick up your mad-cow burger, make sure you order some FRENCH fries, and proclaim it damn loud.
I promised you an adventure, didn't I?
Well there I was, last night, standing on the roof of El Faro, looking down upon The Road. A super chicken burrito in hand, I stood as a sentinel in the cool, cool night, my eyes ever-alert for signs of trouble. The area was clear and so I continued onward, for everyone knows you go anywhere, find anything, if only you follow The Road.
I journeyed down, down to the corpse-town of Colma, where there's more dead than living, and every block is punctuated with a cemetery. Colma, where the zombies control city council, and the shopping complexes are built on the dirt of unholy consecrations. Colma, where the Target store is stocked with an abundance of shovels, and the Bed, Bath, and Beyond carries a wide selection of coffin liners.
You can't take a step without tripping over a tombstone in Colma, they've even started squeezing them in between the entrance to the K-Mart and the quarter-operated kiddy rides that grace the front of the store. Up the hill, in the Toys R' Us they've even overtaken one of the aisles. The kids don't like the death aisle too much, crammed there between the videogame section and the Fisher Price toys, but it's appropriate, for everyone knows, that Toys R' Us is haunted. Boxes fly from the top shelves at night, whether there's staff present or not. Some mornings the staff come in to find the place trashed. It's just part of the job.
Toys R' Us is where I was, I was in the mood to accessorize. While I was there I was checking out an intriguing new toy line, Heroes of 70s Rock. I had in my hand the color-change Cat Stevens figure, the packaging proudly proclaimed "put figure in cold water to change to Yusef Islam". On the shelf sat a “Marvin Gaye and Father Two-Pack” set, advertised as having “Real Knife-Fighting Action”. I stood there staring at it and was left wondering if this was how far the toy companies had let themselves sink. What happened to the Zartans and Dr. Mindbenders of my childhood?
I wasn't left much time to ponder the thought. An large group of Orcs came in through the front door, along with a ninja-monkey, the prerequisite Caucasian male trying too hard to look and act like one of them, and a cute goth chick. It never ceases to amaze and annoy me, the inherent female genetic trait that causes them to seek out and be with the worst possible examples male-dom out there. The Orcs sauntered in, dragging their long-handled battle axes, their movements scored by a boombox blasting 50 Cent that one of them carried. The Caucasian in the back trailed behind a bit, unnatural in dragging his axe and unaccustomed to the weight. He continually stopped to pull up the back of his sagging loincloth. The monkey I recognized. He was one of the bastards that lives up the street from me.
Though my knowledge of the Orc-mind told me that they would be drawn to the Nerf crotch-rockets, I knew that under the guidance of a ninja-monkey, they would instead make a beeline for the Pixie Sticks. Silently I followed and observed them, keeping myself hidden from notice behind a large display of talking Britney Spears dolls. The monkey hopped up and down and screeched excitedly as he pointed at the Pixie Sticks. Quickly, the ragtag group of Orcs and Orc-groupies began lining their pockets with the sugar-treat. They snatched them all until there was nothing left to grab.
"And what of us? Where is our promised bounty?" the Orc-leader asked of the ninja-monkey.
The ninja-monkey merely screeched in return. Having picked up some knowledge of monkey-speak from my time spent living with Bobo the Virgin Chimp, I translated the monkey's cries as something like, "Yes, yes, patience! Soon you'll have your Cheez Whiz and kipper snacks." I couldn't yet act, the store was too full, and a battle with Orcs was certain to be destructive on a large scale. There would be an added difficulty with the ninja-monkey present, he would funnel their chaos into order and give them an increased effectiveness. I would have to let them get away with the crime of shoplifting for now.
Out the doors of the Toys R' Us went the Orc raiding party, myself slowly following them with a good deal of distance between us. Three Orcs stopped at the quarter-operated horse out in front and fought over who would be the one to ride it. Meanwhile, the Caucasian lad was by the gumball machines, pumping quarters in to add to his collection of Homies, the goth girl merely stood outside smoking.
“We're in a hurry you fools! No quarters for you!” the ninja-monkey screeched at them.
The Orcs hung their heads and walked away, grumpily. The monkey was in the lead, rapidly consuming his Pixie Stick spoils, pouring them into his mouth, rubbing the sugar powder on his gums, snorting two up his nose, rubbing excess into his skin. Ninja-monkeys are notorious sugar-junkies, I know, they've pilfered root beer and Pop Rocks from my manor on enough occasions.
I trailed them to a supermarket. I knew that serious trouble would soon start and that with this large batch of hungry Orcs, no artificial cheese or compressed meat product would be safe. In the doors they stepped, and quickly they shuffled off to where canned foods are kept, in the aisles they lustily drooled at the sight of processed cheese, and molested cans of Spam with their eyes. The temptation was too much and the frenzy began.
"Goongala!!!" the Orc-leader cried as he raised his mighty axe and let it swing through the shelves. Their was an explosion of meat and cheese everywhere and the Orcs madly grabbed at the half-opened cans, putting them to their mouths and sucking out the food stuffs inside. The Caucasian lad tried to emulate this but found his gums quickly bleeding and badly cut. Again, the goth girl just stood there smoking, and doing her best to look unimpressed and perhaps, depressed.
As the Orcs swung their axes madly, shattering containers of food, and engaging in a feast of gorging that was practically an orgy. The monkey slipped away silently, sneaking off to the candy section. He had used the Orcs, they had provided him with convenient distraction, though they were far too dim to realize what was happening.
The ninja-monkey went mad surrounded by so much sugar. He wrapped himself in loops of Red Vines, rolled around on the floor amidst a pile of Neccos while rubbing his nipples with Hershey bars, and shoving his mouth full of any sweets he could get his hands on. I knew I’d have to take out the monkey first. If he regrouped with the Orcs, there was no saying how much damage they could do. I ran off to the fresh meats department and grabbed a large block of dry ice, then to the condiments section to grab a large amount of honey. Despite the cold-resistance which comes naturally as being a Plutonian, my fingers were starting to burn from holding the cold block.
I ran to the aisle next to the candy aisle and started climbing up the shelf. With a large block of dry ice and 10 large containers of honey beside me, I laid on top of the shelf and peeked over the other side, down at the monkey. He was laying there on the floor amidst a pile of candy, sticking Twinkies on his fingers, and other unmentionable places. It was then I struck, pouring the contents of the honey jars upon the monkey. It coated his fur and sunk into every spot on his body. He screeched loudly, it was no doubt an unpleasant feeling. That’s when I started pelting him with chiseled-off chunks of dry ice, which quickly cooled down the temperature of the honey considerably, making it near-impossible for the downed ninja-monkey to move. He stared at me angrily, able only to froth at the mouth, his spittle the color of Skittles.
The ninja-monkey dealt with, I ran off to deal with the Orcs. First I handled the hangers-on, the Caucasian lad I pushed over after pulling his sagging loincloth around his knees. I bound his hands behind his back, leaving him useless, and then moved on to the goth girl. I pulled a brightly colored and gaudy Hawaiian shirt over her shoulders. It was enough to leave her unable to function. That left only the three Orcs.
There was no getting around it. Fisticuffs were necessary.
One of the smaller Orcs lunged at me, I sidestepped and pushed him as he passed me, redirecting him into a large display of pickled pigs feet. The jars fell atop him, many shattering and covering him in brine. Wet, discolored pigs feet were strewn about the floor. I grabbed at a can of ground coffee, quickly puncturing a hole in it with my atomic-vision, and shoving it into the lead Orc’s mouth. He choked and tried to spit as coffee grounds filled his mouth, leaving his mouth dry and tasting unpleasant.
He swung at me and knocked me back, screaming at his remaining underling, “Argh!!! Find the Half and Half! FIND THE HALF AND HALF!!!”
The underling ran off to the dairy section, leaving the Orc-leader and I alone. I gritted my teeth. The mighty Orc swung at me with his massive axe, sending me leaping backwards. I avoided the jagged blade, but it caught my sleeve, tearing at my jacket. My nice, green jacket.
“Fiend!” I cried, leaping at the villain. My face caught the full force from a mighty right hook, I came crashing down once more into store shelves. Quickly, the Orc was upon me, raining blows down upon my handsome visage. It was then I had a moment of clarity. What a crime it would be if the world were deprived of my beauty. How many adoring females would end their lives if they were faced with a world in which they couldn’t gaze lovingly upon my magnificent countenance? The world needs my strong chin, my beauteous eyes, my gleaming teeth.
With a summoning of all my strength, I threw a punch at the bitch-man’s face. I realized that his strength could indeed be his weakness. He’d been besting me in battle because he was larger, stronger, and tougher. But even the manliest of men are humbled and broken by a solid kick to the groin. So kick the Orc in the groin is what I did. First once, then twice, then thrice. Four times my foot had crushed the villains genitals and still I continued on. I had to be certain.
Shortly after the Orc had passed out, his underling returned, carrying a carton of Horchata. Seeing his leader downed, he dropped the cartoon and charged at me, screaming all the way. I was no longer in the mood to fight and instead threw a couple of pickle-relish filled prophylactics at the ground before his feet. He slipped upon one and flew headfirst into my fist. With that, the entire crew of ruffians were incapacitated.
With expert timing, the cops arrived. I stood tall and proud among the downed villains.
“Did you do this?” the lead flatfoot asked me.
“Why yes, yes I did,” I proudly told the policemen, “and 3 aisles down under a mass of honey and dry ice you’ll find a ninja-monkey with at least 100 stolen Pixie Sticks in his possession.”
And for this they confiscated my Safeway Club Card.
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 11:15 PM
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Wednesday, January 14, 2004
One Last Bit Of Festivus Cheer
Most terrible news everyone!
I’m back.
No, that’s not the terrible news. Rather, I think that would warm your shrivelled and callused hearts. No, the terrible news is that once more, I am without servant boy.
Thursday, after cleaning spotlessly the Virgin-bathroom, young Bjorgen was slightly dizzy, no doubt from all the cleaning chemicals he’d been exposed to. Though in his modestly altered state I found his personality slightly more lacking, I must admit to rather enjoying the new title he had started calling me by, that being “O Luminous One”. Though the quality of Bjorgen’s work had, without a doubt, began to suffer, his whines for freedom had abated altogether, and thus, I did not mind him taking the occasional 20 minute break to stare at his hands.
The young lad had gotten to the business of spit-shining my shoes, something in which I am most insistent about the application of actual spit in providing a good polish. Slowly and surely, the boy had gotten to each sitting pair of shoes, one by one. My arctic survival-gear boots were polished to the point of mirror shine, lustrous and black, entertaining me with visions of how I would look as a dark and handsome ebony lad. The shoes that matched my tuxedo were beauteous in their post-polish contrast, the ebony which dominated the shoe seemed blacker than night, ever visible even amongst the dark surroundings of a moonlit eve, while the ivory leather centered above the toe, shone like a shield and sparkled in the light like a wheelbarrow wet with dew on a Tacoma morning.
Indeed, every shoe I’d handed the young lad had been returned to me with renewed life, had become a thing of beauty, a work of majestic artistry, something to be numbered and hung on a gallery wall, and adorned with a three-digit price tag. I suppose I’d been put a bit off-guard in the moment, scrambling for my next shoe to see it shine in the same splendor as the last. In careless thoughtlessness I handed Bjorgen my rocket-boots. As the boy dragged his polish-stained rag across the surface of my left rocket-boot, his finger caught the activator switch and the boot came to life, kicking with a large stream of flame. By reflex and largely without thought, the boy’s fingers gripped tightly the boot and the two of them flew off, out through the roof of my Fortress of Fortitude and off to parts unknown, young Bjorgen screaming all the way.
I have no clue where the boy is now, he could be in Jersey, or China, or an atoll in the Pacific. The boot’s charge was full, and with the boy’s prepubescent, bread-and-water bodyweight (or lack thereof) I doubt there’s any place he couldn’t have gone. I’m tempted to think that while the boy made it look like an accident, the event had actually been planned all along, and the Clorox and Drano stupor the boy had been within was merely ploy, enabling him access to my rocket-boots, and thus freedom. The boy had fooled me. Fooled me like the Deer Hunter fools his Vietnamese captors into giving him two bullets on a Russian Roulette morn. Damn that trickster of indeterminate origin and his bit of Tom-Sawyery!
I tried calling the factory from where I had acquired the boy, to demand a refund or replacement, but found they had been shutdown. Shutdown due to “blatant violation and deprivation of basic human rights”. Feh! It’s my rights that have been violated, I who have been deprived of the basic human right of having peeled grapes hand-fed to me, I who have been deprived of the basic human right of having someone to navigate through the crawl-spaces of my manor to personally deal with my problem of rabid-rodentia, I who have been deprived of the basic human right to a sponge-bath every morning. I am most definitely not pleased.
I was quickly distracted from my feelings of irritation by a last minute trip to visit my father for a late celebration of Festivus. For reasons unknown to me, perhaps out of homesickness, my father had returned to Pluto. After my family’s overthrow from government in the late 1970s and subsequent relocation to Earth, I had no intention of ever returning to the bland, frigid mudball that is my ancestral home. I had assumed my family felt the same. Apparently not. My father was hiding in a grand hole he had dug himself at the base of the largest aluminum pole on Pluto.
I’ve been spoiled by Earth-life and I don’t care much for Pluto. The initial novelty of people with eyes in the palms of their hands and women with up to four breasts is lost on me. Okay, maybe not the four-breasted women. But a load of good it does me! While I have twice the looks of Prince William of Britain, and entirely less decomposition than JFK Jr., my royal heritage gains me not my due celebrity status and sorely deserved legions of loose female fans. Indeed, the fact of my royal lineage must be hidden from the people of Pluto, and it is most fortunate that my adult face is not known to them, lest I be chased off of the planet by people wielding pitchforks and torches raised once more. My father is less fortunate and must wear a disguise to mingle amongst the people of Pluto, though personally I fail to see the effectiveness of Groucho-glasses on one who already bears a passing resemblance to the great performer.
My father, Polé, the telescoping man, and rightful King of Pluto, did his best to make a fine belated Festivus for us. There were Pixie Sticks in every stocking and a fine roasted chickencow served up at the dinner table. We danced all night to Girl From Ipanema (Pluto’s national anthem and probably it’s only saving grace) and played a game of “That’s Al Gore!” Our father reiterated to us the long-forgotten lesson of why one should never tease a weasel and at the end of it all we plotted on how to imprison the Antichrist, George Bush Jr., on a space station on the moon. Good fun was had by all! The occasional bit of falling dirt and bugs in our hair hadn’t really been that big an inconvenience after all.
Finally, it was time to leave and return home, and after giving and receiving a great deal of hugs, I boarded my shuttle. The trip home left me with time to reflect on the merriment had and thoughts of perhaps one day returning to Pluto after all. But I would return as a king, and I would oust our vile opponent, the fairly-elected, and much loved, President La Pistola. Someday, Pistola, someday. Institute your literacy programs and universal health care while you can, because someday, The Virgin Prince is coming back.
My lair was in terrible shape when I returned, an altogether horrible state of filth. As a servant boy, Bobo makes a terrible substitute for Bjorgen. The walls are dirtier than when I left, there’s ape-hair in the butter dish, and you don’t even want to know what Bobo’s method of shoe-shining involves. Still, we get by. Until next time…
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I’m back.
No, that’s not the terrible news. Rather, I think that would warm your shrivelled and callused hearts. No, the terrible news is that once more, I am without servant boy.
Thursday, after cleaning spotlessly the Virgin-bathroom, young Bjorgen was slightly dizzy, no doubt from all the cleaning chemicals he’d been exposed to. Though in his modestly altered state I found his personality slightly more lacking, I must admit to rather enjoying the new title he had started calling me by, that being “O Luminous One”. Though the quality of Bjorgen’s work had, without a doubt, began to suffer, his whines for freedom had abated altogether, and thus, I did not mind him taking the occasional 20 minute break to stare at his hands.
The young lad had gotten to the business of spit-shining my shoes, something in which I am most insistent about the application of actual spit in providing a good polish. Slowly and surely, the boy had gotten to each sitting pair of shoes, one by one. My arctic survival-gear boots were polished to the point of mirror shine, lustrous and black, entertaining me with visions of how I would look as a dark and handsome ebony lad. The shoes that matched my tuxedo were beauteous in their post-polish contrast, the ebony which dominated the shoe seemed blacker than night, ever visible even amongst the dark surroundings of a moonlit eve, while the ivory leather centered above the toe, shone like a shield and sparkled in the light like a wheelbarrow wet with dew on a Tacoma morning.
Indeed, every shoe I’d handed the young lad had been returned to me with renewed life, had become a thing of beauty, a work of majestic artistry, something to be numbered and hung on a gallery wall, and adorned with a three-digit price tag. I suppose I’d been put a bit off-guard in the moment, scrambling for my next shoe to see it shine in the same splendor as the last. In careless thoughtlessness I handed Bjorgen my rocket-boots. As the boy dragged his polish-stained rag across the surface of my left rocket-boot, his finger caught the activator switch and the boot came to life, kicking with a large stream of flame. By reflex and largely without thought, the boy’s fingers gripped tightly the boot and the two of them flew off, out through the roof of my Fortress of Fortitude and off to parts unknown, young Bjorgen screaming all the way.
I have no clue where the boy is now, he could be in Jersey, or China, or an atoll in the Pacific. The boot’s charge was full, and with the boy’s prepubescent, bread-and-water bodyweight (or lack thereof) I doubt there’s any place he couldn’t have gone. I’m tempted to think that while the boy made it look like an accident, the event had actually been planned all along, and the Clorox and Drano stupor the boy had been within was merely ploy, enabling him access to my rocket-boots, and thus freedom. The boy had fooled me. Fooled me like the Deer Hunter fools his Vietnamese captors into giving him two bullets on a Russian Roulette morn. Damn that trickster of indeterminate origin and his bit of Tom-Sawyery!
I tried calling the factory from where I had acquired the boy, to demand a refund or replacement, but found they had been shutdown. Shutdown due to “blatant violation and deprivation of basic human rights”. Feh! It’s my rights that have been violated, I who have been deprived of the basic human right of having peeled grapes hand-fed to me, I who have been deprived of the basic human right of having someone to navigate through the crawl-spaces of my manor to personally deal with my problem of rabid-rodentia, I who have been deprived of the basic human right to a sponge-bath every morning. I am most definitely not pleased.
I was quickly distracted from my feelings of irritation by a last minute trip to visit my father for a late celebration of Festivus. For reasons unknown to me, perhaps out of homesickness, my father had returned to Pluto. After my family’s overthrow from government in the late 1970s and subsequent relocation to Earth, I had no intention of ever returning to the bland, frigid mudball that is my ancestral home. I had assumed my family felt the same. Apparently not. My father was hiding in a grand hole he had dug himself at the base of the largest aluminum pole on Pluto.
I’ve been spoiled by Earth-life and I don’t care much for Pluto. The initial novelty of people with eyes in the palms of their hands and women with up to four breasts is lost on me. Okay, maybe not the four-breasted women. But a load of good it does me! While I have twice the looks of Prince William of Britain, and entirely less decomposition than JFK Jr., my royal heritage gains me not my due celebrity status and sorely deserved legions of loose female fans. Indeed, the fact of my royal lineage must be hidden from the people of Pluto, and it is most fortunate that my adult face is not known to them, lest I be chased off of the planet by people wielding pitchforks and torches raised once more. My father is less fortunate and must wear a disguise to mingle amongst the people of Pluto, though personally I fail to see the effectiveness of Groucho-glasses on one who already bears a passing resemblance to the great performer.
My father, Polé, the telescoping man, and rightful King of Pluto, did his best to make a fine belated Festivus for us. There were Pixie Sticks in every stocking and a fine roasted chickencow served up at the dinner table. We danced all night to Girl From Ipanema (Pluto’s national anthem and probably it’s only saving grace) and played a game of “That’s Al Gore!” Our father reiterated to us the long-forgotten lesson of why one should never tease a weasel and at the end of it all we plotted on how to imprison the Antichrist, George Bush Jr., on a space station on the moon. Good fun was had by all! The occasional bit of falling dirt and bugs in our hair hadn’t really been that big an inconvenience after all.
Finally, it was time to leave and return home, and after giving and receiving a great deal of hugs, I boarded my shuttle. The trip home left me with time to reflect on the merriment had and thoughts of perhaps one day returning to Pluto after all. But I would return as a king, and I would oust our vile opponent, the fairly-elected, and much loved, President La Pistola. Someday, Pistola, someday. Institute your literacy programs and universal health care while you can, because someday, The Virgin Prince is coming back.
My lair was in terrible shape when I returned, an altogether horrible state of filth. As a servant boy, Bobo makes a terrible substitute for Bjorgen. The walls are dirtier than when I left, there’s ape-hair in the butter dish, and you don’t even want to know what Bobo’s method of shoe-shining involves. Still, we get by. Until next time…
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 4:28 PM
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Wednesday, January 07, 2004
The Tyranny Of Emeril
Fellow enthusiasts of the finer things in life,
Well, it would seem that the Food Network doesn’t want William Shatner and Christopher Walken to have their own cooking show. It seems that the Food Network is masterminding some great conspiracy to keep them off the air. It would also seem the Food Network has some powerful friends. I didn’t make it 3 blocks before I was surrounded by police officers. I’ll never understand what it is the cops have against us mystery men, but whatever it is, it causes for a lot of incidents between us. Flatfeet and mystery men are about as compatible as Legos and Tinker Toys.
(They’re the Tinker Toys. No one likes Tinker Toys.)
So there I was, marching down the street, singing my anthem to happiness, when no less than a dozen armed policemen surrounded me. I invited them to sing along and join me on my quest, but they all just reached for their billy-clubs instead. Seeing an imminent threat, I reached for my utility belt so that I might fend off my attackers with a non-lethal deterrent, namely, pickle-relish filled prophylactics, but then realized that in the trance of my pants-free euphoria, I had left the house without putting my belt on. I hoped then to disperse this potential menace with a few quick blasts of my atomic vision, but found that in the embarrassment of being caught outside in my shorts, I had trouble performing.
“Who sent you?” I cried, “Was it Emeril that gave the order?”
They remained silent, but I quickly found myself in the center of a large pile-up of angry police officers. Being no stranger to savage beatings, I defended myself as best as possible but found myself unable to escape, being swarmed by some 12 officers. I let loose with a fierce barrage of outright malicious tittie-twisters, but the overwhelming weight of the multitude of large bellies pressed down upon me, in addition to the overwhelming stench of coffee-breath and body odor, made it difficult to breathe and I quickly passed out.
I woke up in a cold jail cell next to a large motorbike enthusiast by the name of Jimbo. My shorts were on backwards, which I couldn’t quite explain, but I was otherwise intact. In the hours that passed, I made conversation with Jimbo, learning along the way the proper method of making moonshine within the comfort of your own jail cell. I also witnessed a most impressive display of tattoos, courtesy of my cellmate, the my favorite of which was a large bunny with a skull in his mouth. Looking at the works of art mapping out Jimbo’s back, I got to thinking, maybe it’s about time I got my own tattoo. I’ve been meaning to for years, and the initial ideas I had for tattoos still hold up. I’m still as impressed with my desired imagery now as I was then, whether it be the Predicon robot Inferno, or the transmetal rodent-dragster Rattrap. Of late, I’ve also been starting to desire an image of Frank Miller’s Dark Knight, I can think of no better piece of art. Move over Mona Lisa!
I tried to nap once while in my cell, but quickly awoke to find Jimbo’s arms around me. I asked my cellmate what he was doing, to which he replied he was merely incredibly happy to find a partner in his quest to see William Shatner and Christopher Walken united together to host a show of culinary delights. He too had been jailed for the same reason he told me. I decided I couldn’t fault him for that and allowed him to continue. But as he continued to hold me closer and tighter, a strange feeling filled me, and I let loose with a large and unintentional burst of atomic vision, which blew out the cell wall.
“Ha ha! Freedom!” I yelled as I leapt out into moonlit streets and ran off, back to my Fortress of Fortitude.
Thus, I am free again. Free to return to my quest of challenging the tyranny of the Food Network. I’d love to post their email address so you could join me in demanding a fine cooking program starring Captain Kirk and the Hessian Horseman, but THEY DON’T HAVE ONE. How convenient! So I suppose you’ll just have to send your demands through the mail. Of course, I’m sure the post office is in on the Food Network’s conspiracy.
Join me my mortal brothers and sisters! Let us never give up, let us dream of a bold, brave new future where T.J. Hooker and McBain serve up burnt enchiladas in glorious primetime! I can see it now, Episode 6: Prudone’s Women, wherein Shatner shows disgust at the prospect of eating caviar and escargot, crying out,
“Dammit! How can we eat this? This food has been cast before us like a trough to swine. We’re men, dammit! We’re men!!!”
Of course, then he’d get locked in a brutal struggle with the Frugal Gourmet, in which Shatner’s shirt and apron would be torn, before Shatner finally disposed of his foe with his patented two-handed wallop.
Or how about Episode 7: The Flavor Country, in which Christopher Walken foresees which leftovers will be eaten by placing his hands in the food. This ironically seals an unfortunate fate for the split pea soup, the chocolate mousse, the sloppy joes, and the lemon meringue pie, which he touches in that order in rapid succession. It’s brilliant!
It’s in our grasp, let’s make it happen.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Well, it would seem that the Food Network doesn’t want William Shatner and Christopher Walken to have their own cooking show. It seems that the Food Network is masterminding some great conspiracy to keep them off the air. It would also seem the Food Network has some powerful friends. I didn’t make it 3 blocks before I was surrounded by police officers. I’ll never understand what it is the cops have against us mystery men, but whatever it is, it causes for a lot of incidents between us. Flatfeet and mystery men are about as compatible as Legos and Tinker Toys.
(They’re the Tinker Toys. No one likes Tinker Toys.)
So there I was, marching down the street, singing my anthem to happiness, when no less than a dozen armed policemen surrounded me. I invited them to sing along and join me on my quest, but they all just reached for their billy-clubs instead. Seeing an imminent threat, I reached for my utility belt so that I might fend off my attackers with a non-lethal deterrent, namely, pickle-relish filled prophylactics, but then realized that in the trance of my pants-free euphoria, I had left the house without putting my belt on. I hoped then to disperse this potential menace with a few quick blasts of my atomic vision, but found that in the embarrassment of being caught outside in my shorts, I had trouble performing.
“Who sent you?” I cried, “Was it Emeril that gave the order?”
They remained silent, but I quickly found myself in the center of a large pile-up of angry police officers. Being no stranger to savage beatings, I defended myself as best as possible but found myself unable to escape, being swarmed by some 12 officers. I let loose with a fierce barrage of outright malicious tittie-twisters, but the overwhelming weight of the multitude of large bellies pressed down upon me, in addition to the overwhelming stench of coffee-breath and body odor, made it difficult to breathe and I quickly passed out.
I woke up in a cold jail cell next to a large motorbike enthusiast by the name of Jimbo. My shorts were on backwards, which I couldn’t quite explain, but I was otherwise intact. In the hours that passed, I made conversation with Jimbo, learning along the way the proper method of making moonshine within the comfort of your own jail cell. I also witnessed a most impressive display of tattoos, courtesy of my cellmate, the my favorite of which was a large bunny with a skull in his mouth. Looking at the works of art mapping out Jimbo’s back, I got to thinking, maybe it’s about time I got my own tattoo. I’ve been meaning to for years, and the initial ideas I had for tattoos still hold up. I’m still as impressed with my desired imagery now as I was then, whether it be the Predicon robot Inferno, or the transmetal rodent-dragster Rattrap. Of late, I’ve also been starting to desire an image of Frank Miller’s Dark Knight, I can think of no better piece of art. Move over Mona Lisa!
I tried to nap once while in my cell, but quickly awoke to find Jimbo’s arms around me. I asked my cellmate what he was doing, to which he replied he was merely incredibly happy to find a partner in his quest to see William Shatner and Christopher Walken united together to host a show of culinary delights. He too had been jailed for the same reason he told me. I decided I couldn’t fault him for that and allowed him to continue. But as he continued to hold me closer and tighter, a strange feeling filled me, and I let loose with a large and unintentional burst of atomic vision, which blew out the cell wall.
“Ha ha! Freedom!” I yelled as I leapt out into moonlit streets and ran off, back to my Fortress of Fortitude.
Thus, I am free again. Free to return to my quest of challenging the tyranny of the Food Network. I’d love to post their email address so you could join me in demanding a fine cooking program starring Captain Kirk and the Hessian Horseman, but THEY DON’T HAVE ONE. How convenient! So I suppose you’ll just have to send your demands through the mail. Of course, I’m sure the post office is in on the Food Network’s conspiracy.
Join me my mortal brothers and sisters! Let us never give up, let us dream of a bold, brave new future where T.J. Hooker and McBain serve up burnt enchiladas in glorious primetime! I can see it now, Episode 6: Prudone’s Women, wherein Shatner shows disgust at the prospect of eating caviar and escargot, crying out,
“Dammit! How can we eat this? This food has been cast before us like a trough to swine. We’re men, dammit! We’re men!!!”
Of course, then he’d get locked in a brutal struggle with the Frugal Gourmet, in which Shatner’s shirt and apron would be torn, before Shatner finally disposed of his foe with his patented two-handed wallop.
Or how about Episode 7: The Flavor Country, in which Christopher Walken foresees which leftovers will be eaten by placing his hands in the food. This ironically seals an unfortunate fate for the split pea soup, the chocolate mousse, the sloppy joes, and the lemon meringue pie, which he touches in that order in rapid succession. It’s brilliant!
It’s in our grasp, let’s make it happen.
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 4:02 PM
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Monday, January 05, 2004
A Sing-Songy Day
I find myself filled with joy, overflowing with life-loving cheer. Perhaps it’s leftover from Festivus. Perhaps I’m simply high on life. I know not. All I know is I feel like kicking my legs up and strutting out into the streets. I feel like singing, like rhyming “riddley rum dum-dum” with a “yum chum-chum” as penguins dance behind me. All my lecherous feelings have left me, leaving instead nonsensical glee! I’m left asking myself “What would Dick Van Dyke do?” I’ll tell you what he’d do! He’d pop his chimney-soot covered face up and sing! Let’s sing!
It’s a fine old night
to pull my mask on tight
and join Jacko in a tree
‘cuz my toga’s on
and my mother’s gone
it’s a Roman’s life for me!
There’s no rain or snow
only wine that flows
and I’ve feng-shui-ed all of my chi
now I’ll drop my pants
and do a vulgar dance
for it’s a Roman’s life for me!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for I’ll drop my pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for me
There’s a lusty man
a lascivian
and he’s rocking like the sea
for he’s dropped his pants
and done a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for he!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for he’s dropped his pants
and done a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for he
In the great white north
Rush Girl sallies forth
on a sexy exposed knee
and she’ll drop her pants
and do a vulgar dance
for it’s a Roman life for she!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for she’ll drop her pants
and do a vulgar dance
for it’s a Roman life for she
(Aye! That’s beautiful! All you giraffes join in and kick your legs up high!)
Not too far from here
sits Mister Mystere
he’s a prude, and far from free
he’ll not drop his pants
or do a vulgar dance
a New Englander is he!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
he’ll not drop his pants
or do a vulgar dance
a New Englander is he!
And my pal Green Mike
rides his magic bike
and Red Raven’s drinking tea
they’ll both drop their pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for we!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for they’ll drop their pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for we
So let loose your hair
and have not a care
let your bits hang loose and free
may you drop your pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for thee!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
may you drop your pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for thee
Marvelous! Simply marvelous! This song, it’s stimulating! I’m inspired, truly inspired, I think I’ll drop my pants and go out dancing, kicking my legs up high and marching down the street in my boxer shorts. I’ll not stop until I’ve reached the Food Network headquarters and succeeded in my quest to have them put on a cooking show co-hosted by William Shatner and Christopher Walken. Good day!
It’s a fine old night
to pull my mask on tight
and join Jacko in a tree
‘cuz my toga’s on
and my mother’s gone
it’s a Roman’s life for me!
There’s no rain or snow
only wine that flows
and I’ve feng-shui-ed all of my chi
now I’ll drop my pants
and do a vulgar dance
for it’s a Roman’s life for me!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for I’ll drop my pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for me
There’s a lusty man
a lascivian
and he’s rocking like the sea
for he’s dropped his pants
and done a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for he!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for he’s dropped his pants
and done a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for he
In the great white north
Rush Girl sallies forth
on a sexy exposed knee
and she’ll drop her pants
and do a vulgar dance
for it’s a Roman life for she!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for she’ll drop her pants
and do a vulgar dance
for it’s a Roman life for she
(Aye! That’s beautiful! All you giraffes join in and kick your legs up high!)
Not too far from here
sits Mister Mystere
he’s a prude, and far from free
he’ll not drop his pants
or do a vulgar dance
a New Englander is he!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
he’ll not drop his pants
or do a vulgar dance
a New Englander is he!
And my pal Green Mike
rides his magic bike
and Red Raven’s drinking tea
they’ll both drop their pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for we!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
for they’ll drop their pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for we
So let loose your hair
and have not a care
let your bits hang loose and free
may you drop your pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for thee!
Riddley rum dum-dum
and a yum chum-chum
and a yam-yam didley-oddle dee!
may you drop your pants
and do a vulgar dance
it’s a Roman’s life for thee
Marvelous! Simply marvelous! This song, it’s stimulating! I’m inspired, truly inspired, I think I’ll drop my pants and go out dancing, kicking my legs up high and marching down the street in my boxer shorts. I’ll not stop until I’ve reached the Food Network headquarters and succeeded in my quest to have them put on a cooking show co-hosted by William Shatner and Christopher Walken. Good day!
The Virgin Prince, 10:46 PM
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Friday, January 02, 2004
Happy New Years, And A Fine Hobbit Day To You
Citizens,
My apologies to you all for failing to post yesterday. I'm aware that the tales of my adventures are most likely the most exciting thing in your mortal lives, and without which, you no doubt begin to shrivel up and return to the thought processes of yearning for death. Never fear lowly civilians! You'll have my great and noble words today! My tales are as unstoppable as the cosmic power which flows from my mystic sideburns.
Yesterday, the first, was Spaceslut and Robot Day and I did very little to celebrate. It's most likely very fortunate that Rush Girl was safely away in the low-crime ghettos of Vancouver, Canada, for I very well most likely would have spent the majority of the day trying to satisfy her mechanical needs, as is tradition on Spaceslut and Robot Day. Spaceslut and Robot Day to me is much like Pon-Farr to a Vulcan, sending my hormones out of balance and weakening my mind, temporarily turning me into a drooling simpleton worthy of hanging out in Paris Hilton's circle. I have made it through the ordeal, and though I may yet harass Rush Girl again in the future (it's almost a certainty) today is Hobbit Day, and I have tonight's Fellowship of the Drunks to look forward to. A feat of strength it will be indeed.
'Tis the time to rest up for all of us brave travelers destined to head out in the rain, up into the hills tonight, into the fierce winds, the high altitudes, the mud, the impenetrable darkness. My teeth will gleam that much brighter against the contrast of drenched face-mask and muddy trenchcoat. 'Twill be a grand adventure, and we may not all make it back, those who do will surely show signs of the journey.
Speaking of Journey, that reminds me of why I was not able to write last night. Rock supergroup Journey was on it's way to the great space-concert on Reticuli 4. Though Journey's popularity may have faded here on Earth, they're still as popular as ever among the skinny, white, bald men that reside within the Reticuli system. Nowhere moreso than Reticuli 4, the rumored birthplace of music-man Moby's ancestors.
There was a problem however, Journey's instruments had been stolen. This, of course, prompted front-man Steve Perry to place a very urgent phone call to yours truly, The Virgin Prince. It's a little-known fact that Steve Perry suffers from a very rare affliction that causes him to sing everything he says. Have you ever seen the video Journey did where Steve Perry says a quick non-sung phrase to his girlfriend? The filming of that one scene took 3 days and 2814 takes. Ultimately the dialogue was pieced together. That said, the conversation with Mr. Perry took some getting used to. Upon answering the Virgin-hotline, the first thing I heard was:
"We've got a problem here,
someone stole our IN-STRU-MEH-ENTS!
Without our magic tools,
our music sounds like EX-CRE-MEH-ENT!
The CON-CERT is TO-NIGHT,
the baldies want to HEAR US PLAY-AY!
Our DARK-EST hour NEEDS LIGHT!
Won't you come and SAVE THE DAY-AY?"
I took a minute to adjust to Steve Perry's manner of speaking and then responded in kind, using the language of song to ensure he understood me loudly and clearly.
"FEAR-NOT MOR-TAL!
Your property shall BE RE-TUR-URNED!
I'LL-HEED YOUR-CALL,
the villains shall be BAD-LY BUR-URNED!
DON'T-STOP BELIEVEING,
I'll search out all the CLUES AND HIH-INTS!
YOU'LL SOON BE RECEIVING
Your cosmic-powered IN-STRU-MEH-ENTS!"
I'll spare you the rest of the conversation, but rest assured we got our points across and made clear our concerns. Upon hanging up, I was on the case. I threw on my mystical Vice-shoes and ran from my Fortress of Fortitude, across the sky towards Journey headquarters.
Upon arriving at Journey headquarters, I did an initial investigation of the crime scene. The footprints left there indicated no less than four perpetrators. Minute traces of blood and stress fractures in the wall indicated a struggle between two of the fiends. These were all revealing clues, but it was the spermatozoa-encrusted Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band booklet left scattered on the floor that gave away the culprits. In song, I began to address the band members.
"The culprits have been found,
the clues have shown me THE TRUE VILL-AINS…"
"Ummm… Mr. Virgin Prince," Ross Valory interrupted, "the rest of the band speaks normally. You don't need to sing to us."
"Oh. Thank you," I told the interrupting bassist, "now shut up."
"Gentlemen," I said as I addressed the band, "I have determined the culprits responsible for this vile deed. Ready the cosmic tour bus, we're going on a trip. A trip to an evil, evil place. Deepest, darkest England."
Into the cosmic tour bus we piled, and off to England we flew. We landed in a seedy little town, and parked the bus behind a worn-down warehouse, our intended destination. The fog was thick in the air. Slowly and quietly we crept inside. We quickly realized that our stealth had been unnecessary, inside the warehouse the members of the band Oasis were busy pummeling eachother. The members of Oasis are a lot like gremlins. Both are loud, obnoxious, violent, and dangerous on planes. The most noticeable difference between the two is that gremlins are cute when they're young.
"Stop fiends!" I yelled at the band, "We've come to reclaim Journey's magical instruments. Hand them over now to receive a minimum of physical abuse!"
Liam Gallagher, though seemingly lacking actual musical ability, was also a song talker. In responding, he let loose with his soul-draining whine, singing in the talentless way he'd grown so talented in.
"Oy, I want a danish,
I've got a lot of money.
We're the greatest band ever,
Even bigger than Yanni."
Through the moaning and the trite lyrics, I couldn't understand exactly what it was he was trying to say, but it mattered not. Noel Gallagher promptly walked over and punched him out.
"That's right," Noel bragged, "we're the ones wot took the instruments. We're the greatest rock band ever, and we realized we might have set our goals too high in trying to be bigger than the Beatles, so we've decided to be bigger than Journey instead, and we're almost there! Now that we have the instruments, we're ready to start our new project, Colonel Cayenne's Solitary Cardiac Organ's Group Quartet!"
"Back to plagiarism and lack of originality again? When are you going to learn that you'll never be bigger than the Beatles because their songs, though mostly marginally mediocre pop hits, were original and by far better than your brand of crap? Also, unlike you, the Beatles were relatively good-looking. If you wanted a gimmick, you should have gone the way of Victor Willis and named your group the Uni-Brow People." I yelled at them.
“Oy! For that slight I’ll destroy you! Prepare to meet your doom, courtesy of my Champagne Supernova in the sky!” Noel cried as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small disc which he then tossed into the air. It stayed there hovering, spinning, shooting beams at us, glowing and increasing in intensity.
“The wheel in the sky keeps on turning!” cried Steve Perry, his voice full of panic.
Gritting my teeth, I shot at the spinning disc with my atomic vision. The blasts bounced off of it as it continued spinning and firing bolts at us which increased in size. Noting that my own special abilities seemed to be failing me, I rifled through my utility belt. I found little more than condoms and pickle-relish. With a shrug and a groan, I started pelting the Champagne Supernova with relish-filled prophylactics.
Paydirt! With an explosion of latex and dull-green wetness the Champagne Supernova was out of commission, short-circuited and lying uselessly on the ground. With a quick spring forward, I charged at the members of the band as if I were a tornado of flying fists. I caught Noel with a strong right hook to the jaw and for good measure, kicked away at the groin of the unconscious Liam.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that, while incredibly satisfying, fighting with the members of Oasis was completely unnecessary. They would gladly do the work for me!
“Hey! Which one of you is the talented one?” I cried to the members of Oasis.
“I AM!!!” they all cried. They stopped and made angry stares at eachother before all jumping at eachother and forming a large, rolling pile on the floor. Fists flew and teeth flew further, until finally, the whole bunch was unconscious.
“Okay Journey, grab your instruments, you’ve got a concert to get to.” I yelled to my compatriots.
The band members excitedly ran up and retrieved their instruments. Steve Perry seemed to illuminate briefly as he grabbed hold of his cosmic microphone. I walked outside the warehouse and waited by the cosmic tour bus. Soon, the band members joined me and they loaded their instruments into the bus, meanwhile, I sealed the exits to the warehouse with my atomic vision, hopefully sealing Oasis inside forever.
Steve Perry opened his lips to sing me thanks.
Quickly I covered his mouth, “Your happiness is my reward.” I told him, shoving him onto the bus. The cosmic tour bus then lifted from the ground and flew off into the sky, off towards the space-concert.
And there you have it. That was my New Years / Spaceslut and Robot Day. I hope yours was as productive. I’m off now to participate in the Fellowship of the Drunks. Happy Hobbit Day!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
My apologies to you all for failing to post yesterday. I'm aware that the tales of my adventures are most likely the most exciting thing in your mortal lives, and without which, you no doubt begin to shrivel up and return to the thought processes of yearning for death. Never fear lowly civilians! You'll have my great and noble words today! My tales are as unstoppable as the cosmic power which flows from my mystic sideburns.
Yesterday, the first, was Spaceslut and Robot Day and I did very little to celebrate. It's most likely very fortunate that Rush Girl was safely away in the low-crime ghettos of Vancouver, Canada, for I very well most likely would have spent the majority of the day trying to satisfy her mechanical needs, as is tradition on Spaceslut and Robot Day. Spaceslut and Robot Day to me is much like Pon-Farr to a Vulcan, sending my hormones out of balance and weakening my mind, temporarily turning me into a drooling simpleton worthy of hanging out in Paris Hilton's circle. I have made it through the ordeal, and though I may yet harass Rush Girl again in the future (it's almost a certainty) today is Hobbit Day, and I have tonight's Fellowship of the Drunks to look forward to. A feat of strength it will be indeed.
'Tis the time to rest up for all of us brave travelers destined to head out in the rain, up into the hills tonight, into the fierce winds, the high altitudes, the mud, the impenetrable darkness. My teeth will gleam that much brighter against the contrast of drenched face-mask and muddy trenchcoat. 'Twill be a grand adventure, and we may not all make it back, those who do will surely show signs of the journey.
Speaking of Journey, that reminds me of why I was not able to write last night. Rock supergroup Journey was on it's way to the great space-concert on Reticuli 4. Though Journey's popularity may have faded here on Earth, they're still as popular as ever among the skinny, white, bald men that reside within the Reticuli system. Nowhere moreso than Reticuli 4, the rumored birthplace of music-man Moby's ancestors.
There was a problem however, Journey's instruments had been stolen. This, of course, prompted front-man Steve Perry to place a very urgent phone call to yours truly, The Virgin Prince. It's a little-known fact that Steve Perry suffers from a very rare affliction that causes him to sing everything he says. Have you ever seen the video Journey did where Steve Perry says a quick non-sung phrase to his girlfriend? The filming of that one scene took 3 days and 2814 takes. Ultimately the dialogue was pieced together. That said, the conversation with Mr. Perry took some getting used to. Upon answering the Virgin-hotline, the first thing I heard was:
"We've got a problem here,
someone stole our IN-STRU-MEH-ENTS!
Without our magic tools,
our music sounds like EX-CRE-MEH-ENT!
The CON-CERT is TO-NIGHT,
the baldies want to HEAR US PLAY-AY!
Our DARK-EST hour NEEDS LIGHT!
Won't you come and SAVE THE DAY-AY?"
I took a minute to adjust to Steve Perry's manner of speaking and then responded in kind, using the language of song to ensure he understood me loudly and clearly.
"FEAR-NOT MOR-TAL!
Your property shall BE RE-TUR-URNED!
I'LL-HEED YOUR-CALL,
the villains shall be BAD-LY BUR-URNED!
DON'T-STOP BELIEVEING,
I'll search out all the CLUES AND HIH-INTS!
YOU'LL SOON BE RECEIVING
Your cosmic-powered IN-STRU-MEH-ENTS!"
I'll spare you the rest of the conversation, but rest assured we got our points across and made clear our concerns. Upon hanging up, I was on the case. I threw on my mystical Vice-shoes and ran from my Fortress of Fortitude, across the sky towards Journey headquarters.
Upon arriving at Journey headquarters, I did an initial investigation of the crime scene. The footprints left there indicated no less than four perpetrators. Minute traces of blood and stress fractures in the wall indicated a struggle between two of the fiends. These were all revealing clues, but it was the spermatozoa-encrusted Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band booklet left scattered on the floor that gave away the culprits. In song, I began to address the band members.
"The culprits have been found,
the clues have shown me THE TRUE VILL-AINS…"
"Ummm… Mr. Virgin Prince," Ross Valory interrupted, "the rest of the band speaks normally. You don't need to sing to us."
"Oh. Thank you," I told the interrupting bassist, "now shut up."
"Gentlemen," I said as I addressed the band, "I have determined the culprits responsible for this vile deed. Ready the cosmic tour bus, we're going on a trip. A trip to an evil, evil place. Deepest, darkest England."
Into the cosmic tour bus we piled, and off to England we flew. We landed in a seedy little town, and parked the bus behind a worn-down warehouse, our intended destination. The fog was thick in the air. Slowly and quietly we crept inside. We quickly realized that our stealth had been unnecessary, inside the warehouse the members of the band Oasis were busy pummeling eachother. The members of Oasis are a lot like gremlins. Both are loud, obnoxious, violent, and dangerous on planes. The most noticeable difference between the two is that gremlins are cute when they're young.
"Stop fiends!" I yelled at the band, "We've come to reclaim Journey's magical instruments. Hand them over now to receive a minimum of physical abuse!"
Liam Gallagher, though seemingly lacking actual musical ability, was also a song talker. In responding, he let loose with his soul-draining whine, singing in the talentless way he'd grown so talented in.
"Oy, I want a danish,
I've got a lot of money.
We're the greatest band ever,
Even bigger than Yanni."
Through the moaning and the trite lyrics, I couldn't understand exactly what it was he was trying to say, but it mattered not. Noel Gallagher promptly walked over and punched him out.
"That's right," Noel bragged, "we're the ones wot took the instruments. We're the greatest rock band ever, and we realized we might have set our goals too high in trying to be bigger than the Beatles, so we've decided to be bigger than Journey instead, and we're almost there! Now that we have the instruments, we're ready to start our new project, Colonel Cayenne's Solitary Cardiac Organ's Group Quartet!"
"Back to plagiarism and lack of originality again? When are you going to learn that you'll never be bigger than the Beatles because their songs, though mostly marginally mediocre pop hits, were original and by far better than your brand of crap? Also, unlike you, the Beatles were relatively good-looking. If you wanted a gimmick, you should have gone the way of Victor Willis and named your group the Uni-Brow People." I yelled at them.
“Oy! For that slight I’ll destroy you! Prepare to meet your doom, courtesy of my Champagne Supernova in the sky!” Noel cried as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small disc which he then tossed into the air. It stayed there hovering, spinning, shooting beams at us, glowing and increasing in intensity.
“The wheel in the sky keeps on turning!” cried Steve Perry, his voice full of panic.
Gritting my teeth, I shot at the spinning disc with my atomic vision. The blasts bounced off of it as it continued spinning and firing bolts at us which increased in size. Noting that my own special abilities seemed to be failing me, I rifled through my utility belt. I found little more than condoms and pickle-relish. With a shrug and a groan, I started pelting the Champagne Supernova with relish-filled prophylactics.
Paydirt! With an explosion of latex and dull-green wetness the Champagne Supernova was out of commission, short-circuited and lying uselessly on the ground. With a quick spring forward, I charged at the members of the band as if I were a tornado of flying fists. I caught Noel with a strong right hook to the jaw and for good measure, kicked away at the groin of the unconscious Liam.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that, while incredibly satisfying, fighting with the members of Oasis was completely unnecessary. They would gladly do the work for me!
“Hey! Which one of you is the talented one?” I cried to the members of Oasis.
“I AM!!!” they all cried. They stopped and made angry stares at eachother before all jumping at eachother and forming a large, rolling pile on the floor. Fists flew and teeth flew further, until finally, the whole bunch was unconscious.
“Okay Journey, grab your instruments, you’ve got a concert to get to.” I yelled to my compatriots.
The band members excitedly ran up and retrieved their instruments. Steve Perry seemed to illuminate briefly as he grabbed hold of his cosmic microphone. I walked outside the warehouse and waited by the cosmic tour bus. Soon, the band members joined me and they loaded their instruments into the bus, meanwhile, I sealed the exits to the warehouse with my atomic vision, hopefully sealing Oasis inside forever.
Steve Perry opened his lips to sing me thanks.
Quickly I covered his mouth, “Your happiness is my reward.” I told him, shoving him onto the bus. The cosmic tour bus then lifted from the ground and flew off into the sky, off towards the space-concert.
And there you have it. That was my New Years / Spaceslut and Robot Day. I hope yours was as productive. I’m off now to participate in the Fellowship of the Drunks. Happy Hobbit Day!
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 8:26 PM
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