The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Slack-jawed simians,

Two days now left until I make my way through the spaceways to Virgo 13, stopping first in the not quite as distant, but equally strange land of Canada. There, Rush Girl and I have a bottle of Vodka to drink between the two of us, the brand of which has since been discontinued for causing excessive hairiness in Russian lads. If you think about it, that's quite a feat. The other bottle I picked up, a discontinued rum by the name of Cabana Boy, has similarly been pulled off the market for complaints from the Chinese government that it caused poor eyesight. Representatives of the company claimed that an inordinately high amount of squinting was not unusual at all, however, United States retailers decided that the sugary treat just wasn't worth the risk, even if it did boast a half-naked boy in shorts on the bottle. This second bottle, will be sent to the Carolling Canuck, down in the sea-breeze swept streets of Santa Cruz merely as a token of appreciation for good friends and fine hospitality. Should she choose to share the bottle with The Red Rightwing, well, that's her own decision.

Two days now. Two days. I can't believe it. The preparation for this trip has been absolutely hellish, nightmarish at the least, and when I'm finally in the soft, sweet-smelling, and anchor-tattooed arms of Rush Girl herself, it'll be a large burden free from my shoulders. I despise airports and the unreliability of commercial flight. Airport security and Canadian Customs, I like even less, as I'm generally given the third degree at every passing, regardless of the dignified way in which I dress, my princely good looks, and endearing smile. While I’ll be the first to say that camouflage-clad, automatic rifle-toting soldiers are completely out of place in civilian airports, the thing that puzzles me the most is the canteens the soldiers carry at their sides. Is there really such a concern of soldiers dying of thirst in airports? Do commanding officers go to sleep at night with fears of their charges not being able to make the 50-foot trek to soda machine in the Burger King near the entrance to B Concourse?

I must say, I do hate seeing men in full military uniforms in civilian areas, such as the man up the block from me that wears full Marine fatigues to take out the trash. It’s creepy and unsettling. Such as the time Rush Girl and I saw police officer playing with a monstrous rifle, from the looks of it, automatic, in the parking lot of the Tanforan shopping mall. That was in very poor taste. It was almost as distasteful as the lads that dressed as gang-banging thugs (in masks), paramilitary soldiers (in masks), and terrorists (in masks) brandishing presumably (and hopefully) fake rifles last Halloween. While I may be a wholehearted supporter of first-amendment rights, there are some things that I think just shouldn’t be done. There was palpable level of tension and uneasiness in the night-air of Santa Cruz as a result of these masked men very visibly brandishing guns. We were left with no recourse but merely to hope that these were simply costumes. Perhaps this may come off as paranoia to you, but then, I doubt you went to high school in a town where on one particularly memorable Halloween, a group of men dressed as ninjas robbed a bank not 3 blocks from us using very real katana blades. This is all quite true.

There are some common misconceptions about Canada, one of which is that the country is just like America, but with a different name. The truth is, though remarkably similar on the surface, so much so that it would not be difficult for a Yankee or Canuck to make the transition from one to the other, the remarkable differences lie in the subtleties. There are no debit/credit cards in Canada, merely one or the other. Liquor is incredibly inconvenient to buy, while marijuana is conversely easier to come by. The images of flashing men on crosswalk street signs in Canada are decidedly humorous compared to our own. Pizza is cheap and easy to come by in Canada, while a good burrito or deli sandwich is near impossible to find. In addition to English, Canadian government documents are usually also available in French and at least three different Asian dialects, while Spanish is strangely absent, and Tagalog, unheard of. There is universal free health care in Canada, while here in America, such a concept produces hate-filled rants about communism from rightwing disc jockeys.

Another huge misconception is that Canadians are friendly. This is a half-truth. People are generally more friendly in Canada than here, and the streets of their big cities feel safe and non-threatening, however, Canada too, has it’s share of jerks. There are men I’ve met in my short time there that would sooner grunt or stay silent than talk to you. There are others that delight in insulting Chelsea Clinton and make bold statements of lascivious acts they’d performed on her mother, all without any sort of provocation. There’s a sometimes subtle, but generally obvious case of nationalistic penis-envy where Canada is concerned. Whether deserved or not, there is a delightment had by Canadians in the mocking of America and her sons and daughters, a more subtle tone of which can even be sometimes viewed on their government web-sites. Passive aggression runs rampant in Canada. Perhaps it’s our own fault for picking on our northern cousins for so long, and it’s no lie that there is plenty to be made fun of here in the U.S., especially right now with the current Fuhrer in power of the country and a ‘roided grab-ass lascivian running California. Still, Canadians aren’t that bad, Oregonians are bigger assholes by far, their aggression far less passive in their treatment of Californians, their animosity 10 times that of the San Franciscan that hates the New Yorker.

I suppose that San Franciscan would be me.

I’m sidetracking. The point is, I’ll be glad to be in Canada. Weather permitting, I’ll be on a plane a few hours from now, this time tomorrow, sipping soda, and with a little luck, watching an in-flight movie, hopefully not a J-Lo vehicle, on United Airlines, where it’s always okay to undress the stewardesses with your eyes as you savor a rum and coke. Bobo the Virgin Chimp won’t be coming along with me, rather, he’ll be staying comfy in my Fortress of Fortitude, along with the Virgin robots, and my neighbor, Bob, who’ll be in charge of looking after the place. I leave the safety of the world in the capable hands of my ape and robots, and the cleanliness of my estate and the feeding of my ape to Bob. Bob works for a construction company I think, at the very least I know he owns a truck, and I believe he enjoys fishing and drinking beer. In return for watching my lair, I’ve allowed him access to refrigerator, as long as he stays away from my vials of evil D.N.A. next to the dairy compartment. Also, I made him promise not to touch my video collection nor the third row of my bookshelf.

I must admit to feeling a slight amount of guilt in leaving my ape, however, I am hoping for some gentle times with Rush Girl, and Bobo’s propensity for feces-flinging and public displays of self-gratification at inappropriate times would, I think, hurt the mood. Any grunting heard at any point from her modest abode I wish to come from none other than I, and even without an ape present, I know it’ll take all of my effort to get Rush Girl to dress in the Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera-inspired outfits I have planned for her. Oh, but how splendid she will look in pigtails with white, puffy fuzz-balls in her hair! I must say, I’m quite looking forward to this trip. I can barely hold my hands steady to pack away the crotchless Wonder Woman outfit!

Drat! That’s the alarm! I must take my leave of you now, gents and ladies, it seems the forces of evil need combating once more. And while I can not promise that you’ll all be in my thoughts, I’m certain that I’ll be in yours, and that is good enough for me.

Where are my pants? Never can find them when I need them. Did they stretch?! Oh wait, these are Kelly Osbourne’s. That explains the ample bosom-room in my frilly shirt. Ah, here they are. Where are my keys?

I simply must run! Until next time, a good day to you all!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Neosapiens, Neanderthals, and Nincompoops,

I slept a rough night last night, constantly awoken by a trickle of jellybeans tossed at me through the grating of the ventilation shaft leading to my room. The cause? An infestation of goblins living throughout the ducts of my house. First there were rats spreading droppings and Hanta Virus throughout the nooks and crannies of my garage, and now goblins in the air conditioning system. Finally, desperate to get some sleep, I had Bobo the Virgin Chimp plug up my duct grating with some of his home-made adobe. Brushing the jellybeans from my pillow and placing a clothespin on my nose, finally I was able to get some sleep.

I dreamed troublesome, frustrating dreams, one in which I was a cartoon chasing Paris Hilton, trying to get some pants on her, but she continually eluded me, despite my possession of such gadgets as a jet pack, a rocket-powered pogo stick, metal pellet-filled caviar, and a super-magnet. At one point I very nearly succeeded, having gotten one pant leg around her left ankle, but was completely undone as I ran into a fake tunnel entrance painted on the side of a cliff. “Glug glug!” she sounded as she ran off, exposed, leaving a trail of floating currency in her wake, and zipping left and right, crashing parties, uninvited. Finally, I got so fed up with the whole scenario that I just tacked up a sign that said “Paris Season” to a tree. This prompted a whole forest-full of hidden hunters of to jump out and shoot her, many of them equipped, fittingly, with night-vision goggles. Her thin, elongated nose spun around her head a few times until she grabbed it and straightened it on her face, prompting her to comment to me, “You’re De$picable”, an emphasis placed on the S that implied to me that such a word would be spelled with a dollar sign.

The finale of that deplorable dream just caused me to instead be plagued by worse dreams, dreams of goblins running around me and jabbing me with sporks, eating my food, shaving my ape, jumping up and down on my genitals. My sole waking thought was one of getting rid of these deplorable beasts, and I was fully aware of the fact that I would have to crawl through the ducts of my house myself in order to exterminate them, especially now that I am without servant boy. Oh, how I miss having an underfed orphan of indeterminate origin around to do my dirty-work for me. Crawling around in such filthy conditions will no doubt require me to dress in the deplorable manner of a common man, in such detestable garments as jeans and tee shirts. I look so very splendid today, too. Today, I have hair that would make even Kyle MacLachlan jealous.

Looking as splendid as I do, clean-shaven and fresh, it’s a shame I should be wasting my Saturday at work. The things I do out of kindness and greed. I should be out flying a kite, wearing a Green Beret’s cap, flying my kite higher than low-flying planes as I set new records for height, and clutching tightly a bottle of rum while in the company of friends. Perhaps I should be dressed in the dandiest fineries and socializing amongst my comrades, partaking of gin & tonics and martinis, while enjoying the finest examples of what modern film has to offer, namely, Japanese splatter films, and anything featuring a masked luchador. I could be subtly destroying the ecosystem of the Moss Beach tide pools with my chain-smoking, while Mister Mystere and I search out and collect small pebbles shaped like penises. We could be on the road in search of Jonathan Richman, or Rudy Ray Moore, or some other pop-culture hero of men, blasting One Night In Bangkok as we go. Even still, I could be working on more literary masterpieces, brought forth from my own mind. Heaven forbid, I could be fighting crime, standing vigilant on a rooftop somewhere, my trenchcoat billowing majestically in the wind.

I’ll be spending this fine Valentine’s Day at work, surrounded by salesmen salivating for an angry fix, waiting for that naive customer with an open billfold and a lack of knowledge of the market, to whom they can make a sale with a hefty profit for themselves on the side. I suppose it matters not that I’ll be spending this Valentine’s Day without the gentle attentions of a female, Rush Girl is somewhere in Vancouver engaged in the lascivious and lowbrow work of running a kissing booth, hopefully not contracting mouth herpes, or some other dreadful saliva-borne virus, and regardless, feels nothing but disdain towards this annual February holiday. Were I tempted to celebrate this holiday properly for just one time in my life, I suppose I could always make chit-chat with the slender and attractive girl outside running the hot dog stand, whom serves to customer and salesman alike, gratis examples of yet another fine product of Kraut engineering, of which there are many here, along with a side of soda. Not that I’ll be sampling a dog myself, what with my boycott of the American beef industry.

Sitting here, a grumbling in my belly, counting customers and watching sales made, entertained only by the occasional passing glance of an attractive female, some fiddling with the internet, and the occasional washroom trip, in which I can view the neon green by-product of a Rockstar breakfast. To entertain myself, I’ve taken to thinking in Vietnam terminology, counting every hour as “x days and a wake-up”. The sun beats down too heavy from between clouds too sparsely spaced, causing myself, naturally a creature of the night, to seek refuge within the cool dimness of the showroom. I sit and covet my keyboard with the intensity of an owl on a shiny metal button. The glory of my written word is my only escape.

Another 6 hours of this, then I can return home to a pile of unwashed laundry, a necessity to pack, a room that needs cleaning, a series of phone calls that need to be made, arrangements to be carried out, a sink-full of dishes, a depressing review of the current state of my finances, a most certain return to the bottle, and the somewhat appealing-sounding extermination of every goblin from all the crawl-ways and ducts of my lair. Then sleep, and a brand new day.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Lowly friends,

Some of you perhaps may wonder just what sort of distinguished gent or lass might read my page. Who are the fine folks lovingly gazing upon my written words that so surely must be the pinnacle of elegance and taste? Is it truly possible for so large a group of people to epitomize intellectual perfection and evolutionary success? I can not tell you truly, all I can say for sure is that my readers are by far superior to the average member of society, a detestable sort of bottom-feeder largely left satisfied by the nonsensical meanderings of the film Titanic, the chromosome-imbalanced buffoonery of Jackass, the Nazi-esque furor inducing sounds of the Insane Clown Posse, and grainy daguerreotypes of Paris Hilton caught in the act of nude wrestling, lit with some form of night-vision.

Yes, my readers are far more sophisticated than the average person (the average person now being considered the dregs of any random sampling of bipedal creatures), and yet still, my readers still can’t quite measure up to my own glory. It shouldn’t be much of a concern, should you be one of the many people that is not, in fact, me. I’m a hard act to follow, and surely with my strong jaw, magnificent physique, beautiful eyes, gleaming teeth, superior brain, and royal blood, it should be that much easier to accept for yourselves the role of second-best, if even that. Feel not discouraged, nay! Rejoice! Rejoice for you have been granted the singular privilege of being able to exist within the cosmos at the same time as none other than The Virgin Prince!

This all said, it’s not always just the intelligent few that are able to view the intellectual workings of myself. Sometimes the knuckle-dragging omadawns among us manage to make their way through the complex world of binary programming and html code to stumble upon my page. How? Well, there’s all manner of sites that link to this, my repository of knowledge and tales of adventure. Some of them being Blogwise, Blogstreet, Blogarama, Geek Philosopher, and Eatonweb Portal. In addition, somewhere in Singapore I was listed of having the “Blog of the Day” courtesy of Infrarouge.Heh heh, someone in Singapore likes me. I guess it’s not just wholesome red-blooded Americans that hold The Virgin Prince in awe.

Most of the breastfed-until-fifteen goons that stumble upon my page come from the search engines, notably Yahoo and Google, and their sub-sites located everywhere from Canada to Czechoslovakia. I’ll grant you now an idea of just what type of reader I’ve had to deal with, and what exactly they came looking for, though not in any kind of chronological order, or for that matter, order of any kind.

“Kylie MInogue corn rows” (Yahoo) I really don’t see why the delectable Kylie Minogue’s corn rows are more important than anyone else’s but I suppose it takes all kinds.

“Journey’s Steve Perry crotch pictures” (Yahoo) This one just disturbs me. To whomever was looking for these images, sorry to disappoint.

“vacancies for christine aguilera warm up acts” (Google) I’m sorry, but Christina Aguilera ceased communication with me more than six months ago, finally fed up with the unique hair stylings I’d been giving her. She can complain all she wants, but there isn’t anyone around that can deny she stood out in the Lady Marmalade video. Also, she was tired of being constantly groped. And I ran over her cat.

“rattrap” (Google) I think there was more to this query, though I can’t recall now. At least this one was looking for something as harmless as Transformers.

“view paris hilton’s nocturnal sex video” (Yahoo) Ha ha! Silly mortal! Only Paris Hilton and her many significant others can view such things. And myself, courtesy of Santa’s North Pole Surveillance Database. And anyone with a credit card.

“virginman” (Google) I think you’re looking for the wrong superhero. I’m no mere man.

“paris hilton exposed buttcrack pictures” (Yahoo) You again? Shouldn’t you be stealing music or something? Why don’t you try to find that accursed video on Napster or something? For that matter, why not visit a New York nightclub where you’ll most likely see Paris Hilton commit lewd acts in person. You’ll probably even end up making your own video with her anyway, as long as you keep the drinks coming. Like you’d even need the drinks.

“the hitler, osama, mandy moore game” (Google) I initially thought that this person must be very disturbed, but upon giving the matter thought, realized that such a game would very much capture my interest as well. A morbid sort of curiosity if you will. I can only imagine what sort of mind would make such a game, or how it would play, though I’m fairly certain that the soundtrack would have to feature the theme from The Odd Couple.

“roman toga tradition orgy” (Yahoo) I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m not sure what this person was trying to find, nor what sort of person would have such a query. Good luck to you, Caligula 2.0.

“activator teeth drooling” (Seznam) This one comes from the Czech equivalent of Google. I have no idea what this guy was searching for, but at least it doesn’t seem to be pornography. That puts Czechoslovakia ahead of the Americans and Canadians, at least statistically.

Well that’s all I have listed. There were more, I’m sure, I seem to recall a particularly nasty one with Britney Spears involved, but I’ve lost track of a bunch of the queries. No worries, I’m doubtless that there will soon be more as there is an endless amount of slack-jawed simpletons with access to computers. I’ll admit to a slight bit of perverse anticipation as I wait for the next batch of Darwinian disappointments. Until then...

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Dearest mortals of frail body and weak mind,

Here I sit once more, at a glowing screen which presents to me electronic representations of modern conveniences. Yet, I feel not convenienced. The battle logs of Rush Girl and The Green Mike remain untouched, vacant, empty. There’s nothing new to feast my eyes upon, and my boredom has lead me to simply peruse the journals of some arcane cat-creature, one that does little more than overuse mentions of fellatio and comments on the enjoyability of getting smacked in the head with a board. Why she’s never been pulled from Google, I can’t rightly say. I suppose perhaps her brand of drivel is exactly what the people want, after all, the majority of my own new readers that found my site through the search engines, came in search of such things as “Paris Hilton’s Buttcrack” and “Mandy Moore’s Nipple Slip”, as well as numerous other terrible things that leave me wondering if perhaps my chosen vocation should have been pornographer rather than crime-fighter.

Just the same, I’ve been pulled from the search engines at least twice already, though I keep getting relisted, likely through my own efforts. The difficulty I’ve had in having my own page recognized by Google as valid media has prompted an angry, bitter growl in my throat every time I see the Cat’s page in the listings. Perhaps the folks at Google merely prefer porn, even when it’s written in a pathetically sub-mediocre manner by a girl with an inverse left breast. Personally, I find something rather boring about reading recipes for chocolate chip cookies with forced mention of handjobs and bosoms sprayed with spilled seed in between the steps. It reads something like this:

“Today I organized some files at work. Puppies are cute! My boss has puppies! Afterward, I went home and mopped the floor with a Super Swiffer, my lemon-scent Pine Sol nearly ran out on me! Growler has the nicest cock! It’s all pink and mostly clean. Then I cleaned out the cupboards and decided to make cookies. So I dumped all the flour and eggs into the bowl and started mixing them up. I’m still sticky from when Growler blew his load all over my chest! After the cookies were finished, I gave Growler a handjob and then he shoved a red-hot poker up my ass, making all my excretions painful, messy, and requiring the assistance of trained medical staff. It was fun! I love Growler!”

Feh.

As far as not being entertained goes, William Shatner doesn’t update his webpage nearly enough. For that matter, neither does Adam West save for mentions of upcoming appearances. There’s always the Onion, but the quality just doesn’t seem up to what it used to be, and I lost most of my interest in their site after T. Herman Zweibel ended his column. That leaves Crime Library, but my interest in reading about crime and serial killers mostly ended after I was back on good terms with Rush Girl. This leaves me bored. Bored until I can get home to Bobo the Virgin Chimp, slip an exquisite necktie around my delectable neck, and run off to fight crime. Until then, I leave you denizens of this inter-net with a small request.

GET ENTERTAINING!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Valued Friends,

I woke up from a very strange dream this morning, one involving Britney Spears as the principal villain. Though I can't recall the specifics, I do remember that she killed a bunch of people and had acquired the ability to change shape, going at will from human to plastic doll. In the end, revealed for her murderous crimes, she faked her own death, locking herself inside a trailer and setting it on fire. Her mother merely sat there and watched from the comfort of a picnic bench as the trailer was consumed by flame, finally exploding and throwing free a small Barbie-like doll. No one gave much notice to the toy, save for I, who pulled the arms and legs from it. Metal wires snapped from inside the limbs as I tore the beast apart, ending Britney's reign of terror, then discarding the pieces in flames as her menace melted away forever.

My Rockin' Chicken alarm clock sounded and I was snatched from Nemo's realm, dragged back into the world of the waking. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stood up, stumbling to the chicken alarm clock and silencing it with a firm tap on the top of it's head. From there I dragged myself into the living room and grabbed the tape of music that good ole' Rush Girl had sent me, returning to my room and placing my tape in the stereo by my bed, playing it at a volume loud enough to block out the sound of the Pink, Dixie Chicks, and electronic dance music coming from my sister's bedroom. What wouldn't I give to instead be assaulted by the sound of Bach, Beethoven, or Wagner for a change? Or even, god forbid, the swinging sounds of Vic Mizzy.

I opened my window to let in the fresh light of a new day, the sun smiled down on me from up above, pelting me with raisins. I pulled away from the window and began to dress myself, blue birds flying in and assisting me, pulling my dress shirt onto my back, and then, clutching my necktie in their beaks and wrapping it around my neck. They do this everyday, save for the days of glorious hangovers, when they keep their distance on the power lines outside. One tried to assist me once on such a day, but asphyxiated and fell to the floor upon flying into the stream of gaseous vodka emanating from my mouth. On the days of hangovers, I generally throw on my tie in the comfort of a moving public bus on my way to work, my hair generally resembles Christopher Walken's.

Today, as I waited for the bus, Puttin’ On The Ritz played through my head, and I chatted with a girl fresh out of high school, whom may or may not have been legal, considering all the flirting she does. It wasn't a pressing concern. She continued to talk to me throughout most of the bus ride, interrupted only by another male on the bus that tried to take over the conversation with her, a thinly veiled attempt to get in her pants. Not that I was bothered much.

My morning newspaper was strangely absent from my second bus stop, and the bus I attempted to board tried to drive off without me. My comic-reading on the second bus was interrupted by a socially-awkward looking fellow, who asked to read one of mine, and then questioned me about comics and manga until he eventually started talking about "W”’s appearance on television. I myself was too tired to truly pay attention, still exhausted from my crazy weekend.


I'd left with allies for Santa Cruz late Saturday night, crammed with four others into the Mysteremobile, a car truly meant for two. Mister Mystere himself was at the wheel, I sat beside him, my face pressed against glass. In the back sat The Lusty Lascivian, Immoral B, and Dave Cane, who'd been drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon since 1:00 in the afternoon. His temperament was irritable and belligerent, his words slurred. Immoral B, by contrast, sat in the back polishing his collection of toothbrushes, lovingly sliding each one into the toothbrush holsters on his utility belt. The Lusty Lascivian merely laid there, eyeing others' food and chugging deeply from a bottle of whiskey that was shared between the three of them.

The journey was a long and semi-torturous one, the crew in the back complaining loudly. I made myself useful trying to tune in a decent radio station, but there were none to be had, the hills blocked out the radio waves. We settled temporarily for Spanish dance music until Immoral B started gouging out his ears with a found spoon. Our only salvation came in the form of Donovan, whose song was over as quickly as it started. Then the car was filled once more with the sound of grumbling from the back.

Finally, we made it to our intended destination, the lair of The Red Rightwing and The Carolling Canuck. They fed us well on culinary delights culled from the pages of cookbooks reserved for kings from kingdoms long gone with names long forgotten, in addition to protein packs and spirits bartered from the maenads themselves. Our hunger sated, we journeyed outward, out to a place of karaoke and bowling. Upon arriving however, no Taco was sung, no Falco hummed, no B-52s horribly warbled through. We were refused at the door by a small, shifty man, who spoke with the sound of rusty nails grinding together, and whose forehead ended where our kneecaps began.

My inebriated friends walked off, hopes crushed, but not I. I smelled something amiss, something awry, and it would require investigation before I could simply walk away. As my allies headed off in search of alcohol and dancing, I ducked around the corner of the building, pulling on a fake beard and a Bubba Gump hat. Quickly I walked past the man at the door, hurrying inside where I was immediately assaulted by the ear shattering sounds of the piss-poor songs of Grease, sung flat and out of key by the drunken patrons of the bar.

“What would prompt the doorman to turn away such a fine young group of Americans, plus one Canadian, such as us? Surely, there’s something they’re hiding.” I thought to myself as I wandered through the neon-lit building. The karaoke bar checked out, it was filled with eardrum shattering wails and the song listings contained an inordinately large amount of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, but seemed relatively normal otherwise. The bowling alley attached to the bar likewise seemed normal, though the players seemed to be a stiffer lot than usual. The arcade, too, was inconspicuous, though the selection of games was weak. Absent were the Tron machines of my youth, the Xybots, the Double Dragon, the Rampage, the Dragon’s Lair. Even Journey The Videogame was sadly not present.

The place was dull, certainly, but seemed to be normal in all respects that mattered. I had decided to take my leave and catch up with my friends when the thirteen rum and Jolts I’d gulped down reminded me of their presence in my system. Like angry midgets jumping up and down on my bladder, the alcohol made clear to me that it wished to be set free from it’s captivity inside me. I ran to the bathroom, anxious to send the offending presence from my insides to it’s freedom through porcelain passageways.

The business at hand taken care of, I readied myself to leave, when I noticed a closed stall with an “out of order sign” on it. Strange, I thought, in a place so obviously upkept. I opened the closed door with a quarter pulled from my pocket. The latrine certainly LOOKED functional, and for that matter, was cleaner than most White House bathrooms (if you ignore the coke), almost as if it had never been used. My suspicion prompted me to reach for the flush handle.

The floor fell out from under me, sending me tumbling, falling downwards through a small shaft and landing firmly on packed dirt. I lifted my head up to view my surroundings, but could not see them past the men in red robes surrounding me. Dim light reflected slightly from the iron skeleton masks they wore. I recognized their type. The Crimson Skulls, a small, cult-like movement dedicated to returning rule of the U.S. to Britain. They funded their organization through the sale of bootleg Harry Potter movies and books, some of which delved into the pornographic in a strange boarding-school-fetish kind of way. Trouble brewing.

“My brothers!” a leader cried out from among them, “We have an intruder among us! Seize him!”

Quickly there was a multitude of arms around me and hands gripping as the robed men swarmed me. They held fast, keeping me firmly in place.

“Nay!” I cried, “I’ve come to join you my brothers! I yearn for daily tea-time and English muffins at breakfast! I crave the forceful decision-making of Parliament and the subtle beauty acheived from the order of Robert’s Rules! Long have I wished for currency beautified with images of the Queen! I’m offended by the lack of unnecessary “U”s present in the spellings of American words! Please, take me among your ranks!”

“Very well,” the leader said somberly, “if you truly wish to join us, the intensity of your beliefs will allow you to survive our test of strength. BRING OUT BIG BEAR!”

From the back of the room, the sound of grunting and rustling became noticeable, and grew louder, no doubt the cause of the noise moving closer. The robed men released me and moved away to the back of the room, putting a good amount of distance between us. As the robed men cleared away, I saw why. Advancing toward me, the beast was none other than a growling, drooling Barbara Bush, dressed in skintight spandex with titanium kneepads and shoulderpads covered in corse, dark fur.

Needless to say, the beast lunged at me and we engaged in violent, brutal struggle. Ten minutes we fought, a messy, exhausting battle, my beautious face mere inches away from her blood-craving maw, her snapping teeth shooting spittle at my fair visage. Finally, I was able to crawl behind her and direct pressure on her windpipe with a firm grapple, until she eventually passed out. I stood tall over the hulken form sprawled out on the ground, wiping the blood from my lip and the sweat from my brow which trickled downwards into my face mask.

“Tranq the beast!” the leader cried, prompting two darts to be shot into the rump of Barbara Bush.

“He has passed the test. Gentlemen, remove your hoods!”

The robed men all around lowered their hoods, revealing powdered wigs sitting on top of their skull masked heads.

“I’ve fooled you all!” I cried at the robed men, “I’m a flag-waving, patriotic nephew of my Uncle Sam! And you’ve provided me with the means to fight your society of dandys!”

Quickly I pulled some amyl nitrate from a pouch in my belt and placed it under Barbara Bush’s nose. “Be seeing you!” I cried as I jumped up swiftly, grabbing for the ceiling and climbing my way back up the shaft I had fallen down through. Below me, I could hear the screams of the robed men as a frothing Barbara Bush tore through them. Their cries for mercy merely made me climb faster. Back, back into the bathroom from whence I’d came. Out the bathroom door I went, forcing it open with an Albertson’s card, due to a defective doorknob.

I was once more left standing on the cool, Santa Cruz streets, without purpose. I supposed it would probably be best to return to my friends, and so I did, The Carolling Canuck and I dancing into the wee hours to such classic hits as “Back That Ass Up”. Finally, our reserves of energy exhausted, and our money transmuted into consumed vodka drinks, we returned home, to rest, to dream, to ready ourselves for a new day.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Dearest eye-gorgers,

Returned again to read my words have you? To hear my tales or perhaps be the first on your block to catch wind of the new American national anthem? Well I must confess, writing a national anthem is not as easy as one might think. How does one write a masterful coupling of ryhme and verse to inspire strong feelings of patriotism without also instilling feelings of national superiority and belligerence? ‘Tis a tricky task indeed. I’ve spent days without food, drink, or sleep, and all I have is:

American boobs!
(guitar riff)
American boobs!
(guitar riff)
American boobs!
(guitar riff)

I’m stumped. Doesn’t the initial chorus say it all? What more needs to be said? Is that not enough to cause you to raise your right hand and salute?

I must admit, the song’s title and chorus were actually provided by none other than Mister Mystere. The prude from New England has no doubt been spending time around the likes of the Lusty Lascivian. Still, “Don’t mess with Texas” is all mine and will surely be woven into the song at some point.

I’ve been most busy to be sure. In addition to my song-writing duties, I’ve been planning a trip to Virgo 13, home of the Gerbil-People, a most liberal society. Their days are spent in loose Space-Hawaiian shirts, khakis, and neo-Hush Puppies, the epitome of comfort, their routines largely involve meditation, laboring on the arts,and engaging in loose social contact. The landscape resembles New Zealand and the culture places richness as not being an accumulation of wealth, but rather an accumulation of respect and appreciation among their fellow Gerbil-Men. As money is much more evenly distributed in their culture than ours, they spend their time trying to write the greatest novels, paint the most moving portraits, compose the best music ever known, do something, anything, and do it better than anyone has ever done it before.

I must say I envy them. They’re a hard-working people and seem to constantly be in good spirits. Needless to say, their years spent striving for perfection have produced some of the most amazing pieces of sculpture I’ve ever seen. The finest works of literature on Virgo 13 are so overwhelming that many become scripture to those who read them, all other “Good Books” pushed aside. Their pizza is finer than anything you’ll ever find in Italy, and their fusion cuisine produces combinations of flavor intensity that you might not even be able to fully comprehend. In short, as a vacation destination it is most magnificent, and thankfully, largely unknown.

I’m glad. I’m sorely in need of a vacation. My Virgin-joints are stiff and Virgin-muscles sore. I can’t wait to slip through the universe’s greatest waterslides and view the best pole-dances in the cosmos. Well I’d love to write more, but I have much paperwork to do. I’ll be back though, and with spine-tingling tales.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

Loyal followers,

This morning, as I was about to head out the door to work, Bobo the Virgin Chimp grabbed me and shoved a newspaper in my face. The precocious beast keeps up to date on current events largely due to his love for the daily gossip column, he has a strange fascination with Paris Hilton, especially now that she has her corn-rows, and she never fails to make an appearance. But today, my ape's concern was on Justin Timberlake, his large, dark, simian finger pointed out the picture on the front page. A picture of Janet Jackson, looking indignant, covering her breast with her hand, beside her stood Timberlake, a slightly pissy, slightly intoxicated, slightly self-absorbed look on his face.

Ah, Señor Justin, one of my many sworn enemies. Where do I start with you?

Due to some sort of mental flaw caused by a pairing of x chromosomes, the majority of women are immediately attracted to two sorts of men. One, the closet gay type, and two, the inconsiderate, shallow, abusive, emotionally-stunted and detached type. This is a strange flaw, as it virtually ensures failed relationships and I can't see how this genetic predisposition can possibly be useful in terms of evolution and propagation of the species. But then, I've never much understood the women of this planet. It should come as no surprise then that the latest media darling and object of female adoration, a Mr. Justin Timberlake, seems to fit nicely in both of these two categories.

As to whether he's actually gay or not, who can say? He certainly surrounds himself with enough beautiful (or at least moderately attractive) women to imply that he is indeed very heterosexual, but then, he could be just another male celebrity surrounding himself in beautiful women to avoid public suspicion of his dandy nature. He certainly wouldn't be the first. Springing to mind are Anthony Perkins, Rock Hudson, Ricky Martin, and George Michael, who, until his very public unmasking as a full-blown homosexual, made a point of filling his videos with images of scantily-clad supermodels. The closet gay celebrity is an American tradition, without which, tabloids would have their content no doubt reduced by half. Even the official outing of Boy George surprisingly caused a stir. Boy George!

On to other points of Timberlake's questionable nature, there's Sir Justin's unusually close relationship with his mother, who still dresses him, not all that common a trait with heterosexual males. But then, it should be noted that Justin Timberlake has terrible fashion sense (another factor implying heterosexuality) and perhaps it's best he gets all the help he can get. He's definitely an effeminate lad, and though he dresses in the manner of a common scummy street-thug, he lacks the presence to back the image up. He's the type that, were he a normal middle-class lad, would probably get his ass handed to him on a daily basis. Fortunately, he has security guards. It's a good thing too, he recently spent several hours hiding in his British hotel room after a passer-by tapped him lightly on the back of his head. He spent the rest of the evening cowering in fear, screaming about how he hates England, and refusing to sign autographs. Personally, I think Justin should consider going back to his big-hair poofy look. It may not be the most masculine image in the world, but it works for him.

I certainly wouldn't rule out bisexuality in Justin's case. It's nearly common knowledge that he makes all of his sexual partners wear a latex mask of his own face during intercourse.

Justin Timberlake strikes me as the type of guy that has never heard the word "NO". He's probably never had a spanking or a single smack in the face as a result of one of his screaming fits. A glimpse into his past no doubt reveals temper-tantrums in the midst of Disneyland gift shops and large amounts of cash spent to appease the boy-demon. For it's certain, humility is not a word in his vocabulary.

Timberlake will be the first to tell the media how excellent is album is, how it's a little different, a little unique, and quite catchy. Not that his opinion is biased in the least. The media, of course, is all too quick to agree with him, and write down his words verbatim in their album reviews. There's an especially disgusting bit of pandering and encouraging on the part of MTV, eager to get him to grace their network with appearances on TRL and countless other brain-eating programs.

It's this message that Justin constantly receives that he can do no wrong that encourages him to keep delving further into new forms of jackassery, doing things like imitating the mentally handicapped while announcing other celebrities to stage. When recently introducing Coldplay, Timberlake made mention of how enjoyable they are to listen to while "with a certain someone" and began to thrust his pelvis on-stage. It was a crass and infantile action, but he took no flak for it. Rather, the females in the audience cheered him on. Ladies, do you really enjoy men thrusting their groins at you as they make mention of sex? Isn't this something that would normally make you go for the mace? Stop encouraging him! I swear, if Justin Timberlake hadn't been recently pelted with cans and bottles for taking the stage at a Rolling Stones concert, I'd think there was no hope for the public at all.

The more the public eats up everything Justin Timberlake does, the more he's encouraged to continue to do stupid things. This brings me to the thing that annoys me the most about xxy chromosome boy here, his blatant treatment of women as objects. Now I realize that a great many people in the music industry and indeed, the world, do the same, however, is anyone else quite so loved for it? I'm sickened enough by the immense popularity of The Thong Song, do we really need a mascot for this sort of behavior now? Are the women of the world (his core audience) crying out, "Oh we need a man like him! Someone to use us, someone to treat us like meat! Someone who cares not about our feelings, but instead will immediately try to bed us. Someone to add us to his list of trophies in addition to his Porsches, Hummers, Cadillacs, gold records, big houses, and flashy jewelry!"

Well it would seem that Baby Spice, Janet Jackson, Cameron Diaz, and Britney Spears (big surprise) are all quite taken with him. But then, I suppose these aren't shining examples of womanhood.

Combining jackassery and objectification are what Justin does best. For example, the time Justin Timberlake grabbed Kylie Minogue's ass while they were performing on stage together. It wasn't scripted to be sure. And while Kylie has made a point of marketing her body along with her music, I'm sure she wasn't fond of being groped on-stage for all the world to see. During the public interview that followed, Timberlake made another thoughtless, cocky comment about how he'd like to give her ass another grab. Kylie replied of course with an "I don't think so," the annoyance barely hidden in her voice. Justin was left to stand there looking like a jackass.

Smacked down for all the world to see! You go Kylie! Stand up for your right to not have to put up with unwanted sexual harassment from a completely brain-dead vulgarian! If there's more girls like you in Australia, I just might stop thinking of it as the armpit of the world. It’s just a shame you didn’t think to sue.

This all brings us up to now, to the picture on the front page. Yesterday was the Superbowl and this year, MTV provided the “entertainment”. As if football wasn’t boring enough, the half-time show forced people to sit through Nelly, Kid Rock, Janet Jackson, and you guessed it, Justin Timberlake. Needless to say, I did not watch the event myself, I was content to watch Hannibal and The Royal Tennenbaums because I couldn’t find my Psycho DVD.

From what I’ve read, it was as Timberlake recited his oh-so-classy lyric, “Gonna have you naked by the end of this song” that he ripped Janet Jackson’s outfit from her right breast, exposing it for all to see. And while apparently, this time around he had her consent to do so (she was conveniently wearing a pasty over her nipple), this was done without rehearsal, without the foreknowledge of CBS and the NFL, leading them to face persecution by the FCC. Should we really be that surprised that Timberlake has engaged in another bonehead maneuver? He does live in a world without consequences after all.

I suppose I’m not so bothered that Janet Jackson’s withered, plastic-surgery-enhanced breast was flashed for the whole world to see, merely that Justin Timberlake continues to get away with such behavior. If someone doesn’t stand up to him soon and tell him he’s acting like the simpleton lovechild of two Tennessee siblings, he’s only going to get worse. For all of Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s feces-slinging, I still think he acts in a far more refined manner.

I know, I know, I’m picking too much on old Velcro-head. Why must I verbally assault this young castrati with so extreme a tongue-lashing? Is it that such a mediocre Michael Jackson-impersonator gets such praise and adoration while a dashing strong-jawed crime-fighting lad such as myself is barely known? That a hero of men should be considered secondary to the subject of motivation behind countless females’ finger manipulations?

I suppose I’ve always just hated boy bands. A grouping of 5 men that can’t play instruments, largely lack any musical ability, generally don’t even write their own songs, and are picked mostly on the basis of appearance. What’s worse, the record execs can’t even be consistent about even that one requirement. Have you seen how ugly the boy bands are these days? What’s with that guy in the cowboy hat in the Backstreet Boys? Why does N’Sync lay claim to not one, but two homely members, and provide three more that have above-average features and yet are incredibly eerie to look at?

I suppose to be fair, even the New Kids On The Block had some freakin’ hideous members. Ah, that’s it. That’s where the hatred started. The New Kids.

Back when I was a young lad, I had a girl stolen away from me by none other than Jordan Knight. Though he was a good nine years older than her tender age of 12, it mattered not. The Kids were loading up the groupie-bus, and had no intentions of stopping until there was a limb protruding from every window. This later led to a very messy incident as the bus passed through a tunnel, there’s still many a jaded amputee out there willing to tell the tale of their short time spent in the fast lane.

It all started in a shopping mall not far from my house. It had just reopened, having spent 6 months being thoroughly fumigated after the Tiffany outbreak and resultant scare of 1990. Young Shirley Jones and I were sitting in the mall’s haberdashery when from out of nowhere, Little Joe McIntyre came flying in through the entrance and began cutting the tops from all the hats. Once he began eyeing a nice stovepipe hat on the top shelf, I could take no more.

I ran up to him and grabbed him by the arm, attempting to pull him away from the hats. With an effortless shrug, he knocked me backwards into a display of bowlers and derbies. He barely took notice of me, lost in his hat-altering frenzy. From behind him I ran up, jumping on his back and sinking my still-growing teeth into his shoulder. He let out a loud shriek, the shrill summoning his cronies.

Up ran Danny Wood, charging at me with his massive jaws open, his metal teeth chomping through anything I threw at him, tearing through bits of wood as if they were rice-paper. I swiftly dodged out of his way, his own momentum carrying him into McIntyre, the two of them colliding with a large crash, shattering yet more shelves. A bit of McIntyre’s scalp was caught unintentionally between Wood’s monster jaws.

Into the fray joined Donny Wahlberg and his brother, Marky Mark, Wahlberg setting fire to the things around us, and Mark, tripping constantly over his own sagging pants and cussing while struggling to remember how to sound “street”. I tried briefly to douse the fires with the contents of a discarded Orange Julius before realizing I had lost track of Shirley.

“Let Hammerman and his magical shoes deal with this” I thought to myself as I ran off to find Shirley.

Running through the mall at breakneck speed, I finally found her, my eyes glimpsing her outside the mall entrance as Jordan Knight led her onto the New Kids’ bus, an evil glint in his eye. Before I could reach them, they were gone, the bus taking off for the highway, a large cloud of exhaust left in it’s wake.

That was it for me and Shirley, I only saw her once afterward, in my high-school years, carrying a crutch and dressed in the flannel uniform of the grunge movement. Sometimes now I wonder what ever happened to that legless bird.

I suppose that’s where the anger stems from, where my hatred for the boy bands begins. What’s the point of my tale? I largely doubt there is one, save for this. Celebrities are people too, and should be held to the same standards. So next time Britney Spears asks to ride your bike, tell her “no”. Next time Kid Rock propositions you for a lap dance or tries to drink all your beer, throw your martini in his face. Most importantly, next time Justin Timberlake tries to make a grab for you, make sure to give him a swift knee to his ineffectual groin! The blatant disregard for the importance of females and overt objectification of women is absolutely criminal and those who would engage in such behavior should be completely abhorred and shunned.

Except for me of course.

I have to go now, it’s time to tuck Bobo in, and I have to get to work on the new American national anthem. The country needs direction, needs to rock and roll! The Virgin Prince shall provide.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince