The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Loyal lambs,

I returned home from my long time spent abroad feeling exhausted, and nearly broken. What I wanted was to sink swiftly into a long nap, the kind that ventured to the borderlines of coma territory.

I was unaware of just how much feces an ape could produce within 4 months.

I’d almost completely forgotten about my (semi-)loyal sidekick, Bobo the Virgin Chimp during the four months in which I’d been gone. I know it seems that it wouldn’t be possible, but between all the midnight showers with fire hoses, the forced nude photographs, my time spent standing on the “box of doom”, the Roman-style gladiator matches I fought with the prison guard dogs, and the constant abuse sessions of electric-shock to my genitals (which I admit, I started to develop an appreciation for), I’d completely forgotten about the ape in my charge. There was far too much distraction I suppose.

Fortunately, my trusty Virgincomputer had stayed on-line during my absence and continued to dispense food pellets to Bobo on a thrice-daily basis. It is merely unfortunate that this master of gigaflops, this mechanical monstrosity of pure scientific beauty, lacked the physical extremities with which to actually clean up and dispose of the simian’s waste, or even put down fresh newspaper. It took me three days to clean the mess, and even then, I spent another week sleeping in a hotel, and showering for the better part of those days, scrubbing away at my skin with a constantly-replaced supply of loofah sponges.

Immediately thereafter, I found myself getting very involved in the excitement of the then-upcoming Presidential election, myself, following very closely the news, and spreading word of everything I was constantly learning to everyone I knew. Not that anyone really listens, or pays attention to what’s going on in the world in general. It took a long time to even get people to listen about the problems of the partisan-built-and-controlled voting machines across the country, and my own mother didn’t even believe me, despite all the articles I sent her and evidence I showed her, up until her cousin also brought it up, and she watched a handful of documentaries on the subject. I think she honestly didn’t want to believe that elections could truly be rigged, here in America.

I suppose there are just some things a person needs to believe in. Without the ability to have faith, one is forced only into feeling despair.

Which is what I suppose I could say I was feeling very strongly about this time, four years ago, when it was proven clearly to all those who chose to look, that the American election could be stolen, and that the many safeguards placed in the Constitution DIDN’T keep the government safe from abuses of power, or perhaps they could have, IF the Constitution had actually been followed. Regardless of the answer, I had a bad stomach upset for about two weeks following voting day. For any sort of relief, I visited the college nurse’s office looking for remedies, or powdered my upper lip and the bottom of my nose with the crushed powder from my bottle of Rolaids, running up and down the cafeteria and the halls of the school, crying out loudly that I was George W. Bush.

I suppose perhaps I was attempting to laugh, to prevent the tears.

I remember at the general time, I was conversing with one of my friends, she being from Texas, about my concern about what was happening and my legitimate fears about the precedent the Supreme Court decision set. I do recall that I was worked up and perhaps on the lighter side of hysterical (seeing the principles of one’s country tossed aside within a matter of days will do that to a patriot), and she nonchalantly told me that I was being overly dramatic and that it really wasn’t a big deal.

Perhaps she was right, but then, her parents’ country of Iran (or Persia, as she liked to call it) is next on Bush’s war list. She really liked to visit there too.

It was funny. As the election fiasco hit, there was a nationwide student council conference going on right there in Florida. I really wanted to go and get right in the thick of it, be a part of the biggest American event in my lifetime (yes, it WAS bigger than 9/11, because 9/11 never would have happened with Gore in the Whitehouse, at least not to the extent it did), I petitioned our advisor endlessly, begging her to let us go. I wanted to go down to the Sunshine State and hang with protesters, and have the crap kicked out of me by belligerent Republicans, due to my difference of opinion from theirs, or yell in person at the Democrats that just didn’t get it, to stop picking on the Nader supporters. It’s funny how some people just won’t accept a difference of opinion, or, for that matter, a person’s right to it.

Alas, we’d missed the deadline to register for the Florida conference, and with that fact, my heart sank. There was no way, my advisor told me, that we were going to Florida. Instead, a month or two later, we were able to go to Washington D.C., which I must admit, lifted my spirits some. The famed District of Columbia is the single most impressive looking part of the country, the only part that looks like it was built with legitimate culture, filled with sculptures, statues, and monuments as far as the eye can see, and boasting a most enviable amount of diverse, massive museums, absolutely free of charge. Furthermore, I saw my first drag-queen hooker while I was there.

I always smile when I recall the time the student newspaper asked me to write an opinion piece on “Why I’m Voting For Gore”, to complete the vacant part of the page of the old Skyline College scandal-rag, the pro-Bush, and pro-Nader bits having already been written. I put thought and feeling into the piece, then turned it in to the pro-Nader guy (who was my contact on the paper’s staff), and when I next saw my column, the next week, it’d been trimmed down and hacked. Specifically, the paper’s staff had removed my comments about the issue of abortion, and the stakes of this battle to keep this the right of women, and they also printed the name of my alter-ego, not “The Virgin Prince” as being the writer (I chastised them for that repeatedly, up until they finally gave me a regular column).

But the thing that cracked me up, when reading my neutered prose, was that they had removed my line about “the forces of evil plotting and planning” and the need for Gore to be in office to combat them, as Bush was completely inept.

They thought I was joking.

I look back now; it was completely prophetic. Of course, now I think Bush is the anti-Christ

Back to the subject of this year, starting on November 2nd and continuing into the next two days, I did what any patriotic, conscientious American would do. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked like a chimney, and I drank until I was drunk, and made good effort to stay that way. I only paused for sleep, and then, only woke to continue drinking.

By the end of Thursday, I started to feel a sense of acceptance, and by Friday, was back on the path of good health and clean living, feeling firmly in my heart the desire to continue in the struggle against right-wing morons, my ambition to do so actually increased quite considerably. My former desire to escape to the relative safety of Canada dissipated into a need to kick up a little dirt back home, and continue in the quest to combat ignorance and fascism. You don’t win battles by running, and certainly not by staying away from the action.

Here I am now, smoke-free, no longer drinking like I once did, eating healthy (plenty of apples!), improving my cooking skills, and running throughout the work-week, faster probably than I ever have before. Do I run the risk of becoming even more virginal? Should I combat this risk with a well-placed tattoo? While I may have been flirting with at least a few females I know this past month or more, certainly, I’m free and clear of attachment to any particular females. My former amour, which I loved with all my heart, and for whom I fought and endured for more than a year, dumped me months ago.

Not that it matters, after two months without interest in me, she decided to write. The letter seemed bland and insincere, but it was just what I needed to get everything off my chest. As I was finishing up my thirteen page response (it wasn’t everything, just the most important things), it occurred to me that a year’s worth of silence translates to a hell of a lot of text. It was a bit embarrassing, I’ll admit, the sheer girth of my letter, as was the fact that the majority of it was written in anger, but I’ve gotta say, it feels really good having it all out in the open. After more than a year of putting up with her scorn, judgment, griping, anger, complaints, opinions, and infuriating self-righteousness, I’ve finally, FINALLY said my piece as well. It’s the best I’ve felt in a long time.

She responded a few hours later with, essentially, “I agree with everything you said, and I thought this was going to be worse.” Man, did I feel cheated.

There were two possible responses I’d been hoping for as I wrote my letter, reliving every uncomfortable moment of our relationship in the process. One, the best case scenario, that she’d read my letter, see how much she’d hurt me, and, assuming that there was any truth to her claims of newfound maturity and goodwill, give me some kind of apology, not necessarily a full apology, but some kind of apology, and we could work from there. Or two, the worst case scenario, that she’d read my letter, pick up on the pure anger of it, and still being the same, unchanged negativity-magnet she’s been, feel absolutely horrible. If she wasn’t going to be the bigger one of us for a change, I just wanted her to really hurt. Just for one day. I wanted for her to feel for just one day the way she made me feel for a year.

I wanted her to see how it feels when your pour your heart out for someone and just get a slap in the face in return.

But I got a happy, cheery cop-out in response, a letter in which I even doubt her sincerity. Not a “sorry”, not a “you bastard!”, just a “you’re right”. That bugs me the most.

Still, I’m much cheerier now than I was before, the weight off my shoulders. Despite my lack of employment, or money, my stress level is down far lower than it’s been in a long time, and that’s without drinking! So I warn you all, be careful who you open your heart to! I found out the hard way, the pain CAN outweigh the joy, and it took me more than a year of shabby treatment to realize it. All of you: you’re your own best protector (this mystery man needs to sleep SOMEtime), so make sure you keep your eyes open to just how you’re being treated, and never forget, you deserve respect and to be treated with dignity. We all do. “Are we not men?”

That goes for you ladies too. Make sure your men treat you right!

As for me, I remain the Virgin Prince, at least for a while longer.

But who needs a woman anyway when you’ve got access to government-built electrodes! Huzzah!

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

My amorous automatons,

I’ve not written for a terribly long time. Dreadfully sorry for my prolonged absence, but it would seem the current administration, here in the United States of America, doesn’t take kindly to people that take part in exposing the truth about the president, and furthermore, is intolerant of camera enthusiasts that take photographs of secret government prison camps. In truth, I was merely trying to figure out what ever happened to the kid that played “Paul” on the Wonder Years.

But apparently my excuse was not good enough for the men dressed in black with the M-16s, and as they pounded away at my stomach with the butts of their rifles, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that perhaps I should have been searching for Alan Thicke instead. Certainly, a search for Alan Thicke would have been far less noticed, he, being one of Canada’s less notable imports.

In fact, when I think of the crap Canada has unloaded upon us in recent years, absolute trite garbage such as the Bare Naked Ladies, Alanis Morisette, Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain, and Mike Myers, one almost tends to think the only way to return the favor would be to exile the majority of our Detroit-based celebrities (of note, within this talentless clique, the Insane Clown Posse and Kid Rock) to their northern land, if only to counter-balance the massive influx of utter drivel into our own fair nation.

Back to the point, I was trussed up and thrown in my very own cell within the prison walls of Guantanamo Bay. In the cell across from mine was a man that bled wine, and was obvious as a threat, if not for his message of peace and defiance of government, then at least for his inherent Middle-Eastern-ness. In the cell to my left was a kind-hearted Palestinian lad that had made the mistake of loudly criticizing the genocide being perpetrated by the Israeli government, while in the midst of a Hollywood fundraiser for the Republican Party. The cell to my right contained a Briton. Of all my fellow prisoners, he was easily my favorite, as we would pass the time away by tapping the lyrics of “Tainted Love” in Morse code to each other, alternating verses, by way of our cement cell wall.

The time I spent in Guantanamo wasn’t all bad. During our brief hour of daily “outside time” those of us with unbroken fingers occasionally played dodgeball, though we quickly grew tired of our wounds re-opening and promptly switched instead to croquet. The fact that our makeshift ball was, in fact, a pig’s bladder, lessened the appeal of the game as well, both due to the mess it made upon contact with our crisp uniforms, and due to the huge bacterial risk it presented to those of us still healing from the open sores on our necks, which had developed after we’d spent a few days in our choke-collars. The guards at the prison occasionally chose to play dodgeball with us as well, though as they aimed downward at us from their towers, they sidestepped the inconvenience of rotting swine-organs by instead pelting us with teargas and rubber bullets.

In the few months I was there I made friends with a militia-man that had declared his own country somewhere in Montana, and taught me the fine art of whittling. He started to teach me the methods of moonshining as well, but that soon stopped once old “Hey-Zeus” in the cell across from mine started swapping us blood for cigarettes. Every thin white line across "Old Beardy's" forearm corresponds to a night when many of us in the cellblock stuttered, slurred, and warbled the lyrics to the Who’s “My Wife”. The thicker scars on his arms likewise mark reference to nights in which I was so plastered that I added “ear-ly in the mor-ning” to the end of every verse.

All in all, the experience wasn’t all that different from my childhood experiences of daycare at the YMCA. A little more fun perhaps, and possibly a bit cleaner.

In all truth, however, I have never seen such savagery as I did at Guantanamo Bay. The military served up hot dogs with ketchup! To my disgust, some of the prisoners were actually hungry enough to attempt to eat these intestine-wrapped crimes against man and god! I started trading up my cigarettes for smuggled packets of mustard, though all I could get was the yellow crap, getting the British kind was nothing more than a frustrating, unfulfilled wet-dream.

The ketchup, I later found out, is part of the plot to slowly convert the world into a Republican mindset. It’s what Reagan was working towards when he declared ketchup a vegetable, for the sake of our public schools, way back when. You see, a person’s inherent Republican-ness can be gauged by how much ketchup they eat. Simultaneously, an overuse of this sugary tomato-based sauce in the diet of an individual leads to the gradual depletion of the nutrients necessary to the subject’s brain, thus affecting rational thought and decision-making, thereby making Republican platforms easier to swallow. What starts as the ill-conceived notion of putting ketchup on hot dogs leads to the substitution of other condiments, be they tarter sauce, salsa, barbeque, or other, it makes no difference. These “gateway dogs” lead to ketchup on fish, ketchup on eggs, ketchup on corn, even devolving so far down as to a level of depravity at which French toast is eaten with ketchup, though at this point it is called “Freedom toast”, and itself is soon discarded in favor of flapjacks, due to having ever been associated with the French.

It breaks down roughly like this: during the point at which a person enjoys ketchup on hot dogs, they’re still on the fence about the war on terror. Once they’re putting ketchup on fish, they’ve started to feel animosity over the loss of crop-picking jobs that Mexicans have cost the hard-working people of this country. At eggs, it becomes clear that Communists ARE out to get us, thank God and Jesus we have FoxNews to keep us informed! By the time ketchup has made its way towards commingling with the bread group, the science of trickle-down-economics makes sense, and the misfiring synapses of the brain are seeing the logic of helping the lower classes by giving all the money to the rich.

Don’t even get me started on Thousand Island.

I’ve gotten off-track. All this useful knowledge aside, the indignities at the prison continued. Aside from my objections about the lack of vegan or even kosher meals as options to keep myself safer from America’s mad-cow-poisoned beef, there were still worse atrocities at Guantanamo! I saw bagels served with butter, as if denying us of Lox wasn’t already bad enough! I saw salads served with bits of fried chicken in them, and milkshakes made without real ice cream! The pizza they served us was that disgusting kind they used to serve in the cafeteria in elementary school, and our tuna came from yellowtail, not albacore! I ignored the fact that the apples in our meals were of the bland, red-delicious variety, and that our mashed potatoes came from a powdered, instant-mix, but what finally sent me over the edge was the prison chef’s attempt at serving me a cheeseburger, topped with that atrocious, processed American cheese.

This deliberate dismissal of fine cheddars everywhere, was a slap in the face of every man in the prison whose granddaddy had fought in World War Two. Though I’ll admit they were lured by the prospect of one day driving around in a finely engineered German vehicle, our Granddaddies knew damn well when they were helping to liberate France from her Hessian captors, that they were fighting and dying so that their sons, and grandsons, would never again have to eat loathsome, oil-based, quasi-plastic, processed cheese.

At that moment, I felt a stirring inside me, and the loud, proud voice of Johnny Cash filled my ears as the Ballad of Ira Hayes played within my head. I was shaken with a force as if I’d caught the bullet meant for Alexander Hamilton, and the wig-wearing Federalist within me shed a patriotic tear. “My grandmother riveted planes so that I wouldn’t have to eat Kraft singles!” was my grand battle-cry.

A massive riot broke out then and there, and the collective force of the prison’s poorly-fed populous was unleashed, tearing doors from their very hinges and clawing at the very walls of the prison with the power and passion of primal anger. One group of prisoners broke into the office of our warden and raided his personal supply of Tapatio hot sauce, pouring it on their enchiladas and tossing aside the packets of Taco Bell Fire sauce we’d all been cruelly equipped with. I, myself quite shaggy and depraved at this point, having long been cut off from Yoohoo, lost my mental restraint and blew a hole in the wall with my atomic vision, bringing in natural sunlight upon my shoulders, and freeing me to the world. Quickly I made my escape, whooping and hollering all the way.

It’s not as if I’m totally without souvenirs. The guards at the prison were constantly taking photos of all of us and I’m sure I could float one of the guys a few bucks to get double-prints and send me some for my photo album. I assure you, I’ll send you all a few once they’re developed. Get your refrigerator magnets ready for when I send out Christmas cards! I’m wearing a white beard and Santa cap, but you’ll know it’s me by the electrodes attached to my genitals.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince