The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Gonzos and Grovers,

Howl! Oh, howl! Sorrow hangs in the air today, and not merely over the loss of my cosmic-powered sideburns. One of the great ones has left us.

I unlocked the steel door to my Fortress of Fortitude today, the cave lair under my abode, with a fresh newspaper in hand, once more to change the newspaper lining under Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage. I’d barely had time to change into my self-contained biohazard suit when I noticed the headlines on the front page.

The Hunter was dead.

Hunter S. Thompson, the great founder of what we today call gonzo journalism, had killed himself with his own gun. The news was hard for me to believe. It wasn’t how I’d expected his tale to end.

But at least he outlasted Nixon.

So today we pay our respects to one of the greatest minds ever to have trashed a hotel room. We look back and appreciate the contributions of the man that was the very definition of “freedom of the press” itself. Thank you, Raul Duke, for blessing the world with the tales of madness that most of us ourselves would never experience. I’ll drink in your honor, with my glass raised high to the heavens in offering, and tonight will bed down, wrapped in the American flag.

As for the death, I’ll continue to have my suspicions. I’ll never be able to fully believe that it was Hunter that did himself in, especially considering the legion of angry souls he’d offended over the years. I’ve always believed Hunter’s pistol was intended for others. Maybe he’d gotten on Bush’s nerves. That’s a scenario I can get behind.

It seems fitting, in the passing of the great Gonzo, that Paris Hilton’s cellular phone has been hacked, and her many acquaintances harassed with unwelcome phone calls. I’d like to think that just maybe, it was one last act of mayhem caused by the departing spirit of the great Hunter, a side-trip, one last bit of mischief for us all to enjoy before he rode the great white shark into Heaven.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

To all you Gullivers of greenbacks,

Ah, I was meant for better things.

I never thought I’d be unemployed this long, but then, I never thought I’d accept a ride on a bus with a cross-eyed driver, and that happened only a few short weeks ago. Sad as it is a fact to report, in my handsome alter-ego, I too require money to survive. The quest for employment has been a long and frustrating one, filled with close calls and desperate grasps. I consistently find myself leaving potential employers impressed with myself, only to find that I have a plethora of talented competition, leaving my successful interviews as worthless, lost amid a sheer mass of numbers. This is Bush’s America.

Ah, but I’m hungry. I’ve got spirit, and spunk, and a fighting spirit that won’t accept surrender, and I keep on strutting around the Bay Area with a big grin on my face and an impeccable wardrobe. To keep food on the table for the time being, I’ve taken to shearing Bobo and knitting his fur into the finest turtlenecks that non-Dominican slave labor can produce, for sale in only the trendiest of San Francisco's boutiques. As for the rashes and strange smells which have been appearing on the well-moisturized bodies of the Bay Area’s elite within the past few weeks, I claim utter unawareness.

I certainly hope Bobo’s fur keeps growing in, because my next logical step would have to be to shave off my body hair for use in the making of fine false mustaches for the costume shops about town. I suppose it goes without saying that should such a thing occur, you, my loyal readers, may wish to avoid purchases at such shops for a few months, as my chest can only provide for a scant 10% of the hair. Better still to not ask questions.

Oh, the lowly job-search.

Last week I was waiting at a bus stop, waiting for the bus to arrive which would take me to an interview for a government job, particularly, a career in the esteemed field of U.S. mail delivery. The spirit of Alexander Hamilton stood beside me, as usual. He’s been hounding me ever since he discovered his love of cable television, and though his love for VH1’s I Love the 80s would generally prevent him from leaving his seat on the couch, and his freshly warmed plate of Jimmy Dean sausages, the all-day marathon of Jennifer Lopez videos being shown on this particular day had made him eager, to say the least, to leave the house.

As for myself, when looking through the possibilities of future employment, a job with the postal service seemed suddenly appealing me, realizing that not only would I be working for the government, I’d be doing a valued and necessary job. Why, Benjamin Franklin himself was our nation’s very first Postmaster General! Indeed, this was a job I could be proud of, as not only would I be providing a valuable service, I’d be following in the footsteps of great Americans!

And like it or not, you lowly whelps of Canadian breed, you have no Benjamin Franklin. This is why rock and roll is indigenous to the United States of Awesomerica!

My apologies. That incorrigible Alexander Hamilton briefly wrestled control of the keyboard away from me. Shame on you Hamilton! That’s two hours of Trading Spaces for you! You won’t be watching Patrick Swayze’s Roadhouse tonight!

Allow me to shift my attention from the sulking exanimate forefather to my left and return to the tale at hand. Anyway, Alexander Hamilton and I were standing at the bus-stop, I, perfecting wondrous feats of aerial acrobatics with my trusty Apollo yo-yo, he, gorging himself on teriyaki-spice SlimJims, and the two of us both discussing the advantages of Maryanne versus Ginger, should we be trapped on Gilligan’s Island. Though it is certain I have a healthy love of the redheads, there is no question that Maryanne would win out in this competition; I have no love of bimbos. Alexander Hamilton began to tell me, in the strictest confidence of course, of how in actuality George Washington and himself had actually founded the nation in the interests of pursuing lolita farm-girls, but was quickly cut off, as the bus arrived.

As the realization of why the separation of church and state was actually initially created hit me, I boarded the bus. Hamilton directed me towards the rear, though I made sure to seat myself several seats away from the man angrily hitting himself on the head, swearing and yelling loudly at himself, and spitting on the windows several seats in front of me. Ah, these are the people in your neighborhood.

As we arrived at our stop, and stepped off the bus, the smell of the fine burritos sold by San Mateo County’s loyal fleet of taco trucks filled the air. I must have mistaken the scent of cilantro for that of impending success, and the wafting essence of carne asada for the smell of American opportunity, for I quickly found myself marching towards the post office with proud, mighty steps, and Alexander Hamilton too, walked with a swagger behind me, commenting on how he’d smelled this very scent on the day of the signing of the Constitution.

He, of course, had no way of knowing that on the day of the signing what he’d actually been smelling was little more than Benjamin Franklin’s newest invention, an early precursor to what we today call Hot Pockets. Franklin had smuggled the baked foodstuffs inside, under his armpits, beneath his heavy jacket, craving the salty goodness of pork, yet officially barred from bringing in food to meetings of the Constitutional Congress; a rule established after Gouverneur Morris had accidentally dripped on the Constitution while chewing on a fried chicken leg, slathered in Ranch dressing. Unofficially referred to as “Article I, Section 3, Clause 8 of the Constitution”, one can still see where the clause was hastily penciled in by an irate gathering of politicians if one looks closely enough at the section of the Constitution just under the words, “Trial, Judgment and Punishment, according to Law”. The stated penalty for this particular offense was defined as a “paddling on one’s hindquarters”, but that in itself was quickly amended after James Madison suddenly began being caught on a daily basis with a poorly-concealed sandwich half-heartedly tucked into his trousers, visibly protruding outwards. Strangely enough, the more he was paddled, the less capable his concealments became.

But the lesson that Alexander Hamilton was never to learn, that sometimes the smell of Mexican spices is merely that, was the lesson I, myself, soon would be taught. I proudly marched inside the post office and announced my intentions of gaining employment with the United States Postal Service.

“Oh, you’re here for the interview?” A middle-aged Filipino woman asked me.

“Yes!” was my over-eager reply, and before I even had the chance to thrust out my resume towards the world, the familiar smell of chloroform was wafting up my nostrils, luring me backwards into the world of unconsciousness.

I came to in a dimly-lit backroom, I assumed still within the post office building. Two conspicuously dressed men stood in front of me, overly well-dressed in matching black suits, with neatly combed hair and dark glasses. I was left with the distinct feeling that attempting to lighten the mood with levity would not help me in attaining this job. My, how serious the government has become in the dark days since September 11th.

“So, your name is ______.” the first agent asked me my name; I can’t reprint it here as I was in my civilian guise, my alter-ego as mild-mannered... oops, nearly caught me.

“Yes.” I told him in response to his query.

“Are you registered with selective services?”

“Yes.” I told him, secretly quite aware that in the event of a draft, I’d be on the first plane to Canada.

“Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist party?”

“No.” I responded, biting my tongue about my feelings on government-paid free healthcare for all.

“Good, good,” the second agent said, throwing a folder down on the table in front of me. As pages spilled out across the table I recognized different memories from my life in the photographs and text documents before me, “I see you’ve made quite a few trips to Canada.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve developed an appreciation for Molson it would seem.”

It was bold-faced lie, but I knew just how overly-paranoid the agents of our government can be when it comes to Socialist governments. Beer, on the other hand, is as American an interest as there can be, and the admitted love of it would only serve to relieve and pacify the representatives of U.S. government.

“Nothing wrong with that.” the first agent replied.

See? I told you.

“The only major question we have to ask you is in regard to this photograph here.” the second agent said, pushing towards me a photograph of my ex-girlfriend, in her superhero guise, greeting me in my civilian identity at work.

There’s a simple explanation really, I had her come in and abduct me, claiming that it was a necessity for the safety of the world, simply in order to get out of work one day. I had no way of knowing that one day’s worth of poor work ethics would come back and bite me this way.

“The reason we bring this up is because the mystery-woman in this picture with you bears striking resemblance to this woman here, a known Canadian national.” the first agent told me, pushing towards me a picture of my ex-girlfriend in her civilian guise. It was an unflattering picture, she squatting in a Burger King parking lot, relieving herself after a night of alcoholic excess. I knew those kids with the video camera would come back to haunt us somehow.

Being that my ex-girlfriend was the granddaughter of a Soviet spy, and knowing of my nation’s fanatical distrust of Communists, I responded, “Nope. Don’t know her. Never seen her before in my life.”

How were they to know I’d been snickering to myself in a car just a few feet away?

The second agent responded with, “We normally wouldn’t question you about this, except the girl in this picture is wearing the exact same clothing as the mystery-woman in this picture, except this mystery-woman, uh… what’s her name? B.T.O. Girl?”

“Uh, I believe her name is Rush Girl.” the first agent replied.

“Right. Well this Rush Girl seems to be wearing the exact same clothes as this civilian, just with the exception of the addition of a bra over her shirt.” the second agent told me, sounding somewhat puzzled as he mentioned it.

Okay, I’ll admit, my ex-girlfriend wasn’t the most clever when it came to costume design. Still, I loved her, though sometimes the simple concept of aesthetics escaped her. Regardless, I needed to come up with an excuse, and fast. Any link between me and someone who them-self had a link with the Communist Party in some way would no doubt cost me any chance at a nice, reliable government job. I hadn’t seen this kind of witch-hunting since the House Un-American Committee forced the Justice Society of America to disband in the 1950s.

“Well even Superman and Clark Kent look pretty similar, but clearly they can’t be the same guy, because Clark Kent wears glasses.” was the best response I could come up with.

Smooth, really smooth.

“Well you have us there.” said the first agent.

“Yep. Can’t beat that logic.” replied the second agent.

Paydirt! Miraculously, my excuse had worked against the dim wits and weak minds of the agents of the U.S. government! Oh, for once in my life I thanked the Republican party for the rightwing dumbing down of America! Who could have foreseen that Ronald Reagan might have actually done some good for the nation when he substituted ketchup (or catsup, depending on your orientation) for real vegetables in the cafeteria lunch meals of public schools? The lack of proper nutrients and vitamins during these two agents’ formative years had clearly retarded them to the point where my flimsy excuse would grant me a chance at a government job! Huzzah!

“Looks like you get the job,” the first agent told me, “can you be in on Monday?”

“Cer…,” the first syllable of my response had almost been uttered from my mouth when suddenly I heard the disquieting voice of Alexander Hamilton. Drat! I’d forgotten the undead spirit of America’s greatest forefather had followed me on my trip to find employment.

“Insist on profit sharing!” the spirit of Alexander Hamilton bellowed at me.

“Quiet, Hamilton!” I tried to yell in a whisper at the voice in the back of the room.

“Company stock too! Request company stock!”

“Shut up Hamilton!” I muttered in a slightly louder voice.

“Solicit profit sharing! The spirits of your Federalist forefathers demand it!”

“Damn you, Alexander Hamilton! Leave me alone! I’m trying to secure employment!” I yelled at the expired founding father behind me.

“Eh… who are you talking to?” the second agent asked me.

“Oh! Ah… no one. Just practicing for an upcoming gig at the community theatre.”

“No, I saw it too. You were talking to someone else. There’s no one here.” the first agent retorted, “I’m sorry, but we can’t hire you. Not after all those shootings that occurred in the post offices of America a few years back. Perhaps the government shouldn’t be giving out gold-plated Tec-9s as first-year anniversary presents to United States Postal Employees, but then, who could say? The data on the matter is inconclusive at best. Still, I don’t think it’d be wise at this juncture to hire you.”

“I love America’s loose gun-control laws.” the first agent lamented, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Me too buddy!” the second agent cried, as the two agents held each other in warm embrace.

“Oh Christ.” I muttered to myself as I pulled my nail clippers from my pocket to take care of a jagged edge on my pinky nail, feeling embittered about the loss of this job opportunity.

“He’s got a nail clipper! Take him down!” the first agent cried, shortly before tackling me.

I hate the post-September 11th America.

Fast-forwarding to this week, I made sure that the spirit of Alexander Hamilton didn’t accompany me to my most recent job interview. It wasn’t a hard feat to accomplish, he was lost in an all-day marathon of Kolchak the Night Stalker, followed by a Battlestar Galactica chaser. As for myself, I was off to yesterday’s interview with America’s ninth largest airline. This wasn’t a poor second choice, as in addition to the airline’s more than adequate benefits, I was able to feel a bit proud in having something of a familial history in service to industry of flight. My grandmother had been a riveter on American planes during World War II, and had, along the way become one of the first officially licensed female mechanics. Quite possibly the very first, though that is pure speculation on my part, she was certainly the first in the 40-year career of the inspector that reluctantly licensed her. Along the way she met my grandfather, and they both went on to distinguished careers at United Airlines. Several years later, my father followed in their footsteps.

I was severely annoyed, to say the least, to find in the last hours of the night before my interview, a series a very thorough forms sent to me to fill out before my interview. I was expected to fully account for every month of my life over the past 10 years. Needless to say, these documents sent to me at the very last minute kept me awake all through the night, attempting to fully recollect and document my entire adult life. At completion I was able to attain perhaps four hours of sleep.

I arrived the next morning at the interview tired, amongst what must have been fifty other applicants, intimidated, yes, but still filled with hope, confidence, and can-do spirit. I was dressed in the finest suit of purple and green, looking like a Batman-villain waiting to happen, clearly outclassing the others. The job I was applying for was a strictly no-smoking position, so I was well-aware that I would be sticking to my newly-found clean lifestyle whether I liked it or not. The group was divided into two, and I went with my section to the continued interview. I was tired, and sucking down PEZ, as I’d run out of Altoids.

The first question the interviewers asked us was, “If you could have dinner with anyone you choose, living or dead, who would you choose, and why?” The others initially answered with stories of wanting to dine with their dead fathers, and the like, and while I could appreciate the sentiment, I figured I wouldn’t impress my interviewers with depressing emotionalism. Others answered with names of political figures, in my mind always a bad call, as the political party of the interviewers was in question, leaving all with a 50% chance of offending them, though I must admit to agreeing with (and perhaps slightly envying) the man that cited Barbara Boxer, due to her being the one politician to stand up to Condoleeza Rice. My answer came to me quickly.

“Shatner. William Shatner, because after a few glasses of wine we could do a duet on Mr. Tamborine Man.”

Laughter filled the room. And though my answer had been truthful, it had been calculated for levity. I wanted to impress my prospective employers with both my great personality, and my ability to think outside the box.

Next we were divided into groups of two to answer hypothetical questions of what we would do in situations gone wrong. Everyone got a different question. I envied the first pairing which got off with a simple question: “You work at a store which has been advertising a special on turkeys during the Thanksgiving season. Unfortunately, your supply of turkeys has run out. What do you do?”

“It’s so damn simple!” I screamed at myself inside my head, “Poke some damn feathers into a ham!”

Not that the pair came up with that answer. Still, they got off easily, and all the pairs to follow got much harder questions, along with much harder follow-up questions from the interviewers. For every solution, the group was met with replies of, “but that doesn’t work because ______.” It was a Kobayashi Maru scenario, and, having earlier invoked William Shatner, I wasn’t about to stand for it.

When my turn came, I stood with my partner and listed my solutions, valid solutions all, and as the interviewers continually changed the situation to make my solutions invalid, I responded, altogether without hostility, that I didn’t believe in what they were presenting. There’s always a possibility for some solution of some kind. First off, I pointed out that I would never have put myself in the situation the main interviewer was presenting. It was true; I was far too smart for that. Secondly, I pointed out that I had been in the hypothetical situation she was presenting to me numerous times, and had, in actuality always found a way out of it. (It was a question about the need to travel while working at a job that didn’t allow for time off.)

In the corner of the room, a lady noticeably and loudly contradicted me as I attempted to give my response. This annoyed me greatly, as not only did it hurt my appearance as I responded to my interviewers (greatly hurting my chances at obtaining the job, I should point out), but it’s just bad form. You don’t interrupt someone else when it’s their turn to talk (especially with the stakes so high), but I suppose I should have expected as much considering that the same lady cited Bill O’Reilly as the one person she would wish to meet and dine with. Makes absolute sense.

Lastly, all of us were asked to name one thing unique to us, something that wouldn’t be found on our resumes. People mentioned standard things: a love for collecting model trains, an enjoyment for cooking Mexican food, a passion for collecting airline memorabilia, an admission of owning way too many shoes for a guy. As for myself, I decided I wanted to stand out from the rest. I wanted to be damn sure that when it came time to decide who to pick, mine was a name they remembered. I would take “unique” and define it beyond what the interviewers themselves had meant.

“Unique, eh?” I asked the interviewers as my turn came around. After a nod in my direction I responded with the first third of I Am the Very Model of A Modern Major General, the part which states, “I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,
About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.”

I recited the entire thing in key, at the incredible speed of a professional actor, well-versed in performing the works of Gilbert and Sullivan. I followed the brief performance by mentioning I knew the whole song to heart, and thanking all those present. I was the only interviewee to get a full and vigorous ovation at any point during the interview. Those who came after me admitted to not being able to follow what I’d done, which was flattering in itself. Most importantly, at this point the cute blonde girl amongst the interviewers was smiling at me, along with many of the females in the room.

“Tee hee,” I thought, “I’ve got this thing beat!”

We were excused and told to return to the room in 20 minutes, at which time the interviewers would announce the four applicants they were keeping for further interviewing. Most of us returned inside of 15 minutes, though our interviewers actually ended up taking 30 to 40 minutes to decide. Their decision, as noted by all of us, was clearly a difficult one.

When we finally returned to the room, mine wasn’t one of the names called. In fact, of all the qualified applicants we’d all expected to see picked, none were chosen. Instead, the four least noticed, unimpressive of the bunch were chosen. Two of them almost amounted to a blank spot in my memory, I, recalling absolutely nothing of them except for the fact that they were bilingual. The third was a man that had literally pronounced the word “asked” as “axed” (I had thought this was a bad stereotype, I didn’t know people actually did it). The fourth was a grumpy old woman that had given the interviewers a wiseass answer, and later had some fun at my expense out in the hallway as we all waited to hear who the interviewers had picked.

The only good thing to come out of the interview at all was the winks of a few females and several words of praise from my co-applicants. Believe me, I’m the most humble man around, and appreciate kind words from others more than most, still, it seemed like poor conciliation for an extreme lack of sleep and most of my day wasted. As I walked home in my nice clothes in the pouring rain, I was left feeling that perhaps I just may be too dynamic for most people.

It’s not in the nature of the Virgin Prince to remain down in the dumps however, and my spirits were lifted later in the evening as I sat in the parking lot outside the airport with Bobo the Virgin Chimp, freely, and without a care in the world, flinging ape feces into the jet intakes of the departing aircraft, rising slowly overhead.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince

To all you magnificent mice and men of modern ‘Merica,

Last night I was caught up in the strange swirlings of Dadaist dreamings. Nemo and the Sandman had conspired together to present me nocturnal images the likes of which Dr. Timothy Leary once had to spend hours in the laboratory to produce. In my confused, unconscious state I was greeted with visions of kung fu-fighting soul brothers, exploding horses, and large bands of mariachis engaging in brutal turf-war battles with packs of pink ninjas. My subconscious had even blessed me with a celebrity cameo, by way of Britney Spears, riding bareback on a horse briefly, until she too exploded with it. Brute and Glob had done their job, and the landscape was littered with unidentifiable pink bits of human muck, and two nearly unscathed (and clearly reusable) bags of silicone.

I awoke shortly thereafter to the sounds of Count Dante and the Black Dragon Fighting Society, but not before being granted two nuggets of universal truth, sent to me from the group-mind in the center in the universe. The first was the vision of Amy Acker in lingerie; there is no sweeter sight. Secondly, the knowledge that at the very basis of things there are two types of people: those who dream, and those who only place importance on how much cold hard cash they can hold solidly in their hands at any given time. It’s sad to say this isn’t much of a dreamer’s world. I’m trapped.

Trapped in a world of compromise, of people choosing lesser evils instead of trying to effect great change. Stuck in a world where the nation to the north has a terminal case of national penis envy over its neighbor to the south, choosing instead to gripe, complain, attempt to belittle the other, rather than actually make an effort at doing anything about it. Wedged in a world where the nation in the west flaunts its superior economic and military might as reason enough to joyfully mock and impose its will on its weaker neighbor. So much importance placed on the truly trivial.

Redwood City, Rock City ripped me from my slumber and I was off, jumping up in my bed and running out of my room to the kitchen for a breakfast bowl of hot ramen noodles in peanut sauce. It was time to take off for deep into the uncharted lands of California, to the land where monsters be; where Confederate flags fly and crank is manufactured by the ton. It was time to visit family.

February is the month which celebrates the births of both my niece and my nephew. All of us that could, and would, made the trek to visit. It would be a damnable journey, filled with the horrors of rightwing America, and the inherent crapulence that is all of California that is not the San Francisco bay area.

We stopped briefly in San Francisco to pick up my aunt, visiting briefly from Kansas, or Missouri, or whatever shithole state she currently resides in, somewhere where the white man roams free, clutching tightly to his Bible and fighting bitterly to stave off the effects of change. In my youth, she had always seemed the cool aunt, being considerably younger than the rest, and, I thought, a free-thinker. Our initial first few hours in the car were nice, I, filling the car with laughter courtesy of my dry, British wit. Everything seemed fine until the time of the birthday party.

That was when my aunt and my brother-in-law, and his father (my father-in-law by extension?), started griping about how homosexuality was a choice.

That was when I got angry.

That was when Bobo the Virgin Chimp, ever the civil rights defender, became enraged as well, and began to pelt the offending party with unholy amounts of monkey-dung. The birthday parlor of Auburn’s premier pizza establishment was quickly a mess of flying fur and feces. My aunt dodged an oncoming barrage of ape-guano only to defend the war on Iraq and start ranting about how America is the only moral place on Earth, making a point to state how she could care less about the opinions of Europeans, as Europe is filled with a bunch of heathen sinners that don’t go to church and she’d never want to go there. I quickly pointed out how the Vatican was based in Rome and how Europe itself was the birthplace of Protestantism, but she countered with an excuse about how the religion itself was created there, but God sided with America. She had me there. She was assuming God exists. There’s no way to logically argue with something not proven to exist; faith can’t be debated.

Heh. A nation built on slavery and the ideals of property-ownership. America the most moral place on Earth. I was waiting for her to start making with the “Sieg heil”s.

But as she continued to rant, the different points she made continued to contradict one another. One minute she complained of how the rich shouldn’t be taxed any higher than others, then followed up with a complaint of how we can’t even take care of our own people here in the ‘States. She further complained of the continued loss of jobs and economic downward spiral currently afflicting this country, then refused to pin any blame on the Bush administration, which she admitted was spending unholy amounts of money on the war in Iraq, which she still defended. She started praising Bush’s social security reform plan, while admitting she had no understanding of it, and when we started complaining about the total lack of character of Condoleezza Rice and her continued lack of ability in her job, as well as her frustrating inability to ever admit to any of her failures, errors, and wrongdoing, my aunt countered with,

“See! We’ve got a black person in the cabinet! The Republicans are the friends of the African American people, they’re on our side! You Democrats like to talk, but we’re the good guys!”

It was a weak counter-argument on every level. For one, when I think of Condoleezza Rice, “black person” isn’t the first thing to come to mind (rather, “overly ambitious, morally bankrupt, woefully inept, pathological liar” comes to mind) but we really shouldn’t be looking at people in terms of color, that’s the wrong path. A person should be judged on their ethics and accomplishments; I feel that’s what my fellow liberals have been working towards. She and her party of choice are welcome to continue looking at people in terms of “red fish, blue fish, one fish, two fish”, though I must admit I feel that as long as they continue to, the audiences in attendance at future Republican conventions will continue to be overwhelmingly albino in shade.

The “being gay is a choice” argument came up again, to which I argued passionately, and backed up my points with my knowledge of scientific fact. I was so successful on this battlefront that she actually did slip up and change her stance to say that regardless of how a person is predisposed at birth, people have a choice to obey or disobey (her concept of) God. It was an admission of sorts on her part that quite possibly, yes, people are born gay. I had no time to relish the satisfaction of winning the point however, realizing that what she was essentially saying was that gays should be made to suffer through a life absent of their own choice.

That just strikes me as evil.

Finally, when she tried to blame Clinton and his administration for the sorry state of America as it stands today, I brought up the point that there is now a definitive controlling Republican majority in charge of the Executive branch, the Legislative branch, and sadly, even the Judicial branch (something which our forefathers in writing the Constitution wanted never, never to happen). Not a lot of places left for Democrats to sabotage the American government. Pointing out that the Republicans have had significant control of the nation for more than four years now, I asked her where the evidence of this great change was, the signs of the mending of our wounded nation.

“We’re working on it.” was her only response.

We’re working on it? This is a counter-argument? Four years with no tangible evidence of any benefit for my fellow man and I?

At this comment I too lost my cool, and I joined my faithful ape in the flinging of feces at the avatars of our rightwing oppressors. With a solid “thud” I pelted my Kansas-bred relative with all the force of two decades worth of bitterness towards Reagan, exposing her to my own smelly version of trickle-down theory. As for my brother-in-law, spouting his pro-Mexican-deportation beliefs as he attempted to duck behind a table, he too was soiled by the inescapable version of the manifest destiny I presented. As for his father, I was compassionately conservative in the throwing of my waste at him.

To see such a dashing masked man and his trusty ape boldly throwing nature’s unholy version of the Molotov cocktail at the cowering wicked must have inspired the young ones, for quickly they too had joined in. Babes were chucking diapers and letting fly strained justice and stewed freedom. The toddlers joined in on the battle as well, supplying many of the bombs bursting in air. There was indeed no child left behind as I, my trusty ape, and my brave army of junior deputy Federalists bombarded the opposition. Finally, we had the offenders cornered in, trenched in behind an overturned table, and wedged between the videogame room and the entrance to the birthday parlor. They soon hoisted up a makeshift white flag, snatched from where, I shudder to think.

“Huzzah!” was my battle-cry, “democracy has won this day!”

The cost of the battle had been great. I was lucky my great-granddaddy’s camera had been protected in a leather case at my side. The birthday cake was ruined, with no chance of the candles ever being lit. The pizza was coated in extra toppings the likes of which would make anchovies feel altogether appetizing, nay, welcomed in their place. Another pineapple pizza ruined; somewhere in heaven, Hawaiian Jesus was crying. There wasn’t a Care Bear in the house that wouldn’t need a thorough machine washing with an excess of bleach. But I had no chance to savor my victory.

Quickly I was snatched up by the assistant manager of the establishment, his large arms pinning mine behind my back, and his barely formed, sparse mustache doing little to shield my ears from the angry stream of indignities spewing forth from his lips. With the help of the cute pizza-assembler that had winked at me when I first entered the establishment, I was heartily tossed out the front door, back to the parking lot exterior of the mini-mall. My ape soon followed. Then we were photographed and told never to return to the inside of the hallowed walls of Round Table pizza.

I protested with the tale of how the spirit of the great Alexander Hamilton himself had appeared before me, demanding that I do this deed for the good of America, but it was all for naught. My claims of patriotism fell on deaf ears.

As for my family, it was decided unilaterally amongst them that next year I would have to sit at the kiddy table. That is, IF I was invited to the next birthday party.

You and me against the world, Bobo. You and me against the world.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince