The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Let's Rock
Desensitized dissenters,
The nefarious Fergie of the vile Black Eyed Peas stood before me on the rooftop of the Colonial Hotel, a cocky smile on her face as she looked down upon me. Her bejeweled right hand gripped a gold-plated pistol which she casually waved around (I certainly was in no position to disarm her) and her left hand rested upon her hip. As for myself, I was hanging by my fingertips from the edge of the rooftop, the grit of the building’s topside finding its way under my fingernails as my fingers gripped the last three inches of firm foundation they could reach. The quarter-foot of building-top I clung madly onto was all that separated me from a sleepy, rain-splattered asphalt city-street, some 98 foot below. Three thoughts went through my mind as I waited for the last few inches I had left to slip out from under my fingertips: one, that I would most likely need to get a new tie, two, if Tide with bleach would get concrete-dust out of my collared shirt, oh, and three, my entire life flashing before my eyes. And I suppose it would be safe to say that it occurred to me to wonder about how I had come to be where I was, though truly, I was too busy appreciating the fact that Fergie had finally taken a break from her rarely interrupted, trampy hoochie-dance.
To go back to the beginning, I had just woken up on the couch in a small house in Pacifica after a night of Domino-filled madness with my pal Mr. Mystere. He’d roused me from my slumber with an offer of a cup of tea and we sat down to a breakfast of artichoke hearts, our stomachs empty and grumbling, already cleared of our feast of beets from the night before, though a reddish tint persisted in the liquids expelled from our bladders. After we’d eaten, the two of us began searching through the local newspapers, searching desperately for fun things for me to do with my recently-met female love-interest. I settled for an antique fashion show as a suitable bit of entertainment for us, and so my good pal Mr. Mystere clipped the advertisement from the newspaper and placed it in an envelope for me, along with a clipping about an upcoming They Might Be Giants show. With that I was off, out the door with an enthusiastic desire to see my female flame once more.
Truly, in the early days of any amorous relationship there is always an initial feeling of wanting to see one’s squeeze more and more, regardless of how much time is spent together, even if the exposure is nearly constant. There’s a rush in the beginning, wild and powerful, as if infatuation in itself were a powerful drug. Were there a way to mainline the stuff, I assure you I would find the way. Oh, the withdrawal is felt instantly, with every absence of her touch and truancy of her voice; certainly I felt the need for another angry fix with every step as I dragged my sorry feet through the streets. I do say, what a glorious wreck I might be if only I could mainline my infatuation and freebase my joy for life.
I arrived home and hit the shower, making sure to shave along the way as the Magnificent M (which would be the super-nickname I’ve chosen for my new squeeze) had commented on my stubble once before. I can’t help it, I’m 25 and puberty has finally kicked in. I dressed in a flashy shirt of green and returned to my trusted pinstriped suit jacket and black slacks; it was back to the closet for my suit of clover and pine. Then I raced to the phone to make use of the phone-number she had given me.
Before I knew it I was back at her apartment and we were watching The Wicker Man, or playing dominos, or making out, I forget what happened in what order. The apartment was thankfully vacant of her roommates, who were all out partying for spring break. That left nothing but the two of us and some mosquitoes, making for a cozy and mostly comfy mood (aside from the occasional bug bites) which we quickly destroyed with an encore viewing of Battle Royale. But an hour and a half of watching Japanese children perforated with streams of bullets, sliced and diced with katanas, sickles, and knives, and having their heads blown off with explosive collars, couldn’t cool the lusty leanings in our hearts and quickly we were once more a rolling mess of flying tongues and groping arms. We did later calm down a bit and spend the late hours of the night talking, which was actually quite nice.
The next day I was back to my usual routine of ramen noodles and running, along with all the other activities that generally fill my weekdays. I was quite pleased when she called me again in the evening, and overjoyed to find that I was returning once more to her apartment (and quite ecstatic over the fact that it was once more vacant). We shared a feast of pineapple pizza (truly this is a girl heaven-sent) and garlic bread, and watched hour upon hour of old episodes of The Upright Citizens Brigade, laughing our heads off to such things as poo-on-a-stick and the Hong Kong Danger Duo. There was no time for dominos this evening however, as we quickly gave in to our baser urges once more, becoming in the process a mess of swirling tongues and rolling about the apartment floor as would a lonely tumbleweed across the set of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti-western.
I must say, I cannot state well enough at how very pleased I am at meeting this fine young gentlewoman. For you see, much as the mosquitoes are attracted to the iron-rich blood pumping through my body, most of my life I’ve attracted another form of parasite, that being the women in my life. For reasons unknown to me, I’ve generally always attracted malicious bags of negativity, affectionless harpies that are much too quick to spread their legs, who act as if the void created by the absence of love in their hearts could be filled with a penis. There was a time in my life when I was so very frustrated by absence of romance in my life, so very annoyed by the constant stream of gorgon-like, angry emotional-vampires I seemed to keep attracting and getting involved with, that I very nearly swore off women altogether and adopted a new phrase, borrowed from the great Catwoman and modified slightly, that phrase being,
“You know why I don’t like ladies? Because I’ve never met one.”
But when my confidence in the opposite gender had very nearly been extinguished by a host of bad experiences and a particularly venomous and immature gaggle of succubae, I finally met a nice girl! At just the right moment my faith in the female gender has been restored by a girl with the single most beautiful smile I have ever seen, the kind of smile where the whole face contorts, making the ENTIRE COUNTENANCE a gigantic welcoming grin, instead of being limited merely to the lips. She is sweet, she is smart, she’s not shallow, and I am most taken with her.
We both woke up the next morning after a most enjoyable, though most exhausting night. The sleep didn’t depart fully from our eyes, but after I’d run my toothbrush through my teeth I was ready for another round of tonsil hockey. I think if anything, all the kissing and cuddling had merely made me want this fine lass even further. Unfortunately, she had to travel to see her family for Easter, otherwise I might have spent the rest of that day kissing her as well. With disappointment on my mind I returned home, settling for spicy noodles and the trusty treadmill once more.
The first of my mosquito-bites, gained at the Magnificent M’s residence, had started to make their presence known on me. I itched and agonized; I hadn’t known this kind of irritation since Bobo the Virgin Chimp had bitten me and given me the dreaded Nepalese Whiteneck Virus which caused most of my skin to fall off back in ‘98. Now there was a series of shots to the scrotum from an oversized needle I’d sooner forget.
Good fortune was with me however, and my good friend Foxy Valentino had returned from the hell-pits of Southern California! Arriving shortly after I’d finished running, and waiting just long enough for me to shower, we quickly took off in the direction of the local home-improvement store. The Great Fox had discovered a source of youthful water flowing within his mother’s bathroom and had decided to tap it with the addition of a new sink, something in a pedestal design. However, upon witnessing in person the sight of the bathroom with its lime-green walls, painted-over light covers, and deteriorating skylight, we realized that improving upon this restroom would be no easy job, and would take more than the one night we had. We decided instead that the night was better spent eating pizza, watching Strange Brew, Fletch, and Where the Buffalo Roam, and drinking Jack Daniels.
Jack Daniels, by the way, now seems like utter swill, having myself been spoiled by the imbibing of Bushmills and Jamesons.
The next day Foxy Valentino and myself went to a local pool where he occasionally works and he got to the business of repairing the equipment while I assisted. Again we were off to the home-improvement store, this time to buy about 30 yards of rope and duct tape, but not before we had first stopped at another store to buy some 25 chairs. Between the large, empty pool building we had free reign of, the 25 chairs, the yards upon yards of rope, and the massive roll of duct tape, we might very well have been set for a mass-kidnapping if only I’d had about two-dozen socks. We were not, however, going about that sort of business, though we were consistently asked that while strolling through the Home Depot.
After work, we stopped by Hawaiian Drive-Inn, the jewel of Daly City, and one of the single best places to have a meal in the great state of California. The food was heavenly, as usual, and even the macaroni salad seemed a welcome course as I’d not been to a Hawaiian Drive-Inn in longer than I can recall. Again, I returned home and Foxy Valentino said his farewells, promising to return once more in April. Back to the treadmill for me.
From Thursday on I had far too much time on my hands, what with my new squeeze being away with her family, Foxy Valentino having returned to his new home (or lack thereof) down in Southern California, and Mr. Mystere and the Lusty Lascivian being as reclusive as usual (though how anyone at the tender age of 25 can be too tired to go out, particularly when unemployed, is beyond me). Certainly, I could pass the time with running, push-ups, and cold showers, but such activities only took up a small amount of time and even my muscles have their breaking point. It seemed to me that my time would be best spent in the pursuit of fighting evil!
Fortunately for me, there was already an unsolved case waiting for me to solve it. The streets of my fair city had been flooded with a vile product, one that ruined lives and corrupted the youth of America. That vile product was a very poorly-pressed, bootleg copy of Frampton Comes Alive. And while there would normally be nothing unseemly about the once-young star of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and his crowning achievement, young Frampton’s catchy rock-rhythms and feel-good lyrics had been corrupted. This imperfect bootleg, this far-from-carbon-copy, not only contained a few erroneous extra tracks (such as Elton John’s Benny and the Jets and a handful of selections from Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell), but all the tracks on this corrupted album had been laced with some sort of subliminal code, a command for some sort of action, though what exactly, I could not quite decipher. I left it up to the Virgincomputer to break the code. What I did know, was that this mockery of pressed plastic was absent of the stench of Thai forgery (a smell I’d come to know quite well while I’d been collecting the complete works of Badfinger in as shysty a manner as possible) and thus my detective-brain was left to assume that this particular forgery was homegrown.
I spent the next day or two in deep undercover around the county, tracking the source of the bootlegs until finally the trail led me to Los Angeles. The distance I would need to cover required me to pack up the Virginmobile with Twinkies and Yoo-Hoo for the trip. I also decided to bring along my trusty sidekick, Bobo the Virgin Chimp, as he is a distant relative of Detective Chimp, and therefore, most likely to be a bit of help, as opposed to a hindrance. I strapped my simian friend into the passenger seat with enough copies of Tiger Beat to pacify a flock of Mary Kay Letourneaus, certainly the amount of Lindsay Lohan-overload my ape-friend would soon be experiencing would keep him entertained for the trip.
It was there in a dingy warehouse in old Los Angeles that I finally found the culprits. Amid a dusty array of archaic bootlegging machines, record-presses, label-makers, and CD burners stood the most vile collaboration of villains assembled in recent years, barring, of course, the Legion of Doom and No Doubt. This dastardly association of diabolism, this confederation of criminality, was none other than the dreaded Black Eyed Peas! Oh how I despise this collection of knaves, the single worst quartet of crapulence since Sublime roamed the Earth. I cracked my knuckles in joyous anticipation of finally smiting a group of thieves so very deserving.
I set my ape loose on Apl.de.ap and Taboo first, and Bobo enthusiastically engaged them, tearing their limbs from them in a joyous symphony of harshly-dealt justice. As for myself, I chased after Will.I.Am and Fergie, the apparent ringleaders of the counterfeiting operation. They tossed a bucket of greasy, fried chicken in my face, and took advantage of my distraction by quickly exiting the building, hopping into a yellow school-bus and speeding off down the dirty streets of Los Angeles. As I wiped the Colonel’s extra-crispy recipe from my eye, the smell of peeled-out tires and spent gasoline alerted me to the escape of my quarry. Seeing the bus speeding away through a cloudy window, I took a good running leap after them, flying into the air and grabbing for a single loose wire hanging from the ceiling so that I might swing from it.
The wire, of course, snapped with me hanging from it, but the inertia of my bodyweight in freefall was enough to send me flying through the window onto the street outside. As I brushed shattered glass from my shoulders, I made my way to my Virginmobile, stepping onto my fine leather driver’s seat in order to utilize my vehicle’s trespasser-ejection system. As the spring to my seat was released and I was sent flying through the Los Angeles skyline, my eyes locked once more onto the speeding yellow school-bus and I found myself gliding down towards it.
I landed on the roof of the bus with a thud, and I was left wishing I’d worn a cup. Nevertheless, I cut a small square from the bus’s ceiling with a few short blasts of my atomic vision, and was able to squeeze myself inside the bus, where I quickly grabbed the nefarious Will.I.Am and tossed him out the driver’s side-window. Outside I could hear the sound of his limp form being trampled underneath a passing AMC Matador. Surely that would keep him out of trouble for a small while.
I was about to gain control of the now-driverless bus when suddenly Fergie distracted me with her special attack, that being her back-bending, pelvic thrusting, hoochie-dance. Her gyrating motion, mastered over several years in service to the devil, has a strange, disorienting, and hypnotic-type effect. No matter how strong the will of the brave warrior that might challenge her in combat, the debilitating effect of her hoochie-dance is inescapable. The second she begins in her thrusting motions the human mind locks up, unable to comprehend what it is viewing, and suddenly filled with a multitude of unanswerable questions, such as,
“Why is she doing that?”
“Does she think that looks good?”
“Is that good for her back?”
“Seriously, what are her chiropractor bills like?”
I shook myself free of the trance she’d left me in, only to find that the bus we’d been in had come to a complete stop, lodging itself deep inside the lobby of the Colonial Hotel. Fergie, on the other hand, was gone. It was then I went chasing through the hotel looking for her, galloping through every hallway and kicking down many doors (accidentally exposing the illicit activities of a handful of soiled-doves and a local politician or two) as I continued my pursuit. Though I could see no sign of her, my finely-tuned senses were able to pick up on her perfume, which smelled a bit like lilacs, body odor, and old subway cars. The scent lead me up to the door to the rooftop, which I flew through in hot pursuit. Perhaps I’d been a bit overzealous in my chase, for I’d forgotten the danger of the hunt. As I burst onto the roof, the nefarious Fergie was able to sneak behind me and catch me off-guard, pistol-whipping me in the back of the head.
And that brings me back to where I started, hanging on the edge of a rooftop, at the mercy of a mediocre music-act.
This brings me to my point: that occasionally the gossip page in the newspaper actually serves a useful purpose. You see, several months ago I’d read of an account of how Fergie had publicly molested herself onstage while in the midst of a Black Eyed Peas show. This gave me an idea.
“You know,” I cried to Fergie as I hung by my fingertips to the roof of the Colonial Hotel, “you won’t get away with this. If you actually succeed in finishing off I, the great Virgin Prince, it’ll certainly be on the front page of all the newspapers tomorrow. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those news-choppers were filming us right now!”
“What? Publicity?” she asked, losing control of her limbs to instinct, and thrusting them deep within her pants once more.
I’d calculated that if Fergie thought the public was watching her, she’d no doubt engage in spontaneous masturbation fit once more. My theory paid off. It was then that I grabbed hold of her ankle and pulled her towards me, sending her off-balance. With her hands still stuck in her pants, she couldn’t outstretch her arms to regain her equilibrium, and thus fell from the roof of the Colonial Hotel, hopefully to an end as a splatter on someone’s windshield.
As for myself, a half hour later Bobo got me back to ground-level by carrying me down on his back. And as for Peter Frampton, his intellectual property is safe once more, save for from most of Asia, but there’ll be time enough for that later. At least the evil-doers of the world received a message loudly and clearly this past week: never mess with Frampton Comes Alive
Oh, and don’t mess with Lars Ulrich either, because he’ll sue you.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
The nefarious Fergie of the vile Black Eyed Peas stood before me on the rooftop of the Colonial Hotel, a cocky smile on her face as she looked down upon me. Her bejeweled right hand gripped a gold-plated pistol which she casually waved around (I certainly was in no position to disarm her) and her left hand rested upon her hip. As for myself, I was hanging by my fingertips from the edge of the rooftop, the grit of the building’s topside finding its way under my fingernails as my fingers gripped the last three inches of firm foundation they could reach. The quarter-foot of building-top I clung madly onto was all that separated me from a sleepy, rain-splattered asphalt city-street, some 98 foot below. Three thoughts went through my mind as I waited for the last few inches I had left to slip out from under my fingertips: one, that I would most likely need to get a new tie, two, if Tide with bleach would get concrete-dust out of my collared shirt, oh, and three, my entire life flashing before my eyes. And I suppose it would be safe to say that it occurred to me to wonder about how I had come to be where I was, though truly, I was too busy appreciating the fact that Fergie had finally taken a break from her rarely interrupted, trampy hoochie-dance.
To go back to the beginning, I had just woken up on the couch in a small house in Pacifica after a night of Domino-filled madness with my pal Mr. Mystere. He’d roused me from my slumber with an offer of a cup of tea and we sat down to a breakfast of artichoke hearts, our stomachs empty and grumbling, already cleared of our feast of beets from the night before, though a reddish tint persisted in the liquids expelled from our bladders. After we’d eaten, the two of us began searching through the local newspapers, searching desperately for fun things for me to do with my recently-met female love-interest. I settled for an antique fashion show as a suitable bit of entertainment for us, and so my good pal Mr. Mystere clipped the advertisement from the newspaper and placed it in an envelope for me, along with a clipping about an upcoming They Might Be Giants show. With that I was off, out the door with an enthusiastic desire to see my female flame once more.
Truly, in the early days of any amorous relationship there is always an initial feeling of wanting to see one’s squeeze more and more, regardless of how much time is spent together, even if the exposure is nearly constant. There’s a rush in the beginning, wild and powerful, as if infatuation in itself were a powerful drug. Were there a way to mainline the stuff, I assure you I would find the way. Oh, the withdrawal is felt instantly, with every absence of her touch and truancy of her voice; certainly I felt the need for another angry fix with every step as I dragged my sorry feet through the streets. I do say, what a glorious wreck I might be if only I could mainline my infatuation and freebase my joy for life.
I arrived home and hit the shower, making sure to shave along the way as the Magnificent M (which would be the super-nickname I’ve chosen for my new squeeze) had commented on my stubble once before. I can’t help it, I’m 25 and puberty has finally kicked in. I dressed in a flashy shirt of green and returned to my trusted pinstriped suit jacket and black slacks; it was back to the closet for my suit of clover and pine. Then I raced to the phone to make use of the phone-number she had given me.
Before I knew it I was back at her apartment and we were watching The Wicker Man, or playing dominos, or making out, I forget what happened in what order. The apartment was thankfully vacant of her roommates, who were all out partying for spring break. That left nothing but the two of us and some mosquitoes, making for a cozy and mostly comfy mood (aside from the occasional bug bites) which we quickly destroyed with an encore viewing of Battle Royale. But an hour and a half of watching Japanese children perforated with streams of bullets, sliced and diced with katanas, sickles, and knives, and having their heads blown off with explosive collars, couldn’t cool the lusty leanings in our hearts and quickly we were once more a rolling mess of flying tongues and groping arms. We did later calm down a bit and spend the late hours of the night talking, which was actually quite nice.
The next day I was back to my usual routine of ramen noodles and running, along with all the other activities that generally fill my weekdays. I was quite pleased when she called me again in the evening, and overjoyed to find that I was returning once more to her apartment (and quite ecstatic over the fact that it was once more vacant). We shared a feast of pineapple pizza (truly this is a girl heaven-sent) and garlic bread, and watched hour upon hour of old episodes of The Upright Citizens Brigade, laughing our heads off to such things as poo-on-a-stick and the Hong Kong Danger Duo. There was no time for dominos this evening however, as we quickly gave in to our baser urges once more, becoming in the process a mess of swirling tongues and rolling about the apartment floor as would a lonely tumbleweed across the set of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti-western.
I must say, I cannot state well enough at how very pleased I am at meeting this fine young gentlewoman. For you see, much as the mosquitoes are attracted to the iron-rich blood pumping through my body, most of my life I’ve attracted another form of parasite, that being the women in my life. For reasons unknown to me, I’ve generally always attracted malicious bags of negativity, affectionless harpies that are much too quick to spread their legs, who act as if the void created by the absence of love in their hearts could be filled with a penis. There was a time in my life when I was so very frustrated by absence of romance in my life, so very annoyed by the constant stream of gorgon-like, angry emotional-vampires I seemed to keep attracting and getting involved with, that I very nearly swore off women altogether and adopted a new phrase, borrowed from the great Catwoman and modified slightly, that phrase being,
“You know why I don’t like ladies? Because I’ve never met one.”
But when my confidence in the opposite gender had very nearly been extinguished by a host of bad experiences and a particularly venomous and immature gaggle of succubae, I finally met a nice girl! At just the right moment my faith in the female gender has been restored by a girl with the single most beautiful smile I have ever seen, the kind of smile where the whole face contorts, making the ENTIRE COUNTENANCE a gigantic welcoming grin, instead of being limited merely to the lips. She is sweet, she is smart, she’s not shallow, and I am most taken with her.
We both woke up the next morning after a most enjoyable, though most exhausting night. The sleep didn’t depart fully from our eyes, but after I’d run my toothbrush through my teeth I was ready for another round of tonsil hockey. I think if anything, all the kissing and cuddling had merely made me want this fine lass even further. Unfortunately, she had to travel to see her family for Easter, otherwise I might have spent the rest of that day kissing her as well. With disappointment on my mind I returned home, settling for spicy noodles and the trusty treadmill once more.
The first of my mosquito-bites, gained at the Magnificent M’s residence, had started to make their presence known on me. I itched and agonized; I hadn’t known this kind of irritation since Bobo the Virgin Chimp had bitten me and given me the dreaded Nepalese Whiteneck Virus which caused most of my skin to fall off back in ‘98. Now there was a series of shots to the scrotum from an oversized needle I’d sooner forget.
Good fortune was with me however, and my good friend Foxy Valentino had returned from the hell-pits of Southern California! Arriving shortly after I’d finished running, and waiting just long enough for me to shower, we quickly took off in the direction of the local home-improvement store. The Great Fox had discovered a source of youthful water flowing within his mother’s bathroom and had decided to tap it with the addition of a new sink, something in a pedestal design. However, upon witnessing in person the sight of the bathroom with its lime-green walls, painted-over light covers, and deteriorating skylight, we realized that improving upon this restroom would be no easy job, and would take more than the one night we had. We decided instead that the night was better spent eating pizza, watching Strange Brew, Fletch, and Where the Buffalo Roam, and drinking Jack Daniels.
Jack Daniels, by the way, now seems like utter swill, having myself been spoiled by the imbibing of Bushmills and Jamesons.
The next day Foxy Valentino and myself went to a local pool where he occasionally works and he got to the business of repairing the equipment while I assisted. Again we were off to the home-improvement store, this time to buy about 30 yards of rope and duct tape, but not before we had first stopped at another store to buy some 25 chairs. Between the large, empty pool building we had free reign of, the 25 chairs, the yards upon yards of rope, and the massive roll of duct tape, we might very well have been set for a mass-kidnapping if only I’d had about two-dozen socks. We were not, however, going about that sort of business, though we were consistently asked that while strolling through the Home Depot.
After work, we stopped by Hawaiian Drive-Inn, the jewel of Daly City, and one of the single best places to have a meal in the great state of California. The food was heavenly, as usual, and even the macaroni salad seemed a welcome course as I’d not been to a Hawaiian Drive-Inn in longer than I can recall. Again, I returned home and Foxy Valentino said his farewells, promising to return once more in April. Back to the treadmill for me.
From Thursday on I had far too much time on my hands, what with my new squeeze being away with her family, Foxy Valentino having returned to his new home (or lack thereof) down in Southern California, and Mr. Mystere and the Lusty Lascivian being as reclusive as usual (though how anyone at the tender age of 25 can be too tired to go out, particularly when unemployed, is beyond me). Certainly, I could pass the time with running, push-ups, and cold showers, but such activities only took up a small amount of time and even my muscles have their breaking point. It seemed to me that my time would be best spent in the pursuit of fighting evil!
Fortunately for me, there was already an unsolved case waiting for me to solve it. The streets of my fair city had been flooded with a vile product, one that ruined lives and corrupted the youth of America. That vile product was a very poorly-pressed, bootleg copy of Frampton Comes Alive. And while there would normally be nothing unseemly about the once-young star of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and his crowning achievement, young Frampton’s catchy rock-rhythms and feel-good lyrics had been corrupted. This imperfect bootleg, this far-from-carbon-copy, not only contained a few erroneous extra tracks (such as Elton John’s Benny and the Jets and a handful of selections from Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell), but all the tracks on this corrupted album had been laced with some sort of subliminal code, a command for some sort of action, though what exactly, I could not quite decipher. I left it up to the Virgincomputer to break the code. What I did know, was that this mockery of pressed plastic was absent of the stench of Thai forgery (a smell I’d come to know quite well while I’d been collecting the complete works of Badfinger in as shysty a manner as possible) and thus my detective-brain was left to assume that this particular forgery was homegrown.
I spent the next day or two in deep undercover around the county, tracking the source of the bootlegs until finally the trail led me to Los Angeles. The distance I would need to cover required me to pack up the Virginmobile with Twinkies and Yoo-Hoo for the trip. I also decided to bring along my trusty sidekick, Bobo the Virgin Chimp, as he is a distant relative of Detective Chimp, and therefore, most likely to be a bit of help, as opposed to a hindrance. I strapped my simian friend into the passenger seat with enough copies of Tiger Beat to pacify a flock of Mary Kay Letourneaus, certainly the amount of Lindsay Lohan-overload my ape-friend would soon be experiencing would keep him entertained for the trip.
It was there in a dingy warehouse in old Los Angeles that I finally found the culprits. Amid a dusty array of archaic bootlegging machines, record-presses, label-makers, and CD burners stood the most vile collaboration of villains assembled in recent years, barring, of course, the Legion of Doom and No Doubt. This dastardly association of diabolism, this confederation of criminality, was none other than the dreaded Black Eyed Peas! Oh how I despise this collection of knaves, the single worst quartet of crapulence since Sublime roamed the Earth. I cracked my knuckles in joyous anticipation of finally smiting a group of thieves so very deserving.
I set my ape loose on Apl.de.ap and Taboo first, and Bobo enthusiastically engaged them, tearing their limbs from them in a joyous symphony of harshly-dealt justice. As for myself, I chased after Will.I.Am and Fergie, the apparent ringleaders of the counterfeiting operation. They tossed a bucket of greasy, fried chicken in my face, and took advantage of my distraction by quickly exiting the building, hopping into a yellow school-bus and speeding off down the dirty streets of Los Angeles. As I wiped the Colonel’s extra-crispy recipe from my eye, the smell of peeled-out tires and spent gasoline alerted me to the escape of my quarry. Seeing the bus speeding away through a cloudy window, I took a good running leap after them, flying into the air and grabbing for a single loose wire hanging from the ceiling so that I might swing from it.
The wire, of course, snapped with me hanging from it, but the inertia of my bodyweight in freefall was enough to send me flying through the window onto the street outside. As I brushed shattered glass from my shoulders, I made my way to my Virginmobile, stepping onto my fine leather driver’s seat in order to utilize my vehicle’s trespasser-ejection system. As the spring to my seat was released and I was sent flying through the Los Angeles skyline, my eyes locked once more onto the speeding yellow school-bus and I found myself gliding down towards it.
I landed on the roof of the bus with a thud, and I was left wishing I’d worn a cup. Nevertheless, I cut a small square from the bus’s ceiling with a few short blasts of my atomic vision, and was able to squeeze myself inside the bus, where I quickly grabbed the nefarious Will.I.Am and tossed him out the driver’s side-window. Outside I could hear the sound of his limp form being trampled underneath a passing AMC Matador. Surely that would keep him out of trouble for a small while.
I was about to gain control of the now-driverless bus when suddenly Fergie distracted me with her special attack, that being her back-bending, pelvic thrusting, hoochie-dance. Her gyrating motion, mastered over several years in service to the devil, has a strange, disorienting, and hypnotic-type effect. No matter how strong the will of the brave warrior that might challenge her in combat, the debilitating effect of her hoochie-dance is inescapable. The second she begins in her thrusting motions the human mind locks up, unable to comprehend what it is viewing, and suddenly filled with a multitude of unanswerable questions, such as,
“Why is she doing that?”
“Does she think that looks good?”
“Is that good for her back?”
“Seriously, what are her chiropractor bills like?”
I shook myself free of the trance she’d left me in, only to find that the bus we’d been in had come to a complete stop, lodging itself deep inside the lobby of the Colonial Hotel. Fergie, on the other hand, was gone. It was then I went chasing through the hotel looking for her, galloping through every hallway and kicking down many doors (accidentally exposing the illicit activities of a handful of soiled-doves and a local politician or two) as I continued my pursuit. Though I could see no sign of her, my finely-tuned senses were able to pick up on her perfume, which smelled a bit like lilacs, body odor, and old subway cars. The scent lead me up to the door to the rooftop, which I flew through in hot pursuit. Perhaps I’d been a bit overzealous in my chase, for I’d forgotten the danger of the hunt. As I burst onto the roof, the nefarious Fergie was able to sneak behind me and catch me off-guard, pistol-whipping me in the back of the head.
And that brings me back to where I started, hanging on the edge of a rooftop, at the mercy of a mediocre music-act.
This brings me to my point: that occasionally the gossip page in the newspaper actually serves a useful purpose. You see, several months ago I’d read of an account of how Fergie had publicly molested herself onstage while in the midst of a Black Eyed Peas show. This gave me an idea.
“You know,” I cried to Fergie as I hung by my fingertips to the roof of the Colonial Hotel, “you won’t get away with this. If you actually succeed in finishing off I, the great Virgin Prince, it’ll certainly be on the front page of all the newspapers tomorrow. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those news-choppers were filming us right now!”
“What? Publicity?” she asked, losing control of her limbs to instinct, and thrusting them deep within her pants once more.
I’d calculated that if Fergie thought the public was watching her, she’d no doubt engage in spontaneous masturbation fit once more. My theory paid off. It was then that I grabbed hold of her ankle and pulled her towards me, sending her off-balance. With her hands still stuck in her pants, she couldn’t outstretch her arms to regain her equilibrium, and thus fell from the roof of the Colonial Hotel, hopefully to an end as a splatter on someone’s windshield.
As for myself, a half hour later Bobo got me back to ground-level by carrying me down on his back. And as for Peter Frampton, his intellectual property is safe once more, save for from most of Asia, but there’ll be time enough for that later. At least the evil-doers of the world received a message loudly and clearly this past week: never mess with Frampton Comes Alive
Oh, and don’t mess with Lars Ulrich either, because he’ll sue you.
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 10:38 PM
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Friday, March 25, 2005
There’s Always Music In The Air
Buddhas and Brahmas,
Ah, where to start. I haven’t written in a small while... I’ve been a bit distracted to say the least.
Last Friday I was to go camping with my allies, the Caroling Canuck and the Red Rightwing. I excitedly packed up my clothes in preparation for the journey; I lined Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage with fresh newspaper and filled his serving-dish with a few days’ worth of monkey-chow. I checked upon the status of the evil-DNA culture I’d been growing in my laboratory, and made sure that my cryo-chamber was operating at peak efficiency, and that Jesse James, Richard Nixon, and Hitler were still nothing more than a batch of powerless popsicles. Everything was set for a fine adventure in the wilderness. Oh, how excited was I!
Unfortunately, rain was looming as a threat in the weather forecast, and quickly the trip was called off. I suppose it should be mentioned that the Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck have never participated in a "fellowship of the drunks" alongside myself and my friends from the Genius Society of America. If they had, they’d know just how minor a concern the rain can really be. (I’ve lost a lot of hats out there in the hills.)
Being that I didn’t want to go from having plans for the weekend to doing nothing on a Friday night, I quickly regrouped. The Irish blood that runs through me left me desiring to party down in the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, and I had a strong craving for some Irish whiskey; it’d been a long time since I’d had any. Fortunately for me, my friend Beckman was having a St. Patrick’s Day party that very night!
I put my time in on the old cosmic-treadmill, showered, shaved, and dressed in my finest suit of clover-colored finery. (I do find that clover and lilac never seem to fail.) I grabbed my trusty old trench-coat from the dryer, and fastened my Mr. Mxyzptlk button to my lapel, as if to make a clear warning to all others I might encounter that my primary pursuits on this particular evening were fun, mirth, and merriment themselves. I grabbed a bottle of John Jameson’s fine Irish whiskey so that I might celebrate the holiday properly. I avoided bringing Bushmills so that I might further impress and endear myself to the many Irish Catholics I knew would most likely be attending the festivities. The second I had divined the way to reach the party, I was out the door and on my way to the bus stop. In my haste I had forgotten to grab my sack of potatoes.
I ran out into the wind and rain in my trench-coat, puffing casually on a stogie I’d had stored in a cigar-tube in my right pocket. I walked hurriedly, as the internet had given me flawed directions and I wanted to make sure I was at the bus stop long before my bus, the last bus of the night, arrived. Once I was seated securely aboard the vessel which served as my means of transportation towards the party, I was content merely to read from the flawed works of Simon Furman and check occasionally on the road.
So happily I cradled my bottle of whiskey (a much finer brand than I’d allowed myself to have in a long time, and one I looked very much forward to shooting, sipping, drinking, and eventually, chugging from) and five of my finest compact discs (both Shatner albums, my Sifl & Olly soundtrack, my Japanese import Panjabi MC album, and, of course, DEVO’s golden, first album, all of which I knew the Beckman would want to hear, and most likely duplicate onto his computer; we enthusiasts of the rare and unusual are few in number and must stick together, if only to avoid being smothered out by the overwhelming legions of brain-dead Prince and Madonna fans- so very trite, so dreadfully bland) as I walked through the streets of San Francisco looking for the next bus stop which would point me towards the abode of the magnificent Beckman. (Wow, can you believe all that was one sentence?) After a small bit of confusion, and a bit of mucking about in the rain, I had made it. I had arrived at the site of the St. Patrick’s party to be, and with me there, certainly it WOULD be a party. And I was ready to get down, get on up, and get funky. The time for joy was at hand.
It was only a little after 10:00 PM and I was the first guest to arrive, much to my surprise. And like all previous parties I had attended with the Beckman, again the Beckman and I were the only two well-dressed men in attendance; the rest of the evening’s party-goers were a mass of t-shirt-clad, slack-happy, fast-food-munchers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My first actions upon entering the lair of festivities was to offer the Beckman some fine Irish whiskey (which he declined, good alcohol is wasted on the young) and to present him with the cream of my music collection, so that he might impress himself with the majesty of Shatner. The Beckman, in turn, presented me with a manual he’d bought on the topic of surviving zombie attacks. This led to a rather drawn-out conversation on the many unholy monsters of the dark, and our chosen survival techniques.
I can’t remember when it was that people I knew started showing up; I’d been too invested in the party to truly notice. The next several hours are little more than a blur of tapped beer-kegs, overactive fog machines, loud rock music, a constant stream of fresh faces, and the occasional socially-smoked cigarette. Before I knew it, I was in a packed house surrounded by an endless crowd of faces, be they feminine, fresh, or furry. I kept my throat well-moistened with a constantly stirring mixture of water and Jamesons, which certainly helped to grant me the wide, Irish smile for which I am best known. In my most jovial state, I even shared a duet with the Beckman to the tune of Sifl & Olly’s Prostitute Laundry, a performance, which I can proudly state with no exaggeration, that went over quite well with all the guests then in attendance, and within audible range.
I quickly made friends with a young lad of six languages (two of which were among my favorites, Farsi and Russian), and after a few short language lessons, and after he’d taught me how to say a particularly crippling phrase in Hungarian, I was quickly made acquainted with his friend, a larger man with a much thicker Russian accent. We spoke briefly, though he seemed to hang on me, and he first asked me if more girls would be arriving to the party, before then telling me his two favorite things in his thick Russian accent.
“I like to drink, and I like to fight,” he told me while making a motion with his fist. Very shortly thereafter he’d left the party with several of his friends, looking to find some street-hoods that had earlier annoyed him.
My Russian friend of six languages soon called his battle-happy pal to see what had become of him. After the phone call (which was all in Russian, as I recall) was over, I was informed that we might not be seeing the big guy again. Somewhere in the city bullets were flying. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, that someone I had spoken to just minutes prior was being shot at, or that he’d had a gun with him while we were speaking. Fortunately, he later returned with his friends, all were living and blessed with flesh unpierced by hot lead slugs. I was happy to see him well, though I made more of a point to limit my conversations with him from that point on.
It wasn’t long before I’d ventured out into the kitchen and two Irish boys in Guinness shirts asked me if I was from Cork.
“Nay,” I told them with just the slightest hint of regret, “I’m a Mayflower baby, born here, the product of many fine Americans before me.”
I suppose perhaps my suit of clover and the whiskey on my breath had made me seem even more authentically Irish than usual. Regardless, we quickly hit it off, and shared a lengthy and amusing conversation on all things Irish before somehow drifting into a long discussion on the political systems of the world, the decline of American government, and how Canada would quickly follow due to the culture’s own self-delusion and denial of the truth. It was refreshing to share a conversation with another as eloquent and thoughtful as myself on the topics of the state of the world and American government. I’ve gotten far too used to having to deal with people with shallow and limited views, and long-since begrudgingly resigned myself to accept the multitude of sheep among the populous.
Being that the shorter Irish lad, with whom I’d mostly spoken, was born of Ireland, and had visited there several times since, I had a strong feeling he would appreciate the fact that I’d brought a fine Irish Catholic whiskey with me to the party (just as I knew he’d more than likely also comment that the Protestant Bushmills was indeed a finer brand) and so I told him of my bottle upstairs and asked him if he’d care to have a drink or three with me. Though I believe the reply was something along the lines of, “Good shit!” or more likely, “Good man!” I have never before witnessed a response so enthusiastic and appreciative. It made me feel quite well to see my efforts in bringing a fine whiskey hadn’t gone unappreciated.
After we knocked back a few shots, and my short Irish pal had started to feel a bit buzzed and dizzy, another Irish friend of mine, a lass I’ve known for a few years now, joined in our conversation. We discussed all things Irish, including the pricks that work at the Bushmills factory, though I was decidedly less knowledgeable on the subject, being a born Yankee and descended from nothing but the finest Quakers that Britain had to kick out. Before long I’d found another acquaintance who’s name I couldn’t even recall, but who had been with me at the party that resulted in the Lusty Lascivian’s eviction, and he too took me up on my offer of fine Irish whiskey, which gave me cause to return to the loveliest bottle in the house. It seems to me in order to appreciate a good whiskey one needs either be a few years past drinking age, or Irish.
A short while later a fight broke out on the street in front of the house we’d been partying in, and I caught several of my friends, the Lusty Lascivian and the Crackbrained Columbian included, trying fearfully to hop over the fence in the backyard in order to escape from the party without having to use the front door. The police arrived swiftly, and my cowardly pals instead left with them out the front, but quickly returned inside once they realized the fight was long over. A friend of mine from my days at the theatre had been outside, and had been hit in the mouth as he tried to break up the fight. Though he was fine, I felt most awful for him and the ordeal he'd endured which had left him with a bloody lip, and so I shared the last of my Jamesons whiskey with him. I thought there had been plenty left, but I assume my many Irish friends in attendance had all started draining the bottle once they realized the liquid gold available for consumption at the party.
I somehow ended up downstairs in the backyard again, I don’t recall the how or why, but I was chatting up the battle-happy Russian again. After he and his friends left, I found myself chatting with a lone female in the backyard that had come over to me for a light and begun engaging me in conversation. We stayed out there, alone, for quite a while, and when we returned inside we found that most of the party-goers had left, still we continued talking, mostly about the business of former loves, and migrating towards the front porch. We bummed and shared a cigarette or two, and I spent what must have been an entire hour of excruciating self-control chatting, before finally I grabbed the girl by my side and kissed her. From then on, the night is a blur, people came and people left, but for the most part I mostly made out with the girl I’d met, for what I must guess was roughly 7 hours until we both left together, sometime after 9 in the morning the next day. Even the Virgin Prince is human. Somewhat.
After I’d napped for a few hours and the headache I’d gotten from too much whiskey and too little sleep had long-since turned into a faded memory, I trekked down into the wild-lands of Pacifica to have dinner with my friend Mr. Mystere, the prude from New England. I wandered along in a pair of blessed sunglasses given to me by my father, an item suddenly deemed by me to be quite useful in the aftermath of a rockin’ and roarin’ St. Patrick’s Day party. I was still dressed in my suit of green, having left in a hurry, but was in a fresh shirt of alabaster and I looked ever the Irishman, complete with dark bags under my eyes and the lazy grin of a prior night spent in excess. I drank the single most delicious iced green tea my dehydrated tongue had ever tasted, while singing to myself the lyrics of The Landlord’s Daughter in a thick Gaelic accent.
I arrived at the door too tired to sing a song, and swiftly thereafter we sat down to a meal of vegetarian spaghetti, beets, and two fine bottles of A&W Rootbeer, which I’d had the presence of mind to bring for us. It was a fine meal, and my empty, grumbling stomach was quite grateful for it, as I was still functioning off of the calories I’d absorbed from my whiskey consumption the night before. As for Mystere, he gleefully grinned as he noticed my battle-scars from the night before, dotting the length of my neck, hidden slightly under my shirt’s collar, but not well enough. He laughed and smiled amused as I told him the details of the previous night’s mischief.
We watched my ancient ALTV recording and enjoyed it thoroughly, finally, Mr. Mystere was able to witness the music video for Lou Reed's Original Wrapper, of which I had preached and praised for years prior. We played dominos, to which I’d found him a better foe than I’d previously encountered (though I still won most rounds), and later watched Saturday Night Live, though Ashton Kutcher was the host, and the talentless lad did his part to render the show entirely unfunny, though he screamed in nearly every sketch. We reminisced of times past, of the golden age, and of the dashing Mr. Mystere of the 1940s, and after brief contest of mind-control and eye-laser beams, Mystere retired to the bedroom to join Nemo and Morpheus in slumber, and I found unconsciousness on the couch before a glowing cathode-ray tube.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Ah, where to start. I haven’t written in a small while... I’ve been a bit distracted to say the least.
Last Friday I was to go camping with my allies, the Caroling Canuck and the Red Rightwing. I excitedly packed up my clothes in preparation for the journey; I lined Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage with fresh newspaper and filled his serving-dish with a few days’ worth of monkey-chow. I checked upon the status of the evil-DNA culture I’d been growing in my laboratory, and made sure that my cryo-chamber was operating at peak efficiency, and that Jesse James, Richard Nixon, and Hitler were still nothing more than a batch of powerless popsicles. Everything was set for a fine adventure in the wilderness. Oh, how excited was I!
Unfortunately, rain was looming as a threat in the weather forecast, and quickly the trip was called off. I suppose it should be mentioned that the Red Rightwing and the Caroling Canuck have never participated in a "fellowship of the drunks" alongside myself and my friends from the Genius Society of America. If they had, they’d know just how minor a concern the rain can really be. (I’ve lost a lot of hats out there in the hills.)
Being that I didn’t want to go from having plans for the weekend to doing nothing on a Friday night, I quickly regrouped. The Irish blood that runs through me left me desiring to party down in the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, and I had a strong craving for some Irish whiskey; it’d been a long time since I’d had any. Fortunately for me, my friend Beckman was having a St. Patrick’s Day party that very night!
I put my time in on the old cosmic-treadmill, showered, shaved, and dressed in my finest suit of clover-colored finery. (I do find that clover and lilac never seem to fail.) I grabbed my trusty old trench-coat from the dryer, and fastened my Mr. Mxyzptlk button to my lapel, as if to make a clear warning to all others I might encounter that my primary pursuits on this particular evening were fun, mirth, and merriment themselves. I grabbed a bottle of John Jameson’s fine Irish whiskey so that I might celebrate the holiday properly. I avoided bringing Bushmills so that I might further impress and endear myself to the many Irish Catholics I knew would most likely be attending the festivities. The second I had divined the way to reach the party, I was out the door and on my way to the bus stop. In my haste I had forgotten to grab my sack of potatoes.
I ran out into the wind and rain in my trench-coat, puffing casually on a stogie I’d had stored in a cigar-tube in my right pocket. I walked hurriedly, as the internet had given me flawed directions and I wanted to make sure I was at the bus stop long before my bus, the last bus of the night, arrived. Once I was seated securely aboard the vessel which served as my means of transportation towards the party, I was content merely to read from the flawed works of Simon Furman and check occasionally on the road.
So happily I cradled my bottle of whiskey (a much finer brand than I’d allowed myself to have in a long time, and one I looked very much forward to shooting, sipping, drinking, and eventually, chugging from) and five of my finest compact discs (both Shatner albums, my Sifl & Olly soundtrack, my Japanese import Panjabi MC album, and, of course, DEVO’s golden, first album, all of which I knew the Beckman would want to hear, and most likely duplicate onto his computer; we enthusiasts of the rare and unusual are few in number and must stick together, if only to avoid being smothered out by the overwhelming legions of brain-dead Prince and Madonna fans- so very trite, so dreadfully bland) as I walked through the streets of San Francisco looking for the next bus stop which would point me towards the abode of the magnificent Beckman. (Wow, can you believe all that was one sentence?) After a small bit of confusion, and a bit of mucking about in the rain, I had made it. I had arrived at the site of the St. Patrick’s party to be, and with me there, certainly it WOULD be a party. And I was ready to get down, get on up, and get funky. The time for joy was at hand.
It was only a little after 10:00 PM and I was the first guest to arrive, much to my surprise. And like all previous parties I had attended with the Beckman, again the Beckman and I were the only two well-dressed men in attendance; the rest of the evening’s party-goers were a mass of t-shirt-clad, slack-happy, fast-food-munchers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My first actions upon entering the lair of festivities was to offer the Beckman some fine Irish whiskey (which he declined, good alcohol is wasted on the young) and to present him with the cream of my music collection, so that he might impress himself with the majesty of Shatner. The Beckman, in turn, presented me with a manual he’d bought on the topic of surviving zombie attacks. This led to a rather drawn-out conversation on the many unholy monsters of the dark, and our chosen survival techniques.
I can’t remember when it was that people I knew started showing up; I’d been too invested in the party to truly notice. The next several hours are little more than a blur of tapped beer-kegs, overactive fog machines, loud rock music, a constant stream of fresh faces, and the occasional socially-smoked cigarette. Before I knew it, I was in a packed house surrounded by an endless crowd of faces, be they feminine, fresh, or furry. I kept my throat well-moistened with a constantly stirring mixture of water and Jamesons, which certainly helped to grant me the wide, Irish smile for which I am best known. In my most jovial state, I even shared a duet with the Beckman to the tune of Sifl & Olly’s Prostitute Laundry, a performance, which I can proudly state with no exaggeration, that went over quite well with all the guests then in attendance, and within audible range.
I quickly made friends with a young lad of six languages (two of which were among my favorites, Farsi and Russian), and after a few short language lessons, and after he’d taught me how to say a particularly crippling phrase in Hungarian, I was quickly made acquainted with his friend, a larger man with a much thicker Russian accent. We spoke briefly, though he seemed to hang on me, and he first asked me if more girls would be arriving to the party, before then telling me his two favorite things in his thick Russian accent.
“I like to drink, and I like to fight,” he told me while making a motion with his fist. Very shortly thereafter he’d left the party with several of his friends, looking to find some street-hoods that had earlier annoyed him.
My Russian friend of six languages soon called his battle-happy pal to see what had become of him. After the phone call (which was all in Russian, as I recall) was over, I was informed that we might not be seeing the big guy again. Somewhere in the city bullets were flying. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, that someone I had spoken to just minutes prior was being shot at, or that he’d had a gun with him while we were speaking. Fortunately, he later returned with his friends, all were living and blessed with flesh unpierced by hot lead slugs. I was happy to see him well, though I made more of a point to limit my conversations with him from that point on.
It wasn’t long before I’d ventured out into the kitchen and two Irish boys in Guinness shirts asked me if I was from Cork.
“Nay,” I told them with just the slightest hint of regret, “I’m a Mayflower baby, born here, the product of many fine Americans before me.”
I suppose perhaps my suit of clover and the whiskey on my breath had made me seem even more authentically Irish than usual. Regardless, we quickly hit it off, and shared a lengthy and amusing conversation on all things Irish before somehow drifting into a long discussion on the political systems of the world, the decline of American government, and how Canada would quickly follow due to the culture’s own self-delusion and denial of the truth. It was refreshing to share a conversation with another as eloquent and thoughtful as myself on the topics of the state of the world and American government. I’ve gotten far too used to having to deal with people with shallow and limited views, and long-since begrudgingly resigned myself to accept the multitude of sheep among the populous.
Being that the shorter Irish lad, with whom I’d mostly spoken, was born of Ireland, and had visited there several times since, I had a strong feeling he would appreciate the fact that I’d brought a fine Irish Catholic whiskey with me to the party (just as I knew he’d more than likely also comment that the Protestant Bushmills was indeed a finer brand) and so I told him of my bottle upstairs and asked him if he’d care to have a drink or three with me. Though I believe the reply was something along the lines of, “Good shit!” or more likely, “Good man!” I have never before witnessed a response so enthusiastic and appreciative. It made me feel quite well to see my efforts in bringing a fine whiskey hadn’t gone unappreciated.
After we knocked back a few shots, and my short Irish pal had started to feel a bit buzzed and dizzy, another Irish friend of mine, a lass I’ve known for a few years now, joined in our conversation. We discussed all things Irish, including the pricks that work at the Bushmills factory, though I was decidedly less knowledgeable on the subject, being a born Yankee and descended from nothing but the finest Quakers that Britain had to kick out. Before long I’d found another acquaintance who’s name I couldn’t even recall, but who had been with me at the party that resulted in the Lusty Lascivian’s eviction, and he too took me up on my offer of fine Irish whiskey, which gave me cause to return to the loveliest bottle in the house. It seems to me in order to appreciate a good whiskey one needs either be a few years past drinking age, or Irish.
A short while later a fight broke out on the street in front of the house we’d been partying in, and I caught several of my friends, the Lusty Lascivian and the Crackbrained Columbian included, trying fearfully to hop over the fence in the backyard in order to escape from the party without having to use the front door. The police arrived swiftly, and my cowardly pals instead left with them out the front, but quickly returned inside once they realized the fight was long over. A friend of mine from my days at the theatre had been outside, and had been hit in the mouth as he tried to break up the fight. Though he was fine, I felt most awful for him and the ordeal he'd endured which had left him with a bloody lip, and so I shared the last of my Jamesons whiskey with him. I thought there had been plenty left, but I assume my many Irish friends in attendance had all started draining the bottle once they realized the liquid gold available for consumption at the party.
I somehow ended up downstairs in the backyard again, I don’t recall the how or why, but I was chatting up the battle-happy Russian again. After he and his friends left, I found myself chatting with a lone female in the backyard that had come over to me for a light and begun engaging me in conversation. We stayed out there, alone, for quite a while, and when we returned inside we found that most of the party-goers had left, still we continued talking, mostly about the business of former loves, and migrating towards the front porch. We bummed and shared a cigarette or two, and I spent what must have been an entire hour of excruciating self-control chatting, before finally I grabbed the girl by my side and kissed her. From then on, the night is a blur, people came and people left, but for the most part I mostly made out with the girl I’d met, for what I must guess was roughly 7 hours until we both left together, sometime after 9 in the morning the next day. Even the Virgin Prince is human. Somewhat.
After I’d napped for a few hours and the headache I’d gotten from too much whiskey and too little sleep had long-since turned into a faded memory, I trekked down into the wild-lands of Pacifica to have dinner with my friend Mr. Mystere, the prude from New England. I wandered along in a pair of blessed sunglasses given to me by my father, an item suddenly deemed by me to be quite useful in the aftermath of a rockin’ and roarin’ St. Patrick’s Day party. I was still dressed in my suit of green, having left in a hurry, but was in a fresh shirt of alabaster and I looked ever the Irishman, complete with dark bags under my eyes and the lazy grin of a prior night spent in excess. I drank the single most delicious iced green tea my dehydrated tongue had ever tasted, while singing to myself the lyrics of The Landlord’s Daughter in a thick Gaelic accent.
I arrived at the door too tired to sing a song, and swiftly thereafter we sat down to a meal of vegetarian spaghetti, beets, and two fine bottles of A&W Rootbeer, which I’d had the presence of mind to bring for us. It was a fine meal, and my empty, grumbling stomach was quite grateful for it, as I was still functioning off of the calories I’d absorbed from my whiskey consumption the night before. As for Mystere, he gleefully grinned as he noticed my battle-scars from the night before, dotting the length of my neck, hidden slightly under my shirt’s collar, but not well enough. He laughed and smiled amused as I told him the details of the previous night’s mischief.
We watched my ancient ALTV recording and enjoyed it thoroughly, finally, Mr. Mystere was able to witness the music video for Lou Reed's Original Wrapper, of which I had preached and praised for years prior. We played dominos, to which I’d found him a better foe than I’d previously encountered (though I still won most rounds), and later watched Saturday Night Live, though Ashton Kutcher was the host, and the talentless lad did his part to render the show entirely unfunny, though he screamed in nearly every sketch. We reminisced of times past, of the golden age, and of the dashing Mr. Mystere of the 1940s, and after brief contest of mind-control and eye-laser beams, Mystere retired to the bedroom to join Nemo and Morpheus in slumber, and I found unconsciousness on the couch before a glowing cathode-ray tube.
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 1:33 AM
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Friday, March 18, 2005
Erin Go Bragh
Top O’ the evenin’ to ya,
Well here we are on what seems to be St. Patrick’s Day, and the Virgin Prince is dry as a bone! I’ve pulled my finest green coat from the closet and yet I have no one around to drinking and rabble-rousing with. What’s worse, I’m waiting for a phone call which means I am effectively trapped inside. I’ll not let it bother me though! The Virgin Prince always celebrates his Irishness, even if it is grossly inappropriate (such as the time I puked up a half-bottle of whiskey at my young niece’s birthday party). To celebrate the holiday, I’ve already dyed my pet ape a nice deep green, and though the blindness hasn’t yet worn off, I’m sure that when his sight returns, Bobo the Virgin Chimp will agree he looks quite dashing! To further celebrate the holiday, I’ve garishly decked out my Fortress of Fortitude in a gaudy plethora of four-leafed clovers, and I’ve already spent several hours today sitting on the front porch, carving off slices of Irish Spring.
Why all the effort? I’ve always been fond of St. Patrick’s Day, at this time of year I always feel a slight tingle in my sideburns. And unlike the rest of you, I’m fond of green all year round, certainly all of you that have been checking this very website are aware of that. I need not a holiday as an excuse for emerald finery! Where do I get this inherent knack for style? As Jonathan Harris once said while in his guise as Dr. Zachary Smith, “I am part Irish, and after all, all Irish contain royal blood.”
Or as my ex always said, “Crush! Kill! Destroy!”
As you may have noticed, I’ve added a few more links to my page. Obviously, I recommend Weird Events, as it’s filled with all the kinds of crazy crap that I like to read about. Also, I get a lot of referral traffic from there. But what I really want to talk to you about is BuyBlue.Org. This is a particularly relevant and important website in this day and age. As you may know, generally during most elections the Republican Party has a budget three times that of the Democrats. This due in a big way to corporate contributions. Massive economy-destroying corporations like Walmart love to give heavily to guys like George W. Bush, which in turn helps them to further put the screws on the American working man, thus enabling a greater control of (and lesser need to provide a fair wage and benefits for) their own employees.
The brilliance of Buy Blue is that it lists major corporations by their contributions to politicians, so now you can be aware that next time you shop at Target, you’re further enabling for the drilling of oil on Alaskan wilderness reserves. Surprise, surprise, Costco, which is noted for treating its employees very well, has a 99% pro-Democrat contribution rating; (sarcasm on) I didn’t see that coming (sarcasm off).
This isn’t merely an American concern. This concerns all you liberal-leaning sheep in Canada too! Because much as you like to deny it, Canada sucks at the cock of the American economic machine. Your countryside is littered with American businesses. It isn’t merely bad enough that you apathetically allow your country’s wealth to slowly drain into America’s hands (and you still do nothing about it, sooner or later you’ll realize you’re just as bad as the Americans), what’s worse, the businesses you continue to support (McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, KFC, Tim Hortons, Dominos Pizza, etc.) put your money in the pockets of the neo-conservatives you claim to despise. Good job!
So that’s my piece on that. Check BuyBlue.Org so that you won’t keep throwing your money at the Republicans.
As for myself, today I got a very special visit. I can only assume it was because of everyone’s favorite Gaelic holiday taking place and my own Irish blood acting like a magnet to the energy being produced. I’d just finished getting all the crumbs out of the couch, now that the restless spirit of Alexander Hamilton has finally left, only to be visited by the ghost of Stafford Repp, television’s Police Chief O’Hara! Imagine my disappointment, having finally rid my couch of the stench of Hot Pockets left there by the undead founding father and Federalist with a thorough steam-cleaning, only to quickly see my lazy-boy covered with the juicy beef drippings that continually fell from the endless supply of sloppy-joes being consumed by ghost-O’hara.
“Oh sweet dear lord!” I cried out, “Police Chief O’Hara from TV’s Batman!”
“Faith and b’gorra! Relax boy!” he said as he sunk his jaws deeply into another well packed sloppy-joe, “I’m just here to make sure you act appropriately on this hallowed day, is all.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Whiskey, boy! You need a fine bottle of whiskey for the festivities, and none of that Canadian swill either! Some of the good stuff made by those Protestant bastards back in Ireland!”
So with that we were off to the store. Into the Virginmobile we stepped, and we strapped ourselves to our seats with our safety belts. I had my Albertson’s savings card and my club card clenched firmly in my teeth as knuckles went white in gripping tightly my steering wheel. Down to the store we drove, and the ghost of Stafford Repp continued eating sloppy-joes, leaving a trail of beef and sauce along the road as we went, and occasionally splattering the windshield of a passing motorist. The amount of beef and bun this spirit consumed was nothing short of unholy. He was dressed in a bandolier and utility belt that were adorned with rows of sloppy-joes, and when that ran out he was still backed-up with a seemingly bottomless pouch he kept at his side. As we cruised along, I spied the spirit of Alexander Hamilton hitchhiking along the side of the road in his attempt to reach the world’s largest ball of twine. I envied him for not having to witness this gruesome display.
So I went to the store, bought a bottle of Bushmills, which is supposed to be the best Irish whiskey, and then grabbed a bottle of Jameson just to be fair to the Catholics. I’ve really got no side in religious arguments, as far as I can tell just about everyone that believes in Jesus is crazy anyway. Everyone knows that God’s son is Santa Claus, and that he started delivering presents to the children of the world only shortly after the Easter Bunny was crucified. If we had time I could tell you about how the Toothfairy ties into the Bhagavad Gita, but I’m tired and I want to go to bed.
Anyway, after I bought my whiskey (along with a pack of Red Vines and an old mariachi hat I thought looked really cool) and was handed my receipt, Repp breathed an undead sigh of relief, “ah, at last my mission is finished.”
“That was it?” I asked him, “All you had to do was get me to buy a bottle of whiskey? That’s all I was needed to do?”
“Hey kid, don’t look at me. I was born in San Francisco and I’ve been faking this accent all these years. I got forced into this gig by The Great Banshee, and I’m pretty sure she was drunk at the time. Now I’m off to my final reward. Hey kid, has Yvonne Craig kicked the bucket yet?”
“Naw, she’s still alive and well and selling real estate.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll be stuck in heaven smooching Madge Blake… or Cesar Romero… eeeeyuch!” the spirit of Stafford said with a shudder, “y’know, I’m rethinking this whole purgatory thing,” and with that, he was gone.
So I was left standing outside the supermarket, wearing a mariachi hat and eating Red Vines while I walked to the Virginmobile with two bottles of fine Irish whisky. I was suddenly filled with the peculiar desire for corned beef when I noticed a business card floating down from the sky. I snatched the card up (which had ozzian green print on a bone background ) and read the name of Cyrus O’Shaughnessy upon it. I later called him up, noting that his card mentioned he was “practiced in cases of incidents regarding automobiles”. I later found out he was a top-notch Leprechaun lawyer that occasionally worked with the ACLU, and what was even better was that he was willing to help me, pro-bono, in my current legal woes. He was determined to defend me in my upcoming trial. It seems that we share some opinions on a few things, like gnomes and their stupid traffic-cone hats!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Well here we are on what seems to be St. Patrick’s Day, and the Virgin Prince is dry as a bone! I’ve pulled my finest green coat from the closet and yet I have no one around to drinking and rabble-rousing with. What’s worse, I’m waiting for a phone call which means I am effectively trapped inside. I’ll not let it bother me though! The Virgin Prince always celebrates his Irishness, even if it is grossly inappropriate (such as the time I puked up a half-bottle of whiskey at my young niece’s birthday party). To celebrate the holiday, I’ve already dyed my pet ape a nice deep green, and though the blindness hasn’t yet worn off, I’m sure that when his sight returns, Bobo the Virgin Chimp will agree he looks quite dashing! To further celebrate the holiday, I’ve garishly decked out my Fortress of Fortitude in a gaudy plethora of four-leafed clovers, and I’ve already spent several hours today sitting on the front porch, carving off slices of Irish Spring.
Why all the effort? I’ve always been fond of St. Patrick’s Day, at this time of year I always feel a slight tingle in my sideburns. And unlike the rest of you, I’m fond of green all year round, certainly all of you that have been checking this very website are aware of that. I need not a holiday as an excuse for emerald finery! Where do I get this inherent knack for style? As Jonathan Harris once said while in his guise as Dr. Zachary Smith, “I am part Irish, and after all, all Irish contain royal blood.”
Or as my ex always said, “Crush! Kill! Destroy!”
As you may have noticed, I’ve added a few more links to my page. Obviously, I recommend Weird Events, as it’s filled with all the kinds of crazy crap that I like to read about. Also, I get a lot of referral traffic from there. But what I really want to talk to you about is BuyBlue.Org. This is a particularly relevant and important website in this day and age. As you may know, generally during most elections the Republican Party has a budget three times that of the Democrats. This due in a big way to corporate contributions. Massive economy-destroying corporations like Walmart love to give heavily to guys like George W. Bush, which in turn helps them to further put the screws on the American working man, thus enabling a greater control of (and lesser need to provide a fair wage and benefits for) their own employees.
The brilliance of Buy Blue is that it lists major corporations by their contributions to politicians, so now you can be aware that next time you shop at Target, you’re further enabling for the drilling of oil on Alaskan wilderness reserves. Surprise, surprise, Costco, which is noted for treating its employees very well, has a 99% pro-Democrat contribution rating; (sarcasm on) I didn’t see that coming (sarcasm off).
This isn’t merely an American concern. This concerns all you liberal-leaning sheep in Canada too! Because much as you like to deny it, Canada sucks at the cock of the American economic machine. Your countryside is littered with American businesses. It isn’t merely bad enough that you apathetically allow your country’s wealth to slowly drain into America’s hands (and you still do nothing about it, sooner or later you’ll realize you’re just as bad as the Americans), what’s worse, the businesses you continue to support (McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, KFC, Tim Hortons, Dominos Pizza, etc.) put your money in the pockets of the neo-conservatives you claim to despise. Good job!
So that’s my piece on that. Check BuyBlue.Org so that you won’t keep throwing your money at the Republicans.
As for myself, today I got a very special visit. I can only assume it was because of everyone’s favorite Gaelic holiday taking place and my own Irish blood acting like a magnet to the energy being produced. I’d just finished getting all the crumbs out of the couch, now that the restless spirit of Alexander Hamilton has finally left, only to be visited by the ghost of Stafford Repp, television’s Police Chief O’Hara! Imagine my disappointment, having finally rid my couch of the stench of Hot Pockets left there by the undead founding father and Federalist with a thorough steam-cleaning, only to quickly see my lazy-boy covered with the juicy beef drippings that continually fell from the endless supply of sloppy-joes being consumed by ghost-O’hara.
“Oh sweet dear lord!” I cried out, “Police Chief O’Hara from TV’s Batman!”
“Faith and b’gorra! Relax boy!” he said as he sunk his jaws deeply into another well packed sloppy-joe, “I’m just here to make sure you act appropriately on this hallowed day, is all.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Whiskey, boy! You need a fine bottle of whiskey for the festivities, and none of that Canadian swill either! Some of the good stuff made by those Protestant bastards back in Ireland!”
So with that we were off to the store. Into the Virginmobile we stepped, and we strapped ourselves to our seats with our safety belts. I had my Albertson’s savings card and my club card clenched firmly in my teeth as knuckles went white in gripping tightly my steering wheel. Down to the store we drove, and the ghost of Stafford Repp continued eating sloppy-joes, leaving a trail of beef and sauce along the road as we went, and occasionally splattering the windshield of a passing motorist. The amount of beef and bun this spirit consumed was nothing short of unholy. He was dressed in a bandolier and utility belt that were adorned with rows of sloppy-joes, and when that ran out he was still backed-up with a seemingly bottomless pouch he kept at his side. As we cruised along, I spied the spirit of Alexander Hamilton hitchhiking along the side of the road in his attempt to reach the world’s largest ball of twine. I envied him for not having to witness this gruesome display.
So I went to the store, bought a bottle of Bushmills, which is supposed to be the best Irish whiskey, and then grabbed a bottle of Jameson just to be fair to the Catholics. I’ve really got no side in religious arguments, as far as I can tell just about everyone that believes in Jesus is crazy anyway. Everyone knows that God’s son is Santa Claus, and that he started delivering presents to the children of the world only shortly after the Easter Bunny was crucified. If we had time I could tell you about how the Toothfairy ties into the Bhagavad Gita, but I’m tired and I want to go to bed.
Anyway, after I bought my whiskey (along with a pack of Red Vines and an old mariachi hat I thought looked really cool) and was handed my receipt, Repp breathed an undead sigh of relief, “ah, at last my mission is finished.”
“That was it?” I asked him, “All you had to do was get me to buy a bottle of whiskey? That’s all I was needed to do?”
“Hey kid, don’t look at me. I was born in San Francisco and I’ve been faking this accent all these years. I got forced into this gig by The Great Banshee, and I’m pretty sure she was drunk at the time. Now I’m off to my final reward. Hey kid, has Yvonne Craig kicked the bucket yet?”
“Naw, she’s still alive and well and selling real estate.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll be stuck in heaven smooching Madge Blake… or Cesar Romero… eeeeyuch!” the spirit of Stafford said with a shudder, “y’know, I’m rethinking this whole purgatory thing,” and with that, he was gone.
So I was left standing outside the supermarket, wearing a mariachi hat and eating Red Vines while I walked to the Virginmobile with two bottles of fine Irish whisky. I was suddenly filled with the peculiar desire for corned beef when I noticed a business card floating down from the sky. I snatched the card up (which had ozzian green print on a bone background ) and read the name of Cyrus O’Shaughnessy upon it. I later called him up, noting that his card mentioned he was “practiced in cases of incidents regarding automobiles”. I later found out he was a top-notch Leprechaun lawyer that occasionally worked with the ACLU, and what was even better was that he was willing to help me, pro-bono, in my current legal woes. He was determined to defend me in my upcoming trial. It seems that we share some opinions on a few things, like gnomes and their stupid traffic-cone hats!
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 2:34 AM
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Wednesday, March 16, 2005
A Good Work Ethic Is Its Own Reward
Loyal letches,
I’ve finally returned! I’m back from the mountain, my spirit rejuvenated by the country life. All it took was little more than the opportunity for a good day’s work, and the company of family. Every morning I would wake, dress, and work out in the yard until the sun went down. As the darkness set in, I’d bring my sore bones inside and relax while watching the music videos of yesteryear. I do believe I’ve now seen every music video ever made by Thomas Dolby, Queen, and George Harrison. Blessed be the Laserdisc player. At night, I’d retire to bed, reading my father’s copy of I Am Not Spock, then drifting into slumber so that I might repeat the process again the next morning.
The good news doesn’t end there: I’ve rediscovered my long-lost ALTV tape! Once more I’ve got access to Lou Reed’s Original Wrapper, and the comedy stylings of Emo Phillips. I can relive viewing the very first Ramones and They Might Be Giants videos I ever saw, marvel once more at the riving of Harvey the Wonder Hamster with a sledgehammer, or shudder in fear at the image of a laughing Greg Kihn. He has muppet eyes I tell you, MUPPET EYES!
Ah, it was quite refreshing, my time up north, though I must say I’ve already begun to miss the sensation of having oil splatter all over me as I operate a chainsaw. I even find myself longing once more for the recently-absent sawdust which once filled the air before my face and afflicted me with a nose full of black muck at each day’s end. Oh, how very appealing it was to retire inside with shins sore from the breaking of branches upon them. I worked hard, like John Henry before me, and similar to that mighty legend, I too left broken tools and machinery in my wake. They haven’t yet made the pair of loppers that can out-perform me.
I think tonight I might retire early. My legs are sore; I think perhaps I ran too hard today. Or perhaps it was the fact that I spent a few hours humpin’ the boonies as I looked for work shortly thereafter. I’m not sure. What I do know is that I’m rather tired now, and require rest. Time for me to climb into my Batman bed sheets and dream of being stuck on the bus with all those randy, mystical ninja-assassin schoolgirls once more. Harrison Ford won’t cock-block me this time. Good night.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I’ve finally returned! I’m back from the mountain, my spirit rejuvenated by the country life. All it took was little more than the opportunity for a good day’s work, and the company of family. Every morning I would wake, dress, and work out in the yard until the sun went down. As the darkness set in, I’d bring my sore bones inside and relax while watching the music videos of yesteryear. I do believe I’ve now seen every music video ever made by Thomas Dolby, Queen, and George Harrison. Blessed be the Laserdisc player. At night, I’d retire to bed, reading my father’s copy of I Am Not Spock, then drifting into slumber so that I might repeat the process again the next morning.
The good news doesn’t end there: I’ve rediscovered my long-lost ALTV tape! Once more I’ve got access to Lou Reed’s Original Wrapper, and the comedy stylings of Emo Phillips. I can relive viewing the very first Ramones and They Might Be Giants videos I ever saw, marvel once more at the riving of Harvey the Wonder Hamster with a sledgehammer, or shudder in fear at the image of a laughing Greg Kihn. He has muppet eyes I tell you, MUPPET EYES!
Ah, it was quite refreshing, my time up north, though I must say I’ve already begun to miss the sensation of having oil splatter all over me as I operate a chainsaw. I even find myself longing once more for the recently-absent sawdust which once filled the air before my face and afflicted me with a nose full of black muck at each day’s end. Oh, how very appealing it was to retire inside with shins sore from the breaking of branches upon them. I worked hard, like John Henry before me, and similar to that mighty legend, I too left broken tools and machinery in my wake. They haven’t yet made the pair of loppers that can out-perform me.
I think tonight I might retire early. My legs are sore; I think perhaps I ran too hard today. Or perhaps it was the fact that I spent a few hours humpin’ the boonies as I looked for work shortly thereafter. I’m not sure. What I do know is that I’m rather tired now, and require rest. Time for me to climb into my Batman bed sheets and dream of being stuck on the bus with all those randy, mystical ninja-assassin schoolgirls once more. Harrison Ford won’t cock-block me this time. Good night.
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 1:11 AM
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Sunday, March 06, 2005
I'm Off
Friends and foes,
I’m off for a small while so you most likely won’t be seeing any updates to this page in the very immediate future. I’m off to the mountains, for how long, I can’t say, but I do know there will be no computers, no internet, and very little in the way of television signals. It’ll be just me, the mountains, the lake, the trees, and the opportunity for a good day’s work. I’ll be essentially isolated, and unable to observe the adventures of my allies, the fiendish villainy of my foes, and the gradual self-implosions of my former friends. I’m leaving Bobo the Virgin Chimp in charge of the site while I’m gone, though I doubt he’ll be putting forth any great novel entries. Until I return…
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
I’m off for a small while so you most likely won’t be seeing any updates to this page in the very immediate future. I’m off to the mountains, for how long, I can’t say, but I do know there will be no computers, no internet, and very little in the way of television signals. It’ll be just me, the mountains, the lake, the trees, and the opportunity for a good day’s work. I’ll be essentially isolated, and unable to observe the adventures of my allies, the fiendish villainy of my foes, and the gradual self-implosions of my former friends. I’m leaving Bobo the Virgin Chimp in charge of the site while I’m gone, though I doubt he’ll be putting forth any great novel entries. Until I return…
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 6:20 PM
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Friday, March 04, 2005
A Boy's Not Supposed To Have Hair Like A Girl
Furry and follicled friends,
Well, I’ve finally done it. Having already lost my sideburns-cosmic due to pre-job-interview-grooming and having little left to lose, last night I shaved my head. It was really just the result of weeks of pent-up annoyance over getting a less-than-adequate haircut. You see, I’d started visiting a new barber recently, having not gotten any proper haircuts at all in the past few years. Perhaps, as I’ve learned, keeping Playboy magazines in the waiting area of the barbershop isn’t the best criteria for choosing a new barber.
I’d chosen a Russian lady for my new barber for no reason other than her barbershop was close by and easy to get to. The first haircut wasn’t the greatest, and she pretty much did whatever she wanted when she cut it, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, as it was her first time cutting my most difficult hair, and I’d been trying something new. That was election day, a bad day overall, a day in which I received a bad haircut, participated in the Presidential election only to find my country lost to me, and spent most of the day traveling across the bay to a far-away place, to attend a job interview for a job I didn’t get. Yes, a shite day indeed.
However, I recently returned to the confines of Alla’s Barbershop, about a month ago, after a day spent with the Lusty Lascivian at the zoo. The Lascivian was most insistent upon trekking into the children’s section of the zoo, and once there, was made most complacent to spend a good deal of time in the petting zoo. There was something unseemly about my friend’s over-enthusiasm towards the petting zoo, something just a bit unsettling about my pal’s behavior. After watching goats lock horns in front of us, and after I’d paid my respects to the great American turkey (Benjamin Franklin’s bird of choice), I pulled out my great-granddaddy’s camera and started taking several shots of my partner-in-zoology; one never knows when blackmail may be necessary.
For my second trip to see the barber, I was prepared. I’d brought a photograph of myself with the haircut I desired, so not only would the barber know exactly what to give me this time, she simultaneously wouldn’t be able to give me excuses about how my hair was too curly for this particular haircut. I had proof this time, and it was in the picture. I should have known she’d find a way to fuck it up.
So I sat in the chair and watched as she clipped away at my hair, while she danced along to the sound of the Russian pop music she’d been playing from a small boom-box, and I made small talk. In the large mirrors I could see Playboy magazines splayed all over the barbershop. As I walked out of the shop, after paying and tipping the barber, my hair didn’t look bad. It certainly didn’t look great, I was by no means impressed… parts were asymmetrical and seemed to make my head look strangely shaped, but I figured all I needed was a good washing. Surely, I thought, it only looked funny because the hair sprouting from my many cowlicks needed time to adjust.
By the next day I realized I’d been screwed.
I woke up with my hair presented in a most atrocious manner. This gave me no worry; I expected my hair not to be at its best after a full night’s rest. So I ate, spent an hour running, and showered, giving my hair a good shampooing in the process. The haircut still sucked. It sucked worse. I knew not how my barber managed to keep her barbershop in business with a consistent stream of customers, but by that point I had to assume that her clientele all generally requested crew-cuts, and I noted that I’d never seen a single female client in her shop. Perhaps the Playboy magazines were a form of bribery, or perhaps, as the great magicians and illusionists will tell you, a masterful trick in the art of misdirection. You know the drill...
“Nothing up my sleeve... now you see my shears... watch as they cut your hair, and what’s this?! TITS!!!”
Of course I made do with the haircut I’d been given. I managed to limit the awkwardness of the haircut with a combination of special combing techniques, and the wearing of a special brain-wave helmet which added a foot or two to my height. Within a week or two I’d noticed my hair standing on end (as it tends to do often, as I have a rare condition of the scalp referred to as Christopherwalkenitus) and observed the rather bizarre lengths to which the barber had cut my hair. She’d made my hair longer and taller as it reached the rear of my head, which was a big part of why my hair looked as strange as it did. I was drunk as I looked angrily in the mirror, and I’d never attended a single minute of Barber College, yet even I knew better than this. So I grabbed my shears and chopped off the longest part of the hair and lord help me, IT LOOKED BETTER! Most of the asymmetry had disappeared with just a few drunken, untrained snips of the scissors. I realized at this point that if I could make better judgment calls where hair is concerned when drunk than my barber could sober (assuming she wasn’t secretly swigging nips of vodka), it was time for a new barber.
I lasted another week or two, but eventually just could take no more. Even with the corrections I’d made, the haircut was still unsalvageable. The front was far too long and cut unevenly, there was too much hair on top of my head still, and the sides of my head didn’t look remotely similar. Quite frankly, I was sick of having to put as much effort as I did into such a simple haircut. The barber had failed in all-new ways and I decided that this particular head of hair was unsalvageable. I grabbed my shears and shaved my hair down to a nice, respectable length. Ah, who knew symmetry could be such bliss?
Nearly bald isn’t such a bad look for me, as I’d forgotten. In fact, it looks considerably better now than it did before: my head has lost a lot of its pear-shaped qualities as I’ve lost a bit of weight. Still, I do enjoy having a length of hair from time to time, which is why I’ve started taking to shaving Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s back as part of my project to create a magnificent new wig for when I attend parties. I am, after all, a dandy fellow.
Sure, the toupee smells a bit funny when I’m not masked in a half-gallon of Old Spice aftershave, and in some parts of the hairpiece the banana was so mashed into the fur that I had to cut it out, but you should see the looks on the girls’ faces when I enter the room.
“Oooh!” they say, “who’s the dashing stud with the mane the color of a tall, dark monolith and the thick, bushy sideburns?”
Or sometimes they say, “Wow! Look at the dreamboat with the cattle egret pecking around on his finely-trimmed pageboy coiffure? -sniff sniff- …Say, do they make Herbal Essences in banana flavor?”
That’s right baby, CHICK MAGNET!
Back to the matter of haircuts, I’ve come to the conclusion, based on the available evidence, that never must my hair be cut by a woman of Russian heritage. No good can come of it! You see, there was only one other time I had a haircut so bad that it was an atrocity before man and god, worthy of having the maker of such a “styling” brought up on charges before an international court of war crimes. This defiler of do’s, this barbarian of barbery too was of Russian heritage (and she’d never let you forget it).
It’s a funny story really. My ex-girlfriend was once given the rare privilege of being allowed to cut the thick and well-groomed hair of the Virgin Prince! At this time she was well into her second 22 ounce can of Steel Reserve (I’d learned the hard way that very weekend NEVER to try and separate her from alcohol) but I trusted her as she’d made consistent claims of her great alcohol tolerance, and was working to convince me of her competence with a pair of shears, and also, I really just needed a haircut.
Oh what shenanigans were had!
She lopped off hair here and there, and when it came time to do the back of my head, she decided my hairline should end halfway up the back of my head. She dismissed the whole thing with a “whoops” and a laugh, and I spent the rest of the weekend with a bad haircut and a cold and grumpy girlfriend. Sunday night she furiously pawed at me while we were in the backseat of our friends’ car (with our friends still up front) and I tried, desperately, to swat her hands away, reaching as they were for my genitalia. I swatted and swatted, but her hands kept coming, and she had a look in her eye. Whatever had been causing her to treat me so coldly the whole weekend had clearly dissipated from her mind, and sometime between the night and the morning she had taken advantage of my innocent mind and molested my pure, yet virile, body.
The next morning, swiftly upon waking, she informed me that she no longer wished to maintain a relationship with me. Oh, how I cried and cried, but I think that deep down, she knew she’d made a pretty good joke. See, she’d brilliantly deceived me into thinking all was well the night before while she went about procuring from me what she’d been after; certainly the joke was on me the next morning when she told me it was all over! Like a grand April fool’s joke gone well, I was left with egg on my face, and to further add to the hilarity, even after she’d left and I’d returned to work the next day, I was still stuck with the crappy haircut as a stinging reminder. Even after I shaved down my hair to nearly nothing, the horrors she’d wreaked upon my scalp were still visible for several weeks afterward (which my coworkers consistently enjoyed pointing out). So brilliant was this plot that she’d gotten me twice! Good show!
Pussy-hound indeed!
To sum all this up, I’ve decided that in the future, it might be best if I never accept a haircut from a female of Russian heritage ever again. Whether it’s the product of some secret conspiracy of Eastern European females, or perhaps merely some sort of genetic predisposition towards incompetence with edged instruments, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I’m going to the Chinese barbershop.
In other news, I’ve figured out why my website hits dropped off towards the end of February. Google dropped me from their search again! That means along with my buddies, Caza, Mikey, etc. We’ve all been pulled from the Google listings. Of course, I have no knowledge why, I’ve been steadily listed for more than a year now, though I suspect I may have ruffled some feathers with my posts on Emeril several months back. Never fear, I’m still in Yahoo, and I suspect I’ll be able to straighten out all this nonsense with the vile vulgarians at Google fairly soon.
Well I’m off. My ape needs a shawl to spare him from the shivers, and as for myself, I’m off to dream of Mandy Moore and Lindsay Lohan in whipped cream-covered wrestling matches. Good day!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Well, I’ve finally done it. Having already lost my sideburns-cosmic due to pre-job-interview-grooming and having little left to lose, last night I shaved my head. It was really just the result of weeks of pent-up annoyance over getting a less-than-adequate haircut. You see, I’d started visiting a new barber recently, having not gotten any proper haircuts at all in the past few years. Perhaps, as I’ve learned, keeping Playboy magazines in the waiting area of the barbershop isn’t the best criteria for choosing a new barber.
I’d chosen a Russian lady for my new barber for no reason other than her barbershop was close by and easy to get to. The first haircut wasn’t the greatest, and she pretty much did whatever she wanted when she cut it, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, as it was her first time cutting my most difficult hair, and I’d been trying something new. That was election day, a bad day overall, a day in which I received a bad haircut, participated in the Presidential election only to find my country lost to me, and spent most of the day traveling across the bay to a far-away place, to attend a job interview for a job I didn’t get. Yes, a shite day indeed.
However, I recently returned to the confines of Alla’s Barbershop, about a month ago, after a day spent with the Lusty Lascivian at the zoo. The Lascivian was most insistent upon trekking into the children’s section of the zoo, and once there, was made most complacent to spend a good deal of time in the petting zoo. There was something unseemly about my friend’s over-enthusiasm towards the petting zoo, something just a bit unsettling about my pal’s behavior. After watching goats lock horns in front of us, and after I’d paid my respects to the great American turkey (Benjamin Franklin’s bird of choice), I pulled out my great-granddaddy’s camera and started taking several shots of my partner-in-zoology; one never knows when blackmail may be necessary.
For my second trip to see the barber, I was prepared. I’d brought a photograph of myself with the haircut I desired, so not only would the barber know exactly what to give me this time, she simultaneously wouldn’t be able to give me excuses about how my hair was too curly for this particular haircut. I had proof this time, and it was in the picture. I should have known she’d find a way to fuck it up.
So I sat in the chair and watched as she clipped away at my hair, while she danced along to the sound of the Russian pop music she’d been playing from a small boom-box, and I made small talk. In the large mirrors I could see Playboy magazines splayed all over the barbershop. As I walked out of the shop, after paying and tipping the barber, my hair didn’t look bad. It certainly didn’t look great, I was by no means impressed… parts were asymmetrical and seemed to make my head look strangely shaped, but I figured all I needed was a good washing. Surely, I thought, it only looked funny because the hair sprouting from my many cowlicks needed time to adjust.
By the next day I realized I’d been screwed.
I woke up with my hair presented in a most atrocious manner. This gave me no worry; I expected my hair not to be at its best after a full night’s rest. So I ate, spent an hour running, and showered, giving my hair a good shampooing in the process. The haircut still sucked. It sucked worse. I knew not how my barber managed to keep her barbershop in business with a consistent stream of customers, but by that point I had to assume that her clientele all generally requested crew-cuts, and I noted that I’d never seen a single female client in her shop. Perhaps the Playboy magazines were a form of bribery, or perhaps, as the great magicians and illusionists will tell you, a masterful trick in the art of misdirection. You know the drill...
“Nothing up my sleeve... now you see my shears... watch as they cut your hair, and what’s this?! TITS!!!”
Of course I made do with the haircut I’d been given. I managed to limit the awkwardness of the haircut with a combination of special combing techniques, and the wearing of a special brain-wave helmet which added a foot or two to my height. Within a week or two I’d noticed my hair standing on end (as it tends to do often, as I have a rare condition of the scalp referred to as Christopherwalkenitus) and observed the rather bizarre lengths to which the barber had cut my hair. She’d made my hair longer and taller as it reached the rear of my head, which was a big part of why my hair looked as strange as it did. I was drunk as I looked angrily in the mirror, and I’d never attended a single minute of Barber College, yet even I knew better than this. So I grabbed my shears and chopped off the longest part of the hair and lord help me, IT LOOKED BETTER! Most of the asymmetry had disappeared with just a few drunken, untrained snips of the scissors. I realized at this point that if I could make better judgment calls where hair is concerned when drunk than my barber could sober (assuming she wasn’t secretly swigging nips of vodka), it was time for a new barber.
I lasted another week or two, but eventually just could take no more. Even with the corrections I’d made, the haircut was still unsalvageable. The front was far too long and cut unevenly, there was too much hair on top of my head still, and the sides of my head didn’t look remotely similar. Quite frankly, I was sick of having to put as much effort as I did into such a simple haircut. The barber had failed in all-new ways and I decided that this particular head of hair was unsalvageable. I grabbed my shears and shaved my hair down to a nice, respectable length. Ah, who knew symmetry could be such bliss?
Nearly bald isn’t such a bad look for me, as I’d forgotten. In fact, it looks considerably better now than it did before: my head has lost a lot of its pear-shaped qualities as I’ve lost a bit of weight. Still, I do enjoy having a length of hair from time to time, which is why I’ve started taking to shaving Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s back as part of my project to create a magnificent new wig for when I attend parties. I am, after all, a dandy fellow.
Sure, the toupee smells a bit funny when I’m not masked in a half-gallon of Old Spice aftershave, and in some parts of the hairpiece the banana was so mashed into the fur that I had to cut it out, but you should see the looks on the girls’ faces when I enter the room.
“Oooh!” they say, “who’s the dashing stud with the mane the color of a tall, dark monolith and the thick, bushy sideburns?”
Or sometimes they say, “Wow! Look at the dreamboat with the cattle egret pecking around on his finely-trimmed pageboy coiffure? -sniff sniff- …Say, do they make Herbal Essences in banana flavor?”
That’s right baby, CHICK MAGNET!
Back to the matter of haircuts, I’ve come to the conclusion, based on the available evidence, that never must my hair be cut by a woman of Russian heritage. No good can come of it! You see, there was only one other time I had a haircut so bad that it was an atrocity before man and god, worthy of having the maker of such a “styling” brought up on charges before an international court of war crimes. This defiler of do’s, this barbarian of barbery too was of Russian heritage (and she’d never let you forget it).
It’s a funny story really. My ex-girlfriend was once given the rare privilege of being allowed to cut the thick and well-groomed hair of the Virgin Prince! At this time she was well into her second 22 ounce can of Steel Reserve (I’d learned the hard way that very weekend NEVER to try and separate her from alcohol) but I trusted her as she’d made consistent claims of her great alcohol tolerance, and was working to convince me of her competence with a pair of shears, and also, I really just needed a haircut.
Oh what shenanigans were had!
She lopped off hair here and there, and when it came time to do the back of my head, she decided my hairline should end halfway up the back of my head. She dismissed the whole thing with a “whoops” and a laugh, and I spent the rest of the weekend with a bad haircut and a cold and grumpy girlfriend. Sunday night she furiously pawed at me while we were in the backseat of our friends’ car (with our friends still up front) and I tried, desperately, to swat her hands away, reaching as they were for my genitalia. I swatted and swatted, but her hands kept coming, and she had a look in her eye. Whatever had been causing her to treat me so coldly the whole weekend had clearly dissipated from her mind, and sometime between the night and the morning she had taken advantage of my innocent mind and molested my pure, yet virile, body.
The next morning, swiftly upon waking, she informed me that she no longer wished to maintain a relationship with me. Oh, how I cried and cried, but I think that deep down, she knew she’d made a pretty good joke. See, she’d brilliantly deceived me into thinking all was well the night before while she went about procuring from me what she’d been after; certainly the joke was on me the next morning when she told me it was all over! Like a grand April fool’s joke gone well, I was left with egg on my face, and to further add to the hilarity, even after she’d left and I’d returned to work the next day, I was still stuck with the crappy haircut as a stinging reminder. Even after I shaved down my hair to nearly nothing, the horrors she’d wreaked upon my scalp were still visible for several weeks afterward (which my coworkers consistently enjoyed pointing out). So brilliant was this plot that she’d gotten me twice! Good show!
Pussy-hound indeed!
To sum all this up, I’ve decided that in the future, it might be best if I never accept a haircut from a female of Russian heritage ever again. Whether it’s the product of some secret conspiracy of Eastern European females, or perhaps merely some sort of genetic predisposition towards incompetence with edged instruments, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I’m going to the Chinese barbershop.
In other news, I’ve figured out why my website hits dropped off towards the end of February. Google dropped me from their search again! That means along with my buddies, Caza, Mikey, etc. We’ve all been pulled from the Google listings. Of course, I have no knowledge why, I’ve been steadily listed for more than a year now, though I suspect I may have ruffled some feathers with my posts on Emeril several months back. Never fear, I’m still in Yahoo, and I suspect I’ll be able to straighten out all this nonsense with the vile vulgarians at Google fairly soon.
Well I’m off. My ape needs a shawl to spare him from the shivers, and as for myself, I’m off to dream of Mandy Moore and Lindsay Lohan in whipped cream-covered wrestling matches. Good day!
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 3:00 AM
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Wednesday, March 02, 2005
It's Not Art The Way You Do It
Illin’ homies,
Here I am, finding myself very close to reaching 2000 hits on the old BlogPatrol counter. I had hoped I would reach 2000 before the month of February had ended, but I was about 20 shy. No matter, 2000 hits by BlogPatrol standards is quite an accomplishment; 2000 hits on BlogPatrol is probably worth about 4000 hits on SiteMeter. Sweet!
I’ve been noticing I’ve been getting a lot of repeat traffic, yet I have no idea who most of you are. If you wouldn’t mind satisfying the ravenous curiosity of a mild-mannered mystery-man, please do leave a comment on the end of this post. Give me a shout out, state your name, your intentions, and let me know you’re reading. I’m counting on all my fellow members of the Genius Society of America to let their voices be heard, especially you, Foxy Valentino! So leave a comment, it won’t hurt none, and it’ll give you a chance to check out my newly tricked-out and modified comments box. Ex-girlfriends need not leave comments (vile harlots, all!).
You know what I’ve found keeps luring utter strangers to my humble webpage? The search engines keep referring people looking for “Bjorgen nude” to my webpage. Seriously. I’ve had like 20 different hits from different people (particularly in Europe) looking for nude images of “Bjorgen” over the past month or two. Oh, escaped boy-servant/slave, what has become of you? Just what foul business have you found yourself involved in?
You may have noticed the site is in a constant state of change. I’ve installed around 15 different templates since yesterday morning. I’m ever the perfectionist, and I’ll probably keep changing my site still until I find something I’m satisfied with. I’m rather tired tonight, and I think I’ll be off to bed soon, so I suppose that means I’ll work on leaving you all a nice meaty post tomorrow. Never fear, you’ll soon be thrilled and titillated with the tales of dangers I’ve faced while lurking outside Lindsay Lohan’s window. Ta ta!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Here I am, finding myself very close to reaching 2000 hits on the old BlogPatrol counter. I had hoped I would reach 2000 before the month of February had ended, but I was about 20 shy. No matter, 2000 hits by BlogPatrol standards is quite an accomplishment; 2000 hits on BlogPatrol is probably worth about 4000 hits on SiteMeter. Sweet!
I’ve been noticing I’ve been getting a lot of repeat traffic, yet I have no idea who most of you are. If you wouldn’t mind satisfying the ravenous curiosity of a mild-mannered mystery-man, please do leave a comment on the end of this post. Give me a shout out, state your name, your intentions, and let me know you’re reading. I’m counting on all my fellow members of the Genius Society of America to let their voices be heard, especially you, Foxy Valentino! So leave a comment, it won’t hurt none, and it’ll give you a chance to check out my newly tricked-out and modified comments box. Ex-girlfriends need not leave comments (vile harlots, all!).
You know what I’ve found keeps luring utter strangers to my humble webpage? The search engines keep referring people looking for “Bjorgen nude” to my webpage. Seriously. I’ve had like 20 different hits from different people (particularly in Europe) looking for nude images of “Bjorgen” over the past month or two. Oh, escaped boy-servant/slave, what has become of you? Just what foul business have you found yourself involved in?
You may have noticed the site is in a constant state of change. I’ve installed around 15 different templates since yesterday morning. I’m ever the perfectionist, and I’ll probably keep changing my site still until I find something I’m satisfied with. I’m rather tired tonight, and I think I’ll be off to bed soon, so I suppose that means I’ll work on leaving you all a nice meaty post tomorrow. Never fear, you’ll soon be thrilled and titillated with the tales of dangers I’ve faced while lurking outside Lindsay Lohan’s window. Ta ta!
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 3:09 AM
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