The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
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
