The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

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