The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Ye of Krypton, Mongo, Vulcan, and Earth,

     Hmmm… now today was quite interesting.

     After fitful dreams of Adam West, sweat-pants, the girls from the B52s, and transforming robots, I woke up, once more, to the sound of my electronic chicken screaming at me. It was hard lifting my head from the pillow, harder still uncovering myself from my blankets; the night had been a cold one and my body was nearly frozen stiff. A thin layer of frost had settled upon me over the course of the night and the icicle hanging from the corner of my mouth was a telltale sign that my body’s fluids had tried to escape once more over the course of the night. At least there weren’t any patches of ice over my groin. Not this time.

     Oh, it was so dreadfully cold this morning, so very difficult to rise from the warm comfort of my bed. The cold air which filled the house had even caused my nipples to surpass rock-hard and go straight into the territory of razor-sharp. I must have destroyed three of my best shirts as I attempted to dress myself this morning, three once glorious collared silk shirts of clover, magenta, and pale scarlet, now reduced to nothing more than tattered rags. Well, at the very least, three children somewhere in the third world will be much more dashingly dressed thanks to my misfortune. Enjoy it, you precocious scamps of political handicap and unfortunate borders! Prize these treasures I’ve given you! Place them in your most hallowed grounds, alongside the Commodore 64s and Betamax recorders that the Virgin Prince has deemed fit to send you. Worry not of lacking size of my tax-refunds for charitable donation, merely enjoy my benevolence. This I grant you!

     The cold air made it no easier to shower, and the prospect of having a popsicle for genitalia made me no less reluctant to remove my clothes. I was unshaven, however, and my hair was a mess that no comb could fix, and so with all the same pleasure as is derived from ripping off a Band-Aid or popping a dislocated shoulder back in place, I soberly stepped into the frigid waters of my shower. Fifteen hellish minutes later I was clean as a whistle and nearly as high-pitched, thanks to the effects of the glacial water and the chill of the December air upon my man-parts. I suppose that considering the plumbing problems I’ve been having of late, I should consider myself lucky I didn’t find myself wrestling another oversized sewer-gator on this particular morning, though to be honest, on this particular morning there wouldn’t have been much for the foul beast to take a bite out of either.

     Brushing my teeth to a pearly white and taking hold of my green derby, I was ready at last to head out the door. Despite the bitter cold, I decided against grabbing my trench coat, opting instead to take with me only three pieces of fruit. We growing boys do need our vitamins after all. Along the way to work I stopped to grab myself a newspaper, as is my custom, and read upon the latest political fiascos. Quite frankly, the end result is always the same, I’m simply left longing for the golden warmth of the Clinton years and oh so small-in-scope problems we used to have, minor little inconveniences we used to know, such as Monica Lewinsky being too much the dirty bus-station skank to wash a dress on occasion.

     Ah, Clinton. How I miss him. That fabled man-god sent to us by rocket as an emissary of goodwill from the last of his people, the philanthropic and chivalrous race that once massively populated the technological wonder of a planet known as Arkanoid 4, in the times before an unstoppable epidemic of sterility wiped his world nearly clean. Clin, of the House of Ton, was a genetic anomaly, a man with virility the likes of which God has not seen. He would be the last hope of his kind, one potent survivor to spread the message of peace, as well as the mission of human advancement, in addition to his genetic seed.

     “Clin-Ton,” the council of elders told him, “you are the greatest and most virile of us. You are the hope of our people; go then to Earth, to where you will surpass other mortals with relative ease, and advance our cause and culture. Go now with all our dreams and faith behind you. Go forth and procreate.”

     Well you can’t say he fully failed in his mission.

     Who knew that the higher powers in the universe would conspire to aid him in his quest, the cosmos sending him through a meteor storm that knocked his ship off course, causing for a crash landing in Sea World. The resultant sequence of events that followed, leading all the way to when he clawed himself free from the nastiest bits of Lula the Orca… left him a technical citizen of the United States, “born” for lack of a better term (at least having to suffice for us, considering the lacking Earth-human concepts we are limited to thinking in) in the mucky waters of a whale tank in Sunny San Diego. This was only the first step in his eventual rise to the presidency.

     Ah, such lovely, fuzzy memories.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince