The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

Being the adventures of a hard-drinking, chain-smoking, dashing man about town, aspiring gonzo-journalist and mystery-man.
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Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Showing, Not Telling

Look Ma! No cavities!


To all ye of soft, smooth upper-class hands and ever dainty hooves,

     You see this? My swollen, bloodied, and purple foot? The bruised appendage attached to my fractured ankle? That’s what crime-fighting does to you!

     The life of a mystery-man is not necessarily an easy one, and certainly not at all devoid of personal injury. Oh, there are many things to be avoided when getting tossed through windows and brick walls alike, evading stinky, ozone-smelling laser fire, and dancing toe to toe with thugs looking like they’d just stepped out of a Frank Miller novel, complete with switchblades, sais, and samurai swords. There are broken noses to be had, lacerations to be received, unintentional haircuts, black eyes, and the occasional killed sidekick (luckily monkeys are cheap, blessed be Overstock.com and you, Bobo the Virgin Chimp #4) to go along with the bloodied fingers and broken knuckles. Let’s not even get into the ruined suits.

     Yes, this is the life of a mystery-man. Look at this bloodied mess of violet and puce, this inflated mass of flesh and stretched tendon, and be very glad this is not you. Enjoy your coffee from Starbucks, your fine German chocolates, and your massive helpings of mad cow steak. I’ll enjoy the cut above my eye, the teeth marks upon my neck, and the gelatinous ivory goo still in my hair. We don’t do this for the money, the fame, or the chicks (in fact we DO do this for the chicks, I lied) we do this because we were born of a nobler mindset; we were born with a grand vision, a fighting spirit, and an urge to put things right. This is why I, for many months, found myself attached to that mangled appendage.

     Or perhaps it was because after I’d finished off a bottle of Irish whiskey and whatever else I’d been given by my friends at the studio, I wandered off for home; along the way hopping fences in and out of the cemetery to avoid the police. But that’s not important.

     I’d like to see you walk an hour uphill on a fractured ankle. Feh!

     Anyway, today as I stood on my porch enjoying a cigarette, I noticed, as I turned my head, that there was a leprechaun in my yard, staring me down. He was hairy as a Scotsman, his eyes red and bloodshot, and his massive sideburns unruly. I was half-tempted to cuss and yell at him, and chase the little devil out of my yard, but ended up doing none of that. Once one leprechaun moves into your yard, a whole pack is soon to follow, and quite frankly, I could probably use the potential wealth of gold that this could bring in.

     Not that it matters though. There’ll be no infestation of leprechauns in my huckleberry patch; a short while ago I saw the rabid dog from up the street trotting down the sidewalk with a green-trousered leg sticking out the side of his mouth. What’s worse, my cat just hacked up a hairball with a tiny green derby on it.

     To get away from this rather depressing sight, I decided to go out tonight to a gathering of sorts at a bar with many of my coworkers. A sort of Christmas celebration in preparation for the holiday on which we celebrate the two-thousand and fifth anniversary of when we taught that dirty old hippy; we taught that dirty old hippy real damn good.

     I stopped by my work first, where I was immediately hailed as the world’s best dressed man, to pick up another gallon of aloe vera juice and a box of Fuji apples. From there, my friends joined me in heading over to Fiddler’s Green, the Irish pub we’ve all come to know and love. Upon initially heading into the bar, we found ourselves alone amongst a large, well-dressed Irish crowd; our chums from work had not yet arrived. We headed back out to chat in the car and smoke cigarettes. As we exited the tavern, we passed aside two inebriated yuppies that were yelling loudly and causing quite the scene. They even had the audacity to point out my suit of opal and clover, which bothered me not so much, but my pal Dancing Dan was rather offended at this, and his girl, The Cheese Queen nearly flipped the lads off, before she thought better of it. These gents were no prize pigs in their own right; one was shirtless and spinning tassels on his cold-hardened nipples, the other trying to sniff coke from his bellybutton. The sheer atrociousness of this sight caused my left eye to crawl deep inside my skull cavity, seeking some refuge from this repulsive imagery. My other eye popped out of socket entirely, rolling down the sidewalk at a hurried pace, then making a 90° turn and ducking down an alleyway.

     As our friends began to arrive, we headed back into the bar once more. I was the first to sit at the bar, feeling thirsty and ready to socialize. The bar had no sarsaparilla in stock, and clearly mustn’t have been serving any rum and cokes, because there wasn’t even a cola to be had. I can understand the absence of Royal Crown cola in a predominantly Irish establishment, though the absence of even a Jolt or a fine bottle of Virgil’s seems to be a bit of a disservice. I settled on the only non-alcoholic drink available, that being the appropriately Irish-titled O’Doul’s, which was actually quite refreshing considering the length of time I’ve gone without drinking a beer.

     Chumming with my friends and smoking cigarettes when not discussing the finer points of Green Lantern or The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, I came to notice how very well some of the girls from work clean up. There were many very tempted males among my crew this night, though I must admit, I knew a bit better. I’m rather put off by the catfights I’ve been witnessing and the unfolding drama which I’m constantly aware of. Better to keep searching for the gold than allow myself to be distracted by flakes of pyrite.

     Anyway, I had a fine old time though I found much of my company to be surprisingly dull this time around. Could the social order and frivolity that ensues be truly dependent on everyone’s favorite whiskey-drinking lad? I’ve often referred to myself as the life of the party, but never before been sober enough to actually witness the apparent truth in this statement. I noticed also that while many of my number respect, admire, and even occasionally envy me for putting aside the bottle as I’ve chosen, and have been quite good in offering up their support, there’s also a number of my pals that would clearly like to see me drinking again, and clearly just don’t understand the rationale behind a deliberately-self-enforced sobriety. A lot of people just don’t seem to get that I chose to do this, and that I’m actually quite happy in doing so. This isn’t hard; far from it. I could totally have a beer or a nip of Bushmills or two and be fine, I understand that about myself now. I simply don’t want to. This is easy and I’m still having a whole heck of a lot of fun.

     I have to work tomorrow morning and my legs are just the tiniest bit sore from my run earlier today, so I’m going to go lay down for a while. Here's hoping that Elvira, Mistress of the Dark joins me. Be good out there.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
The Virgin Prince, 1:41 AM
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