I mean, excited? Really?
Why does England still have royalty? Elected by no one, their kings and queens govern nothing. They’re pointless. When they issue an edict, it carries all the impact of having a star named after you. Exciting? If we plastic-coated them, we’d have a decent game of chess.
(Incidentally, my wife has responded by naming an astronomical object after our marriage; a small but promising comet, which quickly burned up in the atmosphere.)
The Brits get defensive over these tax-funded figureheads. Once when I was sight-seeing at Buckingham Palace, my friend Jimmy asked a guard what the Royal Family actually does. Without warning, Jimmy was run through with a bayonet. As he crumpled beside me, the captain called out, “Just throw him inside with the others, lads! Pickup day is tomorrow.”
Then they looked at me. “The Royal Family is truth,” I said. “Shall I bring more unbelievers to be cleansed?”
England’s citizenry worships their Royal clan. It’s disturbing. Take, for instance, the military service of Princes William and Harry (sounds like an Ivy League School). While such service is laudable, to hear Brits tell it, you’d think the two spent their tours leading daring crusades to expand the empire. Oh yes. I can imagine the bloody combat conditions endured by young Harry:
“Be a good fellow, will you? Retrieve my firearm, and shoot that Arab-looking chap over there.”
“Oh, do reconsider, sir. I believe he’s on our side.”
“Tut-tut, Giles, a kill’s a kill! Can’t have commoners thinking I sit about all day, sipping champagne—though I’m not tapping this near-empty glass to make a toast.”
“An oversight, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“It can wait, Giles. Fill it after dispatching the Arab. Speaking of which, at the moment of triumph, be sure to shout, ‘For Queen and Country!’”
“Very good, sir. One patriotic homicide, coming right up.”
“Oh, and when you’re through, bring me my sword.”
“Will we be knighting more camels today, sir?”
“No Giles, I think I’ll challenge another of these dreadful locals to a duel. Remind me again, good fellow, is the challenge slap best achieved with one glove, or two?”
“Two gloves, sir, pinched neatly together at the base. And this time, sir, avoid lifting your pinky.”
“Sorry, force of habit.”
“Remember to pinch tightly, sir, lest another peasant mistake your challenge as a gift, and make off with your gloves—”
“Quite right. That was unfortunate.”
“—and your sword—”
“Right. Didn’t see that coming.”
“—hat, scarf, wallet—”
“That will be all, Giles.”
“Very good, sir.”
Why, oh why, does anyone care about these people? Could you imagine Americans happily giving millions of tax dollars to some unelected family with no discernable talents, all to swoon over their latest fashions? That’s worse than the Kardashians!
But then, this is America. A real country. Here, when people enter a room, we do not announce them with the idiotic blowing of horns. Our judges and lawyers don’t wear white wigs, as we convene courtrooms for matters of law, not furious rounds of knitting. And we do not “knight” elderly pop stars, that they might boldly defend the realm. We have Marines for that.
“For unto Kate, a child is born.” Hey, I’m sure the kid is adorable, but so what? All babies are cute! I’ll bet this one already wears a wig! She’s probably already commanding servants! And knighting pop stars! And camels! For goodness sakes, she already has my wife speaking with an accent!
There’s my wife on the sofa. Reading royal updates. Now she’s looking at me. Menacingly. Disapprovingly. One false word, and our marriage crashes to earth in cinder and ash.
“I see it now, my love. The Royal Family is truth! Long live the Queen!”
With a smile, she resumes reading. At great cost, my marriage is saved. I really hate England.