The Queen Can Die Now
She made it to the balcony
Tree of trees, Jubs of jubs, doctors, lads, and ladies! Forsooth and lackaday! It’s the Queen’s flummoxing birthday celebration, the Trooping of the Colour, and we’re all watching it live on our televisions like our own little 9/11s. Will Prince George be tidy? Will Prince Andrew do a sex crime? And the Fabulous Humanitarian Markle Twins? Will they make eye contact with the demure Norfolk lunatic Kate Middleton?
Well, so far, Kate wore two hats – Guy Named Pete vibes! – and a pair of thestrals dragged an empty golden carriage through the streets of London.
But all of that is small potatoes (covered in Salad Queen and dill, left out in the sun only to cultivate listeria at Holyroodhouse) compared to what we’ve all been waiting for. Will the Queen kick the gilded bucket before she can preside over the ceremonies?
The Queen made it to that anointed cement parapet that’s torn her family asunder, and she can die now. That guy next to her, allegedly the Duke of Kent, already has.
Whoah, mama, her staghorn looks huge!
Crawl into your favored tunnel and rest in peace, sweatie! Periwinkle looks fab on you. You did feminism for all of us, and now we sleep.
There, there, Georgie. Granny will be missed, but corg shall save the cream.
