I am the child of privilege—or so I am being told. I am white. I am male. I am inbred many generations over, the product of brother and sister fucking in just horrible positions, and then their children fucking, and their grandchildren, and great-grandchildren too, so that I am not much more than a royal mound of flesh, bestowed with divine right to rule at least one-third of Earth.
Put these together and you would think I’ve been sitting on a trust fund—unearned, unappreciated, and unjustified. (To that I’d counter merely that I say thank you to Dongus and Gerd, my two mute servants, every single time they tie my dinner bib around my mostly absent neck.) There are people who think that being a fancy little boy king has historically been an unalloyed privilege. The many dead of our national cemeteries suggest otherwise, that, in fact, fancy little boy kings die too, and often in the most gruesome of ways, due to our ungrateful subjects being jealous of our natural wit (made all the more biting due to, as I mentioned, the generations of inbreeding and all the magic that does to one’s brain chemistry).
Let me concede right at the top that it was always better to be a fancy little boy king than to not be one. Let me further stipulate that in court, it has usually been better to be a king than a jester, or Gerd (poor, stupid Gerd), or one of the women I force to hold up my highchair (as long as I’m safely buckled in) so that I am the tallest in the room, ho ho!
When my mother died (because I had her axed for whisper-requesting that I not call her a saggy witch), I said loudly to my best friend, a blank wall, that if she had been born in a later era, she could have not been such a saggy witch. Now her place has been taken by my sister, a slightly less saggy witch whose morning screams echo through the castle even though I have asked for it to be thoroughly sound-proofed. If my reign is limited to 30 years or less, it will because my horrible sister has poisoned my morning mush. Calling it now.
Being a fancy little boy king is a job for fancy little boys only—it’s in the name. And I’m glad that there are only a few girls brave enough to challenge me (fewer by the day, because I have also had them axed, tee hee!).
But let’s be serious. All this is by way of saying to women: I’m on your side (unless you try to poison my mush). Still, when I see op-eds, such as the one recently in The Medieval Authoritarian Times, that the king should not be “a seven-year-old child, so mangled due to centuries of royal inbreeding that his face is but a potato, and body but the root of a potato, each tiny, barely-perceptible foot clad in a silk doll’s slipper, his head area adorned with a tacky, clearly gold-plaited crown,” I recoil. That’s just another way of saying that being a fancy little boy king is a disqualification, when, in fact, it is the only qualification for ruling an empire filled with mostly mud, human waste, and the ever-present howling of unhappy ghosts.
I understand that the way I’ve personally treated women and girls (by axing most of them for opening their wet, hideous mouths) may be seen as “wrong,” though I’d disagree. But the past does not obliterate the solemn obligation to treat diminutive potato kings as your supreme leader, not primarily as members of the royal family (though please do that too). Fairness demands it. The monarchy requires it.
—Your little king