Hello, Faithful Off-Season Readers, and welcome back. I hope your week was both eventful and constructive. It’s been a significant week in U.S. history and before I get to the fun stuff, let me say thank you to all of the friends I have who voluntarily signed up for the military and to my cousins who proudly serve the New York City Fire and Police Departments. You do what you do so I can do what I do and not have to worry about how, when, or where I do it, so thank you all for all you do. I plan to do it in honor of you. With my freedom in tact and justice handed out, let’s get to it.
I want to thank all of you who took the time to send me a cheery or inspirational message this week. I realize you all have lives too and my own misery is not something you need to worry about. I’ve yet to respond to all of the well wishes, not due to sheer volume, but due to my own laziness. Your thoughts do not go unnoticed or unappreciated, however. Thank you for caring.
While pondering this week’s topic, I could not help but notice the wide array of responses my last post received both in the comment section and via email. I was surprised at that a lot of you agreed with me about the royal wedding and not so surprised that some of you didn’t. I even got one piece of particularly entertaining hate mail from a guy whose wife took my side on the topless bar thing. I’d like to respond now. Ahem . . .
Look, Dude, everyone is entitled to an opinion—including me, and more importantly in this case, your wife. If my blog is the straw that breaks the back of your marriage then I’d be willing to bet that metaphorical camel’s back had a whole bunch of other stuff weighing it down—like your propensity to lie to her about going to topless bars, for instance. That’s just a guess. Please redirect your hate mail to Dr. Phil or Oprah. I’m just Some Guy in Austin. I’m sorry your wife doesn’t like you going to topless bars. Be a man and talk to her about it instead of blaming me for it. Back to the blog.
Despite my best efforts this week, I could not avoid the coverage of the wedding that I tried to avoid and swore not to write about. Like the smell of alcohol on David Hasselhoff, it was everywhere. Trying to avoid the media coverage of the royal wedding was like going to the Champ-Ellysees in France in May of 1940 and trying to avoid marching, jack-booted Germans. Eventually, I was forced to deal with it.
I did some day drinking with a few friends this weekend and arrived home in the early evening in order to settle in on the couch and flip some channels prior to showering, musking up, and heading back out for some more Lone Stars and live music. As I flipped around I came to a BBC channel on the menu that read “Highlights of the Royal Wedding.” In my relaxed state, I hit the “select” button out of sheer curiosity assuming I could cover the entire wedding in all of its glory inside of 15 minutes. I resolved to get to the bottom of the hoopla.
An hour and a half later I was still waiting to get to the wedding. I was “treated” to a “brief” history of the royal family which was intermittently interrupted by various “style experts” so they could opine about things like what the Queen would wear and what designers were rumored to be involved in making the outfits of various celebrity guests. I have to admit that this part of the coverage was actually interesting to me. It provided an historical context along with building anticipation for the big event. “Alright, perhaps I see what at least part of the hoopla is about,” I thought to myself as I adjusted my couch pillows and settled in for a little more. After all, I was free to change the channel at any time and I figured I’d hang in there right up until the point I became annoyed.
After watching snippets of the Queen and Prince Phillip as well as watching the giant-eared Charles in his early 30’s marry the 19 year old Diana (who knew that wouldn’t work?), the host let me know that it was time to cover the entrance of the future Dutchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, after the commercial break. Fantastic, now we’re getting somewhere.
By the way, is there any better job than being Prince Phillip? He’s been window dressing for 58 years. His only responsibilities are to dress up like he’s told and stand in the background. Being the husband of the Queen of England is tantamount to dating the Maid of Honor in a wedding where you don’t know the bride and groom. You put on a fancy suit, make sure she gets to the church on time, and then hit the bar at the reception while she fluffs the train, holds the bouquet, kisses the bride’s ass, and smiles a lot.
Sure, you look in on her once in a while and flash an “is everything ok, honey” smile before returning to your post at the bar and waiting for the DJ to play the Chicken Dance or Strokin’ before hitting the dance floor, but there’s not much else to it. Unlike most guys, Phillip doesn’t even have to hold her purse while she shops. Being Mr. Queen of England is a good gig if you can get it.
Speaking of Queens of England, the show gave me a few shots of Elton John and his wig sitting next to his “wife” before we went to commercial break. I wondered what Elton John would be getting David Furnish for Mother’s Day. I pondered that as I went and grabbed a Lone Star, not because I was thirsty but because I planned to use it as sort of an hourglass. Once I was through with the beer, I reasoned, it would be time to click off the festivities and prepare for my own festivities. At least I’d have some royal wedding pointers to impress the ladies with when I ventured out.
I have to confess that in my partially inebriated state, my eyes began to droop a bit while waiting for the start of the big event. I was actually relieved when it finally came back on and the cacophony of cameras in Westminster Abbey covered the less than cantankerous crowd because their eyes appeared to be drooping as well. I wondered if there was a big Lone Star Royal Wedding Kickoff Bash the evening before.
Like much of my life these days, I found myself dozing in and out of consciousness as the lone BBC announcer droned on about pageantry, history, and tradition in a monotonous formal English accent. He was more John Geilgud than he was Eliza Doolittle. That voice along with the funeral music emanating from the choir was like Propofol and I fought in vain to stay awake.
To add to the confusion, it took me a long time to figure out that because this was a “highlights” version of the wedding, the damn thing wasn’t in chronological order. Granted, I was relieved to know that I wasn’t absolutely crazy, but the jumping back and forth and to and fro was still frustrating. It was like reading Lewis Caroll or listening to Charlie Sheen rant about being a warlock or whatever. Incidentally, can anyone believe that guy actually had the balls to ask for full custody of his kids after his second old lady fell off the wagon. . . again? That train will eventually derail.
At any rate, with my attention focused squarely on the television, I finally got a glimpse of Phillip and William in their wedding attire. William and Phillip were dressed like nutcrackers. Black pants with a red stripe, stiff red coat ornamented with golden shoulders and cuffs covered in a bunch of medals and that thick, golden rope usually reserved to securing red velvet balcony curtains at various opera houses and public venues was their choice of costume.
William’s entire ensemble was tied together with a blue over-the-shoulder sash. I half expected the Sugar Plum Fairies to twirl around him on the altar as he waited for Kate to arrive. Speaking of Sugar Plum Fairies, I wondered what Elton John would be getting David Furnish for Mother’s Day. Annnyyyyhoooo . . .
Looking at William dressed as he was, I couldn’t help but envision him dislocating his royal jaw and cracking a coconut with those giant royal teeth. It’s no wonder we beat them in the Revolutionary War. It would be difficult enough to execute a successful use of the bathroom in that get up much less fight a war in it. A blue sash? The last time I saw a man wearing a light blue sash I was on Fourth Street passing a bar named Oilcan Harry’s on Miss Gay Austin Pageant Night.
Seriously, if I want to see a guy look ridiculous in a red coat I’ll go to the mall and watch the security guards harass the teenagers in the Food Court. How ever many pounds they shelled out at Al’s Royal Tuxedo Rentals for those outfits was too much.
Next, I got a glimpse of Prince Harry, the Fredo Corleone of the English Royal Family. He looked like William’s long lost royally drunken uncle more than he did his royal brother. He had his own version of a majordomo outfit on and, frankly, it looked like he’d raided Charles’ closet in search of an important outfit to wear for the big ceremony. We all knew he had a dime bag of weed in the front pocket and a glass pipe in the other. I hope he had the royal courtesy to offer the Queen a bump or two before the ceremony. From the looks of it, Phillip certainly took a few hits.
Then there was his hair. Don’t they have a royal hair dresser somewhere in that palace or was he off cavorting around with the royal tailor? They should have cut Harry’s hair and made one of those English wig things for William to cover up his woefully thin locks. He looked like Donald Trump minus the comb over. Elton John could have at least offered him one of his spare wigs for the big event.
I haven’t seen anything that pathetically thin since I watched Natalie Portman binge every five minutes between auto-erotic bathtub fantasies in Black Swan. She deserved the Oscar, by the way. Oh, and is it just me or does Harry look a lot more like Diana’s former “bodyguard” than he does Charles? I’m just saying.
It was at this point that I took great pause. I took pause partly because I was out of beer but also because I realized how freaking somber everyone in the church looked. For crying out loud, wasn’t this supposed to be the most joyous occasion in England since the last royal wedding? If you could have taken the fancy outfits off the entire crowd and put them in normal street clothes the entire assembly could have just as easily have been the latest bunch of people to receive a jury summons and be forced to spend an entire day waiting around the courthouse to see if they’d be picked to sit on a jury and decide which party has a better lawyer. That’s a little legal humor there for you, folks.
The beatification of Pope John Paul II was more cheerful than the wedding, for God’s sake. The biggest difference was that during that ceremony John Paul was more animated than Prince Philip. He looked healthier too. Speaking of the beatification, I hope we all appreciate the irony of the German pope ordering the exhumation of a Pole so he can praise him. How happy do you think all the Italians are that the first non-Italian pope ever is also on the fast track to sainthood? Incidentally, did you hear they closed the soccer stadium in Warsaw? Apparently, wherever you sat you were directly behind a Pole.
After a few minutes the announcer mercifully announced the arrival of the soon-to-be Mrs. Dutchess of Cambridge and perhaps one day the Queen of England, Kate Middleton. I have to confess that prior to her stepping out of the carriage and being escorted by her father—who was the only normally dressed attendee I’d seen so far—I had never really taken the time to look at her. Sure, I’d seen her on the news or on the cover of various magazines while waiting to pay for my Lone Star and condoms in the grocery line, but I never really checked her out.
I prefer brunettes to blonds and while I don’t really have a “type,” there are some qualities that capture my attention. I have to admit that when she began to walk down the aisle next to her father I did take note that she looked very attractive. She has a pleasant face and nice features. She was, in fact, the first person I’d seen smile all day. Speaking of attractive women, I wondered what Elton John was going to get David Furnish for Mother’s Day.
As I watched the close up of the soon-to-be bride, I thought it was a nice moment to see her father walking her down the aisle. He appeared nervous, but proud and I’m certain excited at the prospect of spending time enjoying various royal assets now that he’s technically part of the family. Marrying a daughter to a member of the royal family is like having a friend with a boat: you get to enjoy it whenever you want but don’t have the aggravation of dealing with it when you don’t. Good for that guy. Apparently, he’s a self-made, blue collar guy who worked pretty hard to build his fortune. I hope he spends the rest of his days lazing around in a drunken stupor with his wife on some country estate owned by the Queen.
As the cameras panned back to get us a look at the royal wedding dress, I noticed—for the first time—the Maid of Honor and the freaking hot, apparently single, sister of the bride, Pippa Middleton.
Let me just send out a collective “are all of you f*cking kidding me” to my entire audience. I received dozens of emails pleading and in some cases begging me to watch the royal wedding and then blog about it. I received many comments and Facebook posts touting the benefits of royalty and defending the honor of the Queen. Hell, the person whose idea it was to start this blog (Heather, you know who you are) even called me to personally invite me to some big hat wearing, tea sipping, royal ass kissing, middle of the night, wedding watching party in Colorado. However, not one of you found it necessary to mention the fact that the bride had a smoking hot sister who would be prominently featured in a contoured, tight-fitting silk dress as she repeatedly bent at the waist to fluff the train? It occurred to none of you that her hotness might be an important piece of relevant information to share with me? Say it isn’t so.
Speaking of “fluffing the train” I again wondered what Elton John would be getting David Furnish for Mother’s Day.
For the next hour, I watched the morose coverage of what was perhaps the most somber joyous occasion in history. Pippa was like a diamond in a sea of mud. Look, I know the British—in particular the “upper class” British—are known for being a bit stiff in the upper lip, but the wedding was ridiculous. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if I closed my eyes and listened to it I could have just as easily pictured myself listening to a state funeral. The vows were boring, the songs were boring, the readings were boring, the people looked bored, and the announcers sounded bored. Look, I didn’t expect a scene from Sister Act, but come on. Live a little. Your joyous occasions don’t have to be as bland as your weather and your food.
Back to Pippa.
Like a kick to the crown jewels, every time they showed the enchanting Pippa Middleton, I became short of breath. She’s hotter than her sister and was certainly hotter than any of the stiffs in the audience. She even had the gall to smile a few times. I became more enthralled with her when I Googled her and found out that she’s a bit of a tomboy and is well-known around various British pubs in her neighborhood where she’s said to be a “big part of the social scene.” That’s code for “she drinks a lot and puts out.” God Save Pippa Middleton.
Look, she’s the sister of the Dutchess of Cambridge and I’m just some hapless dirtbag wandering aimlessly from honky tonk to honky tonk. I’m sure we can overcome our differences. I’d be happy to meet her in the Middleton . . . if you know what I mean. Hell, I’d even give her a fancy title. Dutchess of Austin or Princess of My Honky Tonk or something else regal like that would do, right? I could change my title to Some Duke in Austin or Sir Guy in Austin if it would help.
Inevitably, I found myself wondering if she had a pair of those white shorts like the ones that the one girl on that show that I write about had on that one trip to Africa. If only I could remember her name. . . . That was soooo March of 2011.
At any rate, if any of you out there have a strong desire to make up your failure to inform me of the aforementioned hot younger sister of the newly minted Dutchess of Cambridge, please feel free to photo shop a pair of those white shorts onto a picture of Pippa Middleton and send it to me post haste. That should solve the problem.
I ended my spontaneous royal wedding party by waiting one more commercial break for what was perhaps the most overly hyped and underwhelming post-wedding kiss in the history of all kisses . . . ever. When William kissed Kate . . . excuse me, Catherine, on the balcony it looked like he was kissing Charles on the mouth. I understand royal formality and all that stuff, but come on, show a little passion toward your new bride, Nutcracker Boy. I was just happy he didn’t open his mouth too widely and crack her skull like a walnut. Speaking of cracking nuts, I wondered what Elton John would get David Furnish for Mother’s Day.
Well, there it is. Congratulations on successfully getting me to watch a wedding I swore I’d never watch. All kidding aside, being that couple is probably not the easiest thing to do. I sincerely hope that that are genuinely happy and that they can share that happiness and optimism with anyone who will listen. Weddings are always pregnant with possibility and it’s sad to me when one of them ultimately ends in divorce. I hope that doesn’t happen here. That would be terrible. If William and Kate get divorced, where in the hell will Pippa and I go on holiday after we’re married?
Until next week, take care of yourselves and tell some people you love how much you love them. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be writing letters to Pippa Middleton in hopes that she’ll come to Austin and fluff my train. DP