My computer died last night, so now you have to read about the Queen of England. Hey, don’t complain to me about it, those are the rules and I am no more responsible for the rules than I am anything else I do while under the influence of oven cleaner and Robitussin. One time I rode a rider mower naked through a nursing home, and they couldn’t do a damn thing about it because those are the rules. Also, they were pretty old and most definitely scared of me after I ran a few of them down, which may have had something to do with it.
Anyway, I was typing away on my formerly trusty computer when it began displaying odd error messages. Something about bootcache.policy files not being available and some other cryptic error messages like this:
SYSTEM ERROR – KERNEL PANIC 0346623x – NOT ANOTHER FUCKING ARTICLE ABOUT KENNY LOGGINS! YOU HAVE A STATE OF THE ART COMPUTER THAT IS MANY TIMES MORE POWERFUL THAN ALL OF THE TECHNOLOGY NASA USED TO PUT A MAN ON THE GODDAMN MOON, AND YOU USE IT FOR THIS SHIT? FUCK IT. I AM OUT OF HERE.
So I spent a lot of time running diagnostics, formatting hard drives, threatening Apple executives and that kind of stuff, and as a result, I don’t have as much free time tonight as I would like. And that means that the lengthy post I was planning on writing will have to wait for another day. I will tell you this, though: It would have been the funniest thing written down in the entire history of mankind, something you should keep in mind when voting for the Bloggies next year.
Instead, though, you’re stuck reading about the Queen. Here’s the deal: Yesterday, I casually mentioned to a coworker that you could email the Queen of England, something I took advantage of a while back when I asked her to instruct Kate Middleton to start having sex with black guys on the down-low. (Yes, that’s a thing I did, although for the life of me I have no idea why.) We promptly went online and it was then that I noticed that you can no longer email the Queen of England, one would assume because they received an excessive number of emails regarding Kate Middleton and interracial sex (one). It would also explain a curt email I received from Scotland Yard, which began, “Right! Wot’s all this, then?”
Anyway, while I was lamenting this sorry state of affairs, I noticed something else on the Royal Web Site: The Queen will send you a congratulatory card for your birthday. There are some rules, to be sure: First of all, you have to be a Royal Subject because God Forbid the Queen of England would congratulate some Belgian prick on his birthday. The Queen fucking hates Belgium. A substantial amount of Royal Taxes are set aside each year to collect the Queen’s feces and have them surreptitiously dumped on Belgian soil, that’s how much she hates those fuckers.
So you have to be British, or at least a Royal Subject living in one of the Commonwealth Realms, which is a phrase that might be somewhat confusing to readers given that we’ve moved the fuck on from the 1600’s and no longer spend a lot of time thinking about the British Empire, so they helpfully define it for us as any country that has a picture of the Queen on their currency. They list a whole bunch of them, including one called Tuvalu, which I think is just a case of Prince Harry getting shitfaced and fucking around with the website again. The last time he did that, he announced that he had formed a new palace guard dedicated to protecting the Royal Burrito Supply.
The other requirement is that in order to receive a congratulatory birthday card from the Queen, you have to be turning 100 years old, or 105 and older. To be clear, if you have have just turned 104, the Queen is not fucking impressed, and you can jolly well go bugger yourself. But if you’re 105, then ok, you get a card.
I don’t know why the Queen is so goddamn picky about these things. It’s not like it’s actually her writing the fucking things.
Prime Minister: The country is at war! The people need to hear from the Queen! Where in God’s name is she?
Prince Charles: I say, she got rather behind on her congratulatory cards, and we had to lock her in the Tower of London until she got properly caught up. Can’t let our seniors go uncongratulated now, can we?
It’s just some poor bastard (probable name: Clive) who prints out a bunch of congratulatory cards and mails them each day. Why does the Queen need to be so selective? She has no job function, forcibly collects money from her subjects simply because she continues to consume oxygen on this planet, and lives in a palace so large that it is essentially just trolling poor people at this point. If you ask me, the Queen should be forced to send you a congratulatory card for any crazy fucking reason you can dream up.
Nigel: ‘Ello! We got a card from the Queen, we did!
Edith: Wot’s it say? Wot’s it say?
Nigel: It appears to be for the toaster. It says, “Congratulations, you’re a toaster. Sincerely, the Queen of England.”
Edith: Well that was bloody nice of ‘er, wasn’t it?
I also noticed on the Royal Website that the Queen has sent out her first Tweet, which I’m going to go ahead and imagine reads something like this:
Actually, wouldn’t it be fucking awesome if the Queen was secretly this elite hacker type, and after a long day of opening shopping malls and whatnot, she ran totally amok on the internet, owning everyone’s shit?
I like to think about the secret lives that celebrities should lead. That resulted in this caption, which ran about 18 months ago and still makes me laugh:
In fact, the Queen could be the tech genius behind the Hawkingbot Transformer, and she would unleash it whenever She Was Displeased, resulting in the almost immediate destruction of Belgium. Tell me you wouldn’t watch that if it was a TV show. I would watch nothing else.
Let’s see, where were we? Ah yes, my computer failed. Judging by the complete lack of quality in this post, let’s just hope that doesn’t happen again any time soon.