prince-charlesGuess who visited the offices of the other day? If you read the title then you know it was Bonny Prince Charles himself, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of the United Kingdom, Britain’s next king just as soon as his beloved mother Queen Eliazabeth II drops dead, he tells me. He was in New York on the Q.T., not wanting to attract a lot of attention. It seems he was here to consult with some plastic surgeons about some cosmetic work he wants done before his coronation which he hopes is real soon.

I asked him if it was the Dumbo ears, the turkey jowls or the mule teeth he was thinking about fixing, but he just gave me an icy stare, then said it was for the installation of an actual chin. Sorry, Prince. Probably a good idea, I assured His Majesty, that’ll give you something to stroke thoughtfully while you’re sitting on your king throne making momentous decisions. Or at least pretend to do so since British kings and queens haven’t wielded any power at all for over 100 years. They’re more like ceremonial window dressing these days, kind of like a baseball team’s mascot in the bird suit with the giant head and having just about as much influence over the outcome of the game as that guy.

But still, he will be the king, new chin and all. Of course he’ll still be uglier than Keith Richards and Mr. Potatohead combined but that’s the way it has always been for English kings, the uglier the better. Throw in the fact that European Royalty has been inbreeding longer than Ozark Hillbillies and you’ve got a prime example in good old Prince Charles of the Banjo Kid from the movie “Deliverance” in a Saville Row suit, minus the talent on the banjo. He does the royals proud with his dim bulb bewilderment and transparent longing for the death of his mother. Good for you, Chuck. That’s what kings are made of!

He surprised me by showing up at my door with a couple of those Beefeater Guards in their red pantaloons and Don King fright wig hats, one of them blowing a long trumpet and the other rolling out a threadbare red carpet. This kind of startled me and I really had no time to prepare any penetrating questions for the Prince. Looking into his eyes, though, I figured maybe this is a good thing. His Royal Highness seemed a bit disoriented, looking around my house like he didn’t know where he was. Well, I figured, it’s not every day a future king drops in on you with two guys in Middle Ages outfits so I might as well start the interview.

BC: “So, Your Highness, you feeling okay? You look a little green around the gills if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“PC: “We do mind you saying so.”

BC: “We?”

PC: “We’re practicing to be king, you see. One always refers to oneself in the plural or the third person when one is a monarch.”

BC: “Ooo-kaaay, Prince, whatever you say…”

PC: “Bloody well right,! I’m The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesy, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Great Master and First and Principal Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Member of The Order of Merit, Knight of the Order of Australia, Companion of the Queen’s Service Order, Honorary Member of the Saskatchewan Order of Merit, Chief Grand Commander of the Order of Logohu, Member of Her Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Counsel, Aide-de-camp to Her Majesty! That’s bloody well who I am!

BC: “And you’re telling me this… why?

PC: “Just to let you know our respective positions.”

BC: “Our positions? I’m sitting here and you’re sitting there. That’s our positions in this country, two equals talking.”

PC: “Equals? You and I? Surely you can’t believe that!”

BC: “Actually, now that I met you… no, not really.”

PC: “Just as I thought, you see. You Colonials can disparage royalty all you like,, but upon meeting the real thing you simply cannot deny the majesty and splendor of a prince and future king. Rather impressive, is it not?”

BC: “Well, Prince… you are leaving an impression, I’ll give you that much…”

PC: “Just as I thought!”

BC: “Well, never mind that, sir. Are all those titles really yours? That’s quite the mouthful. How long did it take you to memorize that?”

PC: “Of course they are my titles! I’m The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall.

BC: “Alright , I got it already Prince…”

PC: “..Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order …”

“BC: “Prince! Hey Prince, I’ve got a tape recorder, we got if the first time!”

PC: “…of The Garter, Knight of the Most Noble order of The Thistle…”

BC: ” You can stop now Chuck! (At this point I turned to one of the Beefeater guys and he just shrugged and whispered to me that once the Prince starts his list of titles there’s no stopping him. It’s better to let him finish or he might just start over again. Not willing to risk that, I just shut up and let him finish.)

PC: … and Aide deCamp to Her Majesty!”

BC: “”Well, Chuck, what do I say now, Long Live the Queen?”

“PC: “Mercy no… I mean, that is, yes, of course! You’re getting the hang of being a Royal Subject, old boy.”

BC: “Hang? Sounds good to me…”

PC: “But enough of this, Tell me, why did you wish to interview our presence?”

BC: Beats me if I even remember now…”

PC: “Get a hold of yourself, man! One need not fear one’s Prince, eh wot? Out with it, serf!”

BC: “Okay, Chuck, you asked for it. Here goes: Prince Charles, how does it feel to be the world’s biggest jackass, living for the day when your own mother dies so you can occupy a throne that means jack-all just so you can ride around in a horse-drawn carriage every so often in a ridiculous costume and wave to people you have no authority over? What’s that like?”

PC: “Why, the bloody cheek! Do you know who I am?”

BC: “Don’t start that friggin’ roll call again, pal, just answer the question.”

“PC: “We do not deign to respond to such impertinence! Oh for for days of dungeons and the Tower of London ! Why, when I’m king….”

BC: “You’ll what? I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Princey boy, you’ll open flower shows, give medals to Girl Guides, wave from a balcony, make speeches about nothing and play polo, just like you do now.”

PC: “Put this vermin in chains!” (He was addressing one of his Beefeater Guards, who leans over and reminds the Prince that he has no such powers, doesn’t even carry any handcuffs and besides, we were in America at the moment, at which point Prince Charles starts shaking and turning red and foaming at the mouth. I’d had plenty enough of him by now.)

BC: “Well, Charlie old boy, I think you’ve answered well enough for my readers. Interview’s over. You guys wanna roll out that red carpet and usher this guy out of here before he blows a gasket? My wife will be real pissed off if he breaks something. And skip the trumpet, Beefie, I don’t want to freak out my neighbors.”

PC: “You’ve not heard the last of me,! This means War! I’ll call out the Navy, buy jove,you’ll be hearing from the Royal Marines! I’m The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George…”

His voice trailed off as the 2 Beefeaters stuffed him into the back seat of his limousine, and all the while he’s shaking and contorting his body and foaming at the mouth while still reciting his list of titles. Talk about strange people. No wonder Queen Elizabeth is trying her damnest to outlive him. I guess she figures one of his and Diana’s kids, who are also pretty stupid but at least good looking, would be somewhat less of an embarrassment for the king job than this joker. I never did get to ask him about his ugly wife or half-wit sons or exactly how he justifies the big dough that England pays him to prance around the world being silly. I’ll just have to leave those questions to another King. Let Larry King do the dirty work.

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