Friday, June 10, 2011

Made to be a Monarch

I just learned today that no ‘only child’ has ever been U.S. President. What a shame that yet another one of my self-flagellating nightmares has been dashed by geeky statisticians. Oh that’s ok, because the last time the ‘odds’ makers got something truly right was when my mafia parents MADE me. It seems I’ll never live there, but like the White House, I crow constantly about my crummy coop overflowing in a load of ‘white stuff’ ,with no fixes in sight too.

So since dirty birds like me spend so much time shopping at the ‘Home Despot’ I am probably better suited to the Monarchy anyway. Yes inbreeding has served me well since I am an expert on frilly clothes and routinely stick my pinkie out whenever drinking, hitchhiking or condemning other insects to their death. Anyway now with that recent Royal pudding of a wedding, the Monarchs are in fashion again and I have it on good authority that even cartoon lions cannot wait to be Kings.

Believe me I have put in the time to groom myself into an effective career as a future Monarch. I brush my tooth daily and powder not only my own Whig but the Tories’ too. Oh sure one unfortunate incident with a leg of MUTTon and everybody automatically takes the DOG’S side. Honestly, hopping to get around ‘aint’ that big of deal when all you do is sit around playing poker and smoking pricey cigars all day.

I cannot tell you how many troubling knights I have laid awake, crying remorsefully for closure - but not in a ‘Brokeback Mountain’ kind of way. I have grown considerably since the ‘dog leg’ incident, and as evidenced by my bathroom scale and golf scores, I have learned to control my gluttony. Even though I am only a man-child in a baggy blimp’s body and will never be President, despite life’s limitations I am still prepared to fly. So if I ever find myself reincarnated I hope to emerge from my chrysalis as a benevolent Monarch butterfly, dancing gracefully upon a radiant dew-kissed flower. Because let me tell you, there is no way I am repeating this grade again as a dumb gray sack of Pupa plopped on top of a rotten banana.