His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Philip Louis, Duke of Cambridge, Earl of Strathearn, Baron Carrickfergus, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Personal Aide-de-Camp to Her Majesty The Queen, looks like a goddamn donkey. And not a particularly bright one, either. A dull-eyed and dopey one. He looks like the donkey that gets its head stuck in a feed bucket. The donkey that spends its days hee-hawing at a fencepost. The other donkeys roll their eyes at the Prince William donkey; they glance knowingly at each other. Poor thing, their sad donkey eyes say. Inbred like a motherfucker.
His hair is what you get when you go to the neighborhood barber and tell him you want "The Ineffectual." "Make me look like I'm gonna grope the babysitter." "I want a look that says please put an ice cube in my soup." "Could you take a little bit more off the top? My dick hasn't retreated all the way into my pelvis yet."
Bill and his wife, Kate, took in a Brooklyn Nets game last night at the Barclays Center, to much fanfare. They hobnobbed with Jay Z and Beyoncé. They got their photo taken with a rightly skeptical LeBron James. Bill said something that caused Dikembe Mutombo to pretend to laugh. It was all very gross and strange and bad.
Many Americans get excited when the United Kingdom sends its decorative human hood ornaments across the Atlantic to review our nation and culture, as though this country's idiosyncratic colonial folkways are somehow certified by bringing a mirthless smile to the pallid cousin-fucking limey aristocrats whose forebears formerly warred to subjugate it. A culture whose people make a show of performative revulsion at the unearned wealth and celebrity of, say, Kim Kardashian, arrays itself and its cameras in twinkling wonder around this empty, accomplishment-free nitwit, as though he were an actual world leader and not the grotesquely coddled inheritor of a trust-fund stuffed by centuries of outright theft. At least Kim Kardashian has a goddamn iPhone app. She's done more with her life than this patchy-haired grub-man, this toothy dishrag of a person, ever will.
Look at this pinched doofus. This is where one encounters the impulse to make a joke at the expense of the British people, for the fact that this World Studies 201-teacher-lookin'-ass doofus eventually will be the king of their nominal empire—Behold, it is I, Soggy Bread Dad, Lord of the Realm—but that isn't even true. The United Kingdom doesn't have a king, or a queen, or a duke or a duchess, or any of that shit. Those titles imply actual job responsibilities, or at least authority; the British royal family has none of either. The "monarch" of the United Kingdom will never perform any official function more gravid or essential to the realm than inducting a succession of wheezing Boomer guitarists and sketch comedians into empty, fictional knighthood.
Ryan Seacrest's job is no less important than that. The pay's pretty good, though! British taxpayers paid this family of unqualified do-nothings $51 million in 2012-13. What the United Kingdom has, when you strip away the pageantry and bullshit, is a monumentally stupid public-assistance program. Veggie Pot Pie Uncle over there is a Welfare King. He paired that shirt with those pants, on tax dollars! That is malfeasance. That is a violation of public trust.
Listen. America is a silly place mostly full of stupid people. Even so, it is beneath even the patchwork dignity of free morons to indulge the delusional fantasies of these LARPing British tourists, merely because the island cargo cult that gave the world "spotted dick" insists on pretending they are persons of substance. Stop tittering over Bill Louis and his graham cracker wife. Thank you.
Photos via Getty