The Queen is Dead / Meat is Murder

 
The Queen, as in Elizabeth whatever her number, is apparently un-touchable. However, if one should be so lucky that she extend her hand in a friendly gesture, one is expected to take it, but not shake it hard...as obviously she is made of some kind of rare porcelain. Or just flabby, unstable gelatinous head cheese-type mass. In which case, one should always wear gloves when meeting The Queen, is what I propose. But onward o' Defender of the Faith carrying your lousy handbag and your bloody Yorkshires. The Pope and the Vatican say so. Well?

Imagine the collective, flatulence-like gasp released from her loyal subjects yesterday when Michelle Obama commited the unforgivable faux pas of lightly tapping Lizzy's back, in response to The Queen's own amicable tactile act before the world. Hey man, the monarch started it! The press went crazy. 10 Downing Street sent out no less than 4 Tweets on this monstruous infraction. Hundreds of years of protocol were violated in the span of maybe 2 seconds. The Queen herself seemed taken by surprise, and even retreated physically from this abominable act of...human contact.

Blogger, please!

You and I know fully well what was going through the old hag's mind. We don't need to go there. The Monarchy is one of the most racist institutions this side of the Klan, despite its philanthropic work and "modern" facade. These maggots have been brainwashed for centuries into thinking they're some sort of divine entities. I mean, seriously...are you not a laughable swine if you expect, no...demand a curtsy from your loyal subjects? What century are we in? That pre- and post-match shit that goes down on Centre Court at Wimbledon every June drives me insane. Bow before the Royal Box my white, pimply arse. I got yer Royal Box right here, eh? Right here, gagootz!

Dear readers, do you see what this subject reduces me to? Bad Joisey impressions are the sign of the Apocalypse and a last resort for a lousy, struggling writer. Next thing I'll be axing you which exit you live at.

And that's it. You know when you publish sentences ending with dangling modifiers it's time to quit the biz and head down to the pub for a few refreshing pints.