Queen Briana was used to getting her way. From the moment her little nine year old feet slowly walked down the aisle to meet her husband, the now King Harold, her life had been a storybook. The world was there for her to use, to command, to obtain and right now what she wanted more than anything else was to meet the little boy talking with the delightful black woman on the screen. Queen Briana hollered for her royal assistant, Fred and told him to set up a meeting at once.
At this point my life was one big tornado, spinning wildly and seemingly haphazardly all over, never settling down on one particular place. I had grown accustomed to hotel living and my state assigned handler, Ma Pritchett. She was not the most loving of woman, or perhaps I never gave her the opportunity, due to the rather thick mustache above her lip. She was a slim three hundred ninety pounds (closer to four hundred if the monthly cardinal had come to pay her a visit) and always wore her hair in the tightest of buns. Tight to the point where her skin resembled more of a tarp than a face. I’d love to give you more details about her, or describe loving or funny stories about her. Maybe regal you with an adventure we had together, or how we started off hating each other before realizing how much we actually loved each other. I would love to pass along a snippet of dialogue which would boil down our entire relationship into something you could put on a t-shirt, or spell out on the refrigerator with magnets. Unfortunately I can’t, because Fred called.
I was backstage at Oprah’s, sipping on a Yoo-Hoo when Ma Pritchett paced furiously towards my chair. Before I could put on a questioning expression, she was taking my hand and walking me towards the door. As we left the studio, she calmly explained to me that Queen Briana of Denmark had summoned me and we were boarding the next flight to Denmark. My appearance on Captain Kangaroo would have to be rescheduled.
Fifteen hours later we touched down at Arhus International Airport where a crowd of sixteen screaming Denmarkians screamed my name. We walked down the runway as I could hear all sixteen loyal subjects of the King and Queen thanking me for visiting their country, and how they would never use their children as furniture unless I said it was ok. Of course they were saying all these things in Denmarkese, and I could barely speak English. So I did what anyone does when they encounter someone they can barely understand. Lots of “ya’s” and “ah ha’s” and smiling. When it doubt, give them a smile and everything else would work itself out.
We took the royal helicopter to the palace where the Denmark Army, all one hundred and twenty of them stood at rapt attention as I strode past them. Ma Pritchett was apparently a soldier in a previous life, because her nipples stood at rapt attention as well. Of course I didn’t realize then what that meant, and just thinking about it now makes me nauseous. But since this is the story of my life and not a fat woman’ erect nipples we won’t concentrate any further on them.
I was instructed that when I met the King and Queen that I was to bow, and then kiss their index finger, twirling my tongue counter clockwise. To do anything else could cause a national problem, or worse – an international incident. At the same time I was a soon to be seven year old boy who was overwhelmed with images and completely forgot my instructions. Following the lead of my handler, I bowed and then kissed both the King and Queen’s index finger, twirling my tongue properly counter clockwise. As I finished the obedient ritual, I heard the crowd roar. The Princess had come out to greet me and time seemed to stand still. Gallantly, she walked across the stage set up for the people and my eyes nearly fell from my head. She had long flowing blonde hair down to her hips, with a simple part down the middle. Her blue eyes reminded me of the Gulf of Mexico on a clear day in March, while her cheeks displayed the slightest hint of rouge. Her lips seemed to beckon me, as well as her svelte body. (Although I’d have no clue what to do with either if they indeed had) The world regarded the twenty two year old princess as the ultimate fantasy, for my soon to be seven year old eyes she was a religious experience. Her sky blue dress trailed off behind her and she grew closer and closer to me. In an almost panic I walked towards her and without thinking I bowed, then kissed her index finger, twirling my tongue clockwise!
Gasps of shock and horror came from the crowd, the army, Ma Pritchett and the royal court. The Princess stood there, mouth open while staring at my tongue as it slowly made its way around her finger. I looked up at her and before I could say hello a brigade of trumpets let loose with some official sounding notes. Queen Briana strode forward and made a motion towards Fred, the royal assistant. He nodded his head and I felt an arm slide around my waist, pick me up and carry me off. Fear came over me like cows in the winter and I yelled for Ma Pritchett but before she could answer my cry a shot rang out. For the second time in my life I saw a dead body, and for the same price witnessed my first homicide. The tears fell from my eyes like embarrassing little daggers and I turned my head when the Queen grabbed my face between her thin, pencil like fingers. Her eyes were steel and she paused to let the moment sink in. Then, in the calmest of voices she spoke to me. Her words were curt and without emotion:
Når du fer fastsættelse min datter du sikret to ting. Den første var nogen skulle dø. Den anden var du var nu engageret til Princess.
Then she nodded at Fred and he translated for my benefit:
When I tongued down her daughter I guaranteed two things:
The first was someone had to die.
(Since I hadn’t introduced anyone else to the narrative it had to be Ma Pritchet)
The second was I was now engaged to the Princess.