You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
The microscopic dissection of the Royal Wedding.
It’s being ogled like a Beverly Hills wife browses the glass jewelry counter at Tiffany’s.
Kate and William are germs in a global Petri Dish. Cameras from the BBC to the Hubble Space Telescope are focused on their Royal Hotness.
Kate and William are constantly on display, constantly being analyzed, constantly being documented. They are honey to starving black bears in Yellowstone. The papparazi can’t get enough of this syrupy goo on their big paparazzi claw.
Case in point: It’s Saturday morning and NBC News is leading their morning newscast with the Royals.
If Brad and Angelina are “Brangelina” then I would argue that Kate and William should be called “Killiam.”
So I’m watching Saturday morning and I see a clock with numbers spinning backward counting down to the royal wedding.
This is odd, I think to myself. Radiation is spewing into the atmosphere in Japan. The West Coast is hunkering down with lead umbrellas. Body bags could be floating up on the beaches of Hawaii. Gadhafi is giving the entire planet the middle finger as a no fly zone RPG fire storm is lighting up the North African night.
And here I am staring into the Halloween trick or treat like graphics of a Royal Wedding countdown clock.
I am dismayed by NBC’s choice of lead story.
I’d rather watch back to back commercials of the Old Spice Guy telling my woman to leave me and come to him.
Obviously someone outside of my sphere of influence cares about Killiam because this is the lead story and they are going to shove it down my throat like a heaping spoonful of news medicine.
In case you are wondering, the Royal Countdown clock lets me know there are only 41 days left till the big day.
I find myself wanting to throw a shoe at the screen.
Before I can get up and find a shoe, Lester Holt tosses to the live shot at Buckingham Palace. It’s there that some British Schmuck with a goofy smile and spray starched hair is waxing poetic about the splendor and grandeur of the pending nuptials. Then the speculation and prolixity begins.
“You can feel the excitement,” the man says.
I am watching the screen and the grumble in my stomach is not exactly excitement. It feels more like disbelief with a spoonful of anger.
The Schmuck doesn’t care about my gastric tirade as he continues.
“Prince William is in Australia and Kate is back home, but soon this will be the kind of trip they take together as royal ambassadors.”
Who cares? WTF? Why are they showing me this?
The British Schmuck continues telling me that Killiam was spotted leaving a restaurant.
I patiently wait for the Breaking News Graphic:
ROYAL COUPLE EATS!
“Perhaps they were planning their big day,” He daydreams aloud like only a wedding planner can.
Yeah maybe they were planning the big event. Or maybe they were planning a nooner in the Queen’s quarter’s while she’s out waving on the balcony. Since we’re guessing, I guess it could be anything huh?
The camera then shows me a close up of William’s foot ware coming out of the restaurant.
BREAKING NEWS:
Prince William wears sneakers.
The reporter goes on and on about how William is wearing tennis shoes and blah blah blah.
What about the Royal Bunion? I think to myself.
I pick up another shoe and throw it at the screen.
“AAARRRGGGHHH!!!”
Then the story shifts to a clip at Westminster Abby where the Royal couple will be married.
“Make no mistakes,” the clergyman tells the reporter, “tension is building. It is exciting.”
Tension? Really? You think the victims of Japan feel the urgency the priest feels? You think soldiers hunkered down on a cliff in Afghanistan are feeling royal tension? Get real Schmuck.
For whatever reason, this news report is really bugging me.
Maybe I haven’t consumed enough caffeine. Maybe I am too cynical? Maybe this segment sucks and it doesn’t belong in the A block as the lead story on the national news?
The inane story continues with visuals of Royal coins being minted. The special commemorative silver has the faces of Kate and William, but they are hideous. The reporter doesn’t mention how distorted and ugly the engravings are, but they clearly are heinous. The coins look like they were drawn by an orangutan using a fun house mirror. Killiam’s face looks bloated as if they are carrying excess water weight and lots of stress.
If this was “Jolly ole England” whoever crafted these coins would have his head severed in a basket as part of a Royal Wedding Beheading.
“Here Ye Here Ye. Come get your souvenir coins.”
Before I can laugh out loud and throw a third shoe, the report shows me a picture of the unofficial Royal dolls.
These can’t possibly be sanctioned by Buckingham Palace, I muse to myself. The dolls are made out of dyed straw. They are are reportedly figures of William and Kate, but the hunk of wild grass husks look more like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Hound. Killiam looks like a lump of hay that horses would eat.
“HERE YE HERE YE. COME OUT FOR THE 2ND OFFICIAL ROYAL BEHEADING TODAY AT 2PM”
I halfway expect to see a Haitian Witch Doctor start sticking pins in these Voo Doo dolls of Royal evil.
“Ouch,” the future queen will reportedly say somewhere in a bridal boutique in London’s fashionable shopping district.
While my mind spins on the possibilities of a Royal Island curse, the segment dissolves to a special ale at the local taverns. One in particular is called Kiss me Kate. It is billed as a hearty beer with a hint of anorexia.
YUMMY! tastes as good coming up as it does going down.
Finally this two minute fluff piece ends.
Thank God, i think to myself. Maybe now I will find out how many people are glowing in Northern Japan.
Nope.
Here comes another onslaught of Royal nonsense.
A second reporter, this guy even more saccharin than the first schmuck.
At least the first scmuck told me something. This guy is mailing it in. Something about a “see through” dress that Kate wore in a fashion show that first captured Prince William’s fancy.
“Someone get me a shoe!” I scream from the couch in disgust.
“The see through dress just sold for 100,000 dollars,” the guys says. “This dress, though sheer has touched the skin of the future queen of England,” he says, his tongue falling out of his mouth.
Well la dee dah!
“It’s the ultimate reality tv show,” he adds with enthusiasm normally reserved for a man who enjoys wearing a dickie.
I have run out of shoes. I have no option but to stare, like glazed pablum at the screen.
On and on and on the Royal nothingness continues.
I can only think that somewhere a reactor is poised to belch nuclear evil into the atmosphere. Japan is on the precipice of a post apocalpyptic death scape and I’m looking at Killiam’s wedding route.
The countdown clock continues to spin. 40 days 17 hours 22 minutes 17 seconds.
I feel ashamed for NBC as I watch this, but then I think to myself, how much negativity can they broadcast? You can only mainline so much disaster before your stomach turns into calloused goo. Maybe a dose of William and his eating disorder princess is what the world needs to take their minds off children consuming iodine pills and search crews going house to muddy dilipidated house.
I guess that is why the NCAA basketball tournament is such a relief. Kids making three pointers at the buzzer is easier to digest than an old couple crying in the destroyed archway of their home.
I have no more shoes to throw at the screen. Soon Killiam will be married and the scrutinization will subside. Finally the story of the follicly challenged prince and his bag of flesh princess will be over.
Then all that will remain is the half life of an attrocity that is not going away any time soon.
and that is royally crazy.