|
Dear Your Princeship,
Howdy from your 9th cousin twice removed! You and me have never met, but we have tons in common. Namely, we both lucked out with the royal birth thing, and we both have stuck-up, kinda faggy fathers who ruined our 20's (and my 30's) by nagging us to stop swilling hooch and pounding cooch. So you see, I feel sorta close to you.
Can we talk blueblood to blueblood? I hear you're shipping off to Iraq with a phalanx of British Special Forces to watch over you. On one hand, I respect your lust for a history-making photo-op, all the while endangering your comrades who'll be more concerned with your inbred ass getting fragged than any hopelessly impossible missions they might have. But on the other hand, I prefer it when I don't need to worry about the anonymous disposable losers who fight and die in my personal war of revenge.
So please, get with the program and BEG your daddy to pull strings to score you a nice, safe gig at home – defending vulnerable kegs of Bass Ale from creepy carpet-kissers. And do it NOW, because it would be a real bummer for ME if I have to feel even a few seconds of guilt over you getting blown into little limey meatballs, or coming home as Prince Gimpy CrispyStumps.
Thanks, and remember, it's not like you and me are those twats who actually sign up for military service in order to protect their country. Only the little people have to prove they've got any stones.
Your Bud Cousin,
|