It’s a tough gig being the king. But, as you know, I am the best king, better than the rest of those pretenders to the crown. I spent decades clawing my way to the top with my little hooves and gnarled fangs, smiling and scowling, waving at the rubes and dupes from my bulletproof king mobile. I’m looking so fine, staring down my snout at the peasants. They line up along the roads to wave at me all the way to my professional international pickleball cornhole courses around the world. I’ve never lost a tournament. People tell me, Sir, you just can’t lose, as they bow to kiss my ring. You know we’re having a cage fight coming up soon, right here on the front lawn of my castle. Next to the swamp, you know that’s where we dump the bodies of my disloyal enemies.
I have a good makeup girl. She’s so hot. Only 14. Can you imagine that? Coifs up my hair just right, giving me that crazy halo look. I use Lady Clairol hair dye. That will be our wonderful secret. She’s such a piece of ass. I like them real young virgins. But I jest. Anyway, so this girl, I call her Fluffy, she sprays down my head with this bronze statue paint. Same stuff they used to paint my reflecting lake, where I like to go late at night and stare down at the water, admiring the mirror image of my regal stature. It’s a different color, but you know they can mix any color, right? It’s amazing what they can do with a little paint. Meanwhile, I’m making endless texts and proclamations on my Truth Teller site, telling my loyal followers that everything is going well according to my proclamations.
Did you get my new phone? I got a new phone. They’re gold like me. Made of plastic. Isn’t that right, Marco? He’s my favorite right-hand man because he’s the one who wipes my butt and cleans up the mess that trails behind me like an overloaded garbage truck.
I do it for the people. I believe in being a stern but loving king. Really, I really don’t think about them at all. I’m just trying to save my bloated carcass from jail. You know what I’m saying? Come on, let me show you the latest painting of me with Jesus. Oh, wait a minute, it was me playing Jesus. That’s another painting. You know there are a lot of paintings of me, so it’s hard to keep up with all of them. This one is me as a doctor, or healer, some might say. I’m a doctor. A lot of people don’t know that about me. The son of a man who died and went to heaven. Some call him god, but I’m the only true one around here. But you know I died too, but I came back four years later.
Now I’m here forever. I’m a superhero, a general, a warrior. I’m a supervillain. Imagine that. Fighting to keep my coffers filled with gold. That’s why I love the Golden Arches above my favorite fast food chain. Have you ever tried their fish fillet sandwich? It’s so tasty. I could eat them every day, and I do. Don’t get me wrong, though; I like those quarter pounders with cheese too. Anyway, I’m in great shape, mentally and physically. I took a test and got every question right. I did it four or five times. It’s amazing.
I could be here in my new ballroom bunker eating cheeseburgers, washing them down with Diet Coke, and dancing with myself to a continuous loop of “YMCA” by the Village People. That’s my theme song, as you know. I think that’s why I got a huge gay following. But I sometimes feel like I’m slowly dying. Look at my hands. They’re so rotten, I should wear gloves with all the glad-handing I do all the time. I got diaper rash. Sometimes my ankles swell up bigger than my head.
I show the world who the tough guy is as I meander, waddling through my vast kingdom. I’m bigger than anyone. I’d rather kiss ass than shake all those filthy hands. I’m so loved by the people. You see that every place I go. They say, Sir, your royal highness, we don’t know how you do it. Keeping the peace, stopping wars, annihilating entire civilizations. Moving dirty, ill-gotten wealth away from the prying eyes of my serfdom. Stealing children’s piggy banks. It’s great but not easy being the king.