Now ideally, I’d have waited to speak until something more eloquent, more fitting of a Lord than, “Well, shit,” had come to mind, but in the interest of full disclosure, I must concede: I’ve a terrible dust allergy, you see, and uttered the very first words that entered my head so as to overpower the growing sneeze I felt approaching. Can you imagine?
“Thank you. Now where was I? Oh, right! Everybody’s fucking dead in what looks to be a massive, orgiastic blood bath! Oh man, did she gets the tits chopped off of her or—no, wait, that’s a man. How are you then, dear survivors of this batshit crazy massacre? By the way, now that everybody’s dead, I hereby declare myself as the undisputed sovereign ruler of your fair and primitive country. Now, who’s up for a game of cricket then?”
So you can see why “Well, shit,” was my preferred opener. When the left with the choice of coming off as an insensitive fascist bastard or just “kind of a prick,” I’m partial towards the latter option (and you would not believe how many times I’ve been faced with that decision. Trust me —kind of a prick is much the preferred path).
But really, if you look at the whole situation from a detached, objective point of view, it’s all rather hilarious. I’m serious. Think about it. Arrogant bastard prince (not literal bastard, mind you) of a neighboring country, one whose Daddy issues even have Daddy issues, shows up to conquer new land in the name of dear old Dad and finally prove himself to be a man and not something Daddy should have left on the toilet seat or Mommy’s back, and what happens? The whole damn royal court took care of the hard part and slaughtered each other, only moments before he arrives! Well that was easy then, wasn’t it? Especially since, if history is any indicator, my fighting prowess is about the equivalent of a limp dick on steroids— it might feel huge and manly, but at the end of the night, it’s still a limp dick. Not my limp dick, of course, but you get the idea.
And the most bitter irony? I never wanted to be any King at all. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d have never even come here in the first place. It smells awful, and everyone speaks with a wretched accent not unlike a retarded Russian child trying to speak Polish. No offense to the retarded Russian children, of course. Or you. It’s just that of all that lands that one could conquer, of all the places to claim in the name of your father, or any Father, Denmark would fail to rank on anybody’s Desert Island All-Time Top 5 Countries to Conquer, which, of course, people do often compose such lists and I of course have read most of these compositions.