As you know, I’ve had plans in place for some time now to rescue Kate Middleton from the House of Windsor, specifically, Buckingham Palace and her life of dedication to the crown and Prince Bill. But only after she becomes Queen will she become my queen, as I charge the ramparts with nothing but my trustee steed (’92 Corolla) and my lance (okay, you know what that is) and whisk away her royal hotness to the woods of Sherwood where together we’re dine on spitfire roaster possum and raw sex.
That’s the plan at least. And every time Kate shows up in public looking like she did at the Claridge Hotel last evening in London, her lean hot royal body and regal beagle on display, not to mention a little leg beneath a slit in her dress, well, all the details of the plan, a likely suicide mission, it all just flashes before me eyes like Destiny itself.
Honestly, I’d settle for just an above the knee caress before my beheading. Enjoy.