The Royaliste addresses the topic of Queen Meg’s assault charges.




We must confess we were somewhat amused by the recent kerfuffle over my Thick-Necked Liege’s assault on the impudent Young Mi Kim, back in the halcyon e-Bay days.  And why were we – the Royaliste – so amused?

Because if California’s rubes are shocked by this little fracas, in which the offending party wasn’t even injured, just imagine their reaction if they knew everything about the Queen’s violent temper that we know!  (And aside from this confidential internet “diary,” our lips are sealed.)

Toward the end of her reign at e-Bay, as the payouts for all the broken bones and concussions grew too high for shareholders to countenance, my Queen was kept chained in a concrete pit for the safety of her underlings, and only allowed out in the company of guards armed with tranquilizer guns – O the indignity!  In those days she literally lived for the last Friday of each month, when she was allowed to wrestle a bear into senselessness for the staff’s entertainment.  But it was only a matter of time before she recovered her wounded dignity, and left the company.


It’s obvious that these vulgar American colonists, as they approach the end of their failed 200-year-plus experiment in self-rule, have utterly forgotten the entire concept of the Divine Right of Kings and Queens.  And more than that, their image of female royalty seems to come from legends of effete, delicate waifs a la Marie Antoinette.  With Queen Meg they are in for a rude awakening!  Bursting with animal vitality, perpetually a hair’s-breadth away from an explosion of violent fury, and reared from infancy on vats of beef pudding and ale, Her Highness is on a constant quest to prove her physical prowess against any who may accidentally cross her.

In recent years she had seemed to have mellowed somewhat with age, but the hecticness and pressure of this gubernatorial campaign have brought back the old Pugilist Queen in spades.  Just yesterday – don’t tell a soul! – it took six of us AND a taser to pull her off of Princess Carly (who had made some catty, insolent remark about Her Majesty’s hairstyle.)

But even tasers couldn’t get Queen Meg to release her headlock on Steve Poizner during that last debate, when the little rodent had the audacity to question her conservative bona fides.  That time, it took waiting until her next feeding, when ravenous hunger finally overtook her regal rage, and she could be lured away with the promise of a suckling pig.  (Keeping that incident under wraps has been easily the greatest expense of this record-breakingly extravagant campaign.)

Even we, her loyal servants, quake in love and terror as we toil in her campaign office, ears peeled for the unmistakable “THUMP-THUMP-THUMP” of her striding from the parking lot.  Chatter ceases, faces lean in to computer screens and fingers fly, as each of us silently prays not to be the one to be made an example of today.

We look toward the future, when our Thick-Necked Liege will be distracted by bigger and worthier targets than us.  The future when, after demolishing Jerry Brown (that flatterer of the mobs) she will turn her sights to arm-wrestling the California legislature into submission;  kneecapping whatever so-called “social safety net” the state still has left;  snapping the bones of the Golden State’s remaining progressive tax code and environmental protections; stomping the entire public school system into a pulp;  and generally laying the groundwork for an Era of Unfettered Privilege where we can flourish as courtiers while studiously evading Queen Meg’s mercurial wrath!

Previously in the Royaliste / Queen Meg series:
Queen Meg Feted in Little Saigon
Unpardonable Lèse Majesté: the Anaheim Protests

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