That’s all there is, really. I’m arriving in London on Wednesday, and I’ll be there for about six months, so I’ve got enough time to figure out a plan, I think.
See, they’re corgis, and I like corgis. They’re cute and attentive looking, and they’re just like normal-sized dogs, only their legs obviously got Shrink-Rayed. So they’re perfect dogs for stealing. I saw a guy walking one once, and I barely restrained myself from pulling over, grabbing the pooch, unclipping his leash, and just running, running away, dog tucked under my arm like a football. Only, a little football with four teeny little legs waving in the breeze. We’d go and live in HappyLand together, the corgi and I.
You may ask, “Yes, but why steal the queen’s? Why not simply obtain your own in a more legal manner?” You may also ask, “Are you perhaps running a fever? Have you hit your head recently?” If you ask the second, I say: Bah, to you! I blow my nose in your general direction. But if you ask the first, let me explain: Why not?
Why settle for a normal corgi, when I could steal the queen’s? Perhaps it’s an issue of ancient retribution: I’ve been in Ireland for the past two months, my ancestral home, and the bitter taste of British oppression still lingers, and this is my plot for revenge. A pup for a potato, so to speak. Or perhaps it’s simply the allure of a fabulously pampered lifestyle. In high school I knew some of the girls in my class got swoony over one of the younger princes. I always thought that was ridiculous, all he has going for him is his grandmother, and for most guys, if the best thing about him is his grandmother, that’s hardly a swoon-producer. But I think I might understand now, the thirst for royalty. It is alluring, I freely admit, a great temptation.
Watch the news, my friends. For someday, the queen’s corgis shall be mine.
note: I do not actually plan on breaking any British laws, nor do I encourage anyone else to do so.
