Blue blood

                                                                                                                                  

 I didn’t get up at 4 a.m. the other day to watch the royal wedding from across the pond.  I’ll take that back. I did get up about that time for a pressing problem, but it had nothing to do with the wedding, and I did go back to sleep. There was a time in my life, and not too long ago, when I didn’t pay much attention to Royal Families. I figured they put their knickers on just like I did—one leg at a time.  But this week has opened my eyes to something, I think, that bares attention. I say this, after watching the excitement that came out of this event, in both the British Isles and here at home.

Maybe that’s what we need to feel good about our country and ourselves—a royal family that seems to be above reproach. Goodness knows we have our elected leaders, our sports figures and movie stars to dote on—but they will never suffice. Sooner, or later, they will disgrace themselves and leave office, or rent a boat and some hookers, or get in a bar fight, or act like Charlie Sheen. We can’t have that—we need someone squeaky clean, who stays that way, and has nothing to do with politics.

Let’s do this. Let’s find some old mansion somewhere, someplace, maybe a fixer-upper and let’s make it into a palace. The Governor’s mansion in St. Paul comes to mind. Most of our governors won’t live there anyway, and Governor Dayton already has some houses. Let’s find us a king and queen and proclaim them blue blood. Hey, I’m going to go it alone on this one and suggest Joe Mauer. The job would be a lot easier on Joe’s legs than squatting in the dirt at Target Field—and everybody loves Joe—right?  Joe can pick his own queen but maybe we could get him a glass slipper to fill or something like that. She doesn’t need to be a “10” for cripes sake. Look at Queen Elizabeth. I know....I know....she’s an octogenarian so cut her a little slack. But truth be told, she was no knockout even back in her courting days. Her husband married for the money and everybody knows that. OH, and by the way, if King Joe does find himself a babe. Let’s knock off that curtsy crap. That’s just pathetic.

 I know the Twins are paying Joe big bucks, but hey, Jim Pohlad, let’s take one for the Gipper on this. It’s our country we’re talking about here, right? Let’s pony up for this and forget next fall’s election contributions. Hey, it’s a great tax write-off, too. Joe to be fair how about a little cut in pay. You’ll sell more ice cream as King anyway. How about a trade? Bert will come back and pitch again, if Gardy promises not to yank him after ninety pitches, unless it’s still the first inning. Also, we’ll throw in a player, to be named later, and a stack of Minnesota lotto tickets, and dinner at Herbek’s.

 I know it’s late in the game, but even England started someplace, right, and come to think about it, they have a few skeletons in their closet they are overlooking. Cutting off wives heads was not cool. Let’s do this so, someday, some American girl can walk down the isle of a big Cathedral in this country, and be our Princess or Queen, and then I’ll get up at 4 a.m. and get all giddy, too. So chaps, I better bloody well go now.  Cheerio, and all that sort of rot you know.