Don't Do It, Chuck

On my sixth birthday, my mother gave me a sparkling “diamond” tiara, and man did I look hot. So hot, in fact, I decided right then and there to be Queen of England when I grew up.

But when I made the announcement over birthday cake and ice cream, Mommy solemnly took me aside to explain how I was already screwed.

My six-year-old ears couldn’t believe what they were hearing. How could one of life’s avenues already be a dead end just because I’d had the lousy luck to be born outside the Windsor family?

“But, my crown looks so beautiful,” I’d whined peevishly. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

“Miss America wears a crown,” my mother suggested.

Not good enough. Your rein only lasts a year, and there’s all that stupid waving involved.

Later, as I grew older, I realized that while queen was probably out, princess was still available. Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Prince Charles is no Prince Charming, and he’s often seen wearing skirts in that horrible plaid pattern. Still, I couldn’t afford to be picky. Then came that devastating day when he tromped all over my dream by announcing his engagement to that skank, Diana. Once again, a roadblock.

I don’t have to tell you what happened to that storybook romance. Obviously, Charles made the wrong choice. And, dammit, history’s about to repeat. Come on, Chuck…Camilla Parker Bowles? When I’ve been saving myself all these years?

Think of it, hon. I don’t come with all that messy baggage and murky past—unlike Camilla. I can get married in a church--unlike Camilla. I could be a cool stepmom to the kids--unlike Camilla.

And, I’d look so damned hot in that crown.