Royalty

Hear ye, hear ye! The Royal Babboo has been birthed. Or so the news people have been harping today. With all the hype surrounding this baby, His Royal Tiny-ness had better come floating out of that hospital on gossamer wings. And his poop had better glitter like gold.

The royal family is excited and proud. They’re proud because Catherine, Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cambridge, has accomplished something today that only about 360,000 other women were able to do today: have a baby. And it’s a healthy baby. Though I don’t know the parents, I’m glad it’s a healthy baby. But I feel a little bad for those other 360,000 women. Most of them have never even seen a doctor, much less have one deliver their babies.

What makes this kid different from you and me? Answer: he’s royalty. You might ask, exactly what does being royalty mean? I’m glad you asked. I’m here to answer those questions. Royalty is just a word that means you’re very special. You might also ask, how does one get to be royalty? Answer: your parents have to be royalty. And how did they get to be royalty? Answer: their parents had to be royalty. And so on back in time. It’s like an infinite regression. Where did it begin? No one knows. But I hope we all remember what Aristotle said about infinite regresses. (If you don’t remember, you can stop at this point and read Posterior Analytics. I’ll wait.)

It goes without saying that in America, real people have no interest in the Royal Babboo. It’s the news media that love the story. Hollywood celebs probably love the story, too, though I haven’t discussed it with actual celebs. It just seems, to me, to be the kind of thing celebs would love. Especially female celebs. Come to think of it, it’s been female journalists who have been harping on this baby story all day. I wonder if being female has something to do with loving babies. There might be a connection.

But back to the Royal Babboo. Poor kid: he, through no fault of his own, comes into the world as a future king. That means his entire working life will consist of attending ribbon-cutting ceremonies at schools, factories, supermarkets and shopping malls, giving speeches to the clueless multitude, wearing his Sunday clothes every day of the week, and going around speaking as if what he is saying is actually important – and pretending people really want to hear it.

But it’s not all bad. When he grows up he gets a nice house, rent-free, and all the jewels he can fit into his crown.