Charles Windsor, universally acclaimed to be the most boring listless uninteresting life form to ever come into existence in the history of earth’s animal kingdom, is being crowned king of England today. Charles Windsor makes Joe Biden look like Bill Burr for sheer effervescence.
If you put Charles Windsor into a compound filled with treed koalas….the koalas would suddenly by contrast appear to be a troop of the Cirque du Soleil acrobats in full contorting aerial-performance dynamic gymnastic overload. Charles Windsor could enter an arena of laid-out human corpses and by contrast the corpses would suddenly be transformed in your eyes into a riotous assembly of animated fun-loving-hysteria, and filled-with-enthusiasm dervishes of spinning frivolity, good-naturedly competing with each other for the most histrionic display of life and frolic.
Abandoned piles of bricks at a failed construction site in a desolate stretch of a Utah desert would suddenly appear to be dazzling electrified rectangles of light and bouncing wizardry of choreography should Charles Windsor have happened to listlessly and cadaverously slog onto the site.
If Charles Windsor was to be a spokesman for the ASPCA in one of their ads, walking with a microphone through the forlorn yards and compounds in the snow where the dogs sadly gaze with hopeless eyes and quivering in emaciated stupefied shell shock….in your eyes, in abrupt contrast to Charles The Listless, they would suddenly appear to be alert, enthusiastic border collies anxious to be whirlingly dashing through the freezing frost in anticipation of another day with the herds, sitting up smartly, tongues visible, grins on their faces and excited about life and delighted with their fate of good fortune. This would be an illusion of course, in reality all the caged unfortunate pets would drop immediately dead with despair at his approach at an entity more misery-laden than they are.
Prince Charles’ leaden personal animus of course is not even his worst feature. His conversation and things he chooses to actually say compete mightily with his brooding inconsequential dormant waking, non-talking hours. He has absolutely nothing interesting, on any topic, to say ever. And he does not know many topics.
He could enter a cage of starved lions, talking all the while about global warming or the plight of some forgotten tribe on an island off the dark side of the moon that he confesses he is relentlessly concerned about and the lions would not know he was meandering about and droning in their presence.
He can talk into a reporter’s microphone for three minutes and in that time the microphone will visibly turn to rust and start to decay. His fields of interest are basically: reprehensibly homely women and the magical effect they apparently have on his penis: global fucking goddamn motherfucking warming, which concern, that is, you having it, more or less spotlights you with a 5 million watt bulb that indicates to all that you have the analytical faculties and critical-thinking capacities of a bar of bath soap; that fairness be manifest throughout all humanity and which can be easily achieved through love and understanding; the catastrophic menace presented by not obeying the World Health Organization; and the sad and unfortunate plight of all mankind unless we all slow our lives down to a pace that he can personally not be confused and bewildered by. Which would be “more inert than the empty sarcophagus in the center of the Great Pyramid” and his appreciation of the majesty and benign nature of the wondrously fraternal Islamic religion and the wondrous contributions Islam has given to the world via art, tolerance of non-members, the placing of their women and children on pedestals of respect and honor and the insightful wisdom of their solitary volume of reading material. And the list of his similarly vivacious topics for discussion would fill a fifty gallon bin that no one would want to look in, because there would be nothing interesting in there.
This inert human pillar of salt is now the king of England. Not only is the sun setting on the British Empire, the new and present king, like Kanuk impeding the tides, is convinced he can halt this treasonous stellar entity’s proclaimed-by-King-Charles advancing ravages upon Earth’s sky, sea, and land masses. Which is also what Greta Thunberg thinks SHE can do. Why he’s with Lady Duncemore and not Greta Thunberg, no doubt already Dame Greta Thunberg, is a revelation that he will likely, in a mighty and regally appropriate flash of insight, rectify. Probably sometime soon. Given his present track record for insightful proclamations and decision-making.
–J.J. Solari
