But I for one cannot keep my mouth shut. The beast of royalty has come alive in me, like a sleeping dragon roused from its torpor, and now I cannot stop. "I read the memoir of Prince Charles' butler, and among other things he wrote that one night at 11:30, his boss telephoned him to get out of bed, get dressed and come immediately to the palace to help take care of an emergency."
"And the emergency was...", says Carl.
"Charles had mistakenly tossed a note written to him on a piece of paper by his mother, the Queen, into the waste paper basket, and he wanted his servant to come over and fish it out for him immediately."
"Did he have back problems?" asks Jeffrey.
"iIimagine that his butler might have after having to bend over and pull the note out of the garbage can", says George.
"I wonder if he has servants who wipe his ass for him every time he takes a dump", says Carl.
And here I am reminded of a particularly disturbing scene from a TV miniseries I saw with my dad about King Henry VIII, played by an actor way too slim and good looking, where he was naked and masturbating in front of a male servant kneeling before him ready to catch his spunk in a towel or a bowl, and all his courtiers standing by the door watching. This is really too gross to tell anyone right now, plus I do not wish to further encourage Carl, or George, who is clearly his match, much less offend Francois. I do recall that during that scene, my father decided it was time to go to the kitchen to get us some cheese and crackers for snacks...
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