The Sting Of Rejection

Well, the official invitation and seating list for Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding has come out and, once again, I am not on that list. Sure, David Beckham and his wife, what’s her name, are on the list. They’re always on the list. They’re on every list. I don’t know why. She wears giant, bug-eyed sunglasses while drinking Midori sours all day long while he gets paid millions of dollars to not win soccer championships. I have a trophy for the 1986 Utah state breakdancing championship under my house. He’s never showed me a soccer trophy once. Also invited is, surprise,, surprise, Elton John. Wow. I guess they decided to keep it pretty orthodox by inviting the usual stale celebrity crowd that shows up to just about any event they get invited to just to get their faces splashed all over the gossip pages. They have also personally insulted me by adding Mr. Bean to the list of invitees. Charles knows that Mr. Bean and I have had a very unpleasant and awkward friendship after I told him that he was the weak link in the film Rat Race and that perhaps he should take up re-shingling old roofs as an alternative career. Both Chuck and Mr. Bean cannot take constructive criticism like they claim they can.

This is the second time in my life that the Royal Family has overlooked my presence at one of their silly weddings. The first time, of course, being Chuck’s wedding to Princess Diana. I was only ten at the time, but I still haven’t forgotten the sting of rejection. As I watched that catastrophe unfold on TV I couldn’t help but to think that I had told Beezus (Diana loved that name and all her closest friends called her that. She actually hated it when people called her Di.) only weeks prior that marrying this stiff, floppy eared member of a family that has lived off of the charity of British citizens for centuries was a huge mistake. Beezus didn’t listen to me because she was head over heels in love with this royal buffoon, so I just let it be. She was an adult and she knew what she was doing and I didn’t want to meddle on her special day.

For the record, I was also not invited to Fergie and Andrew’s wedding but I don’t really count that as an oversight on their part because I knew that that marriage wouldn’t last at all due to Andrew’s addiction to hardcore pornography and Fergie’s obsession with metal detecting. I simply didn’t want to be involved in that matrimonial blunder in any way, shape or form.

I was told by sources close to the event that if I had been invited I would have been sitting in the section right behind Queen Liz’s seat. Honestly, if I had been forced to sit behind that giant derby hat that she always wears, blocking my view of everything, I would probably vomit all over their 17th century carpet so it is probably best that I wasn’t invited.

I also heard, through some confidential informants, that they have also invited a herd of African elephants, the ghost of Jack LaLanne and the remaining members of the Wu Tang Clan. From the looks of what I’ve seen so far it seems that they are intentionally designing their guest list to resemble a gigantic slap in my face. Just about every invitee has some personal grudge towards me and I imagine have gotten to Chuck and Bill’s ear before I had a chance to plead my case. Well, Jack LaLanne and his fancy aerobic underoos can just kiss my behind.

My gift to the newlyweds was going to be a karaoke version of Once Bitten, Twice Shy by the rock ‘n’ roll band Great White, Kathy’s and Bill’s favorite song. I just know that they are going to play that song for their first dance and I wanted to be the one to sing it. Well, thanks to some sneaky assistants I’ve been cut out of the loop and it will probably now be Harry singing his version, which is pretty pathetic. Believe me, I’ve heard him sing it at Bill’s bachelor party. He just can’t hit the high notes like I can. I was also going to present them with coupons for a free taco dinner at our house whenever they were in town. I make pretty good tacos. It’s a very simple recipe; ground turkey with onions, Anaheim chiles, green chiles, and tomato sauce. They’re absolutely fantastic. I made them once when I was visiting Billy and Kathy at Balmoral Castle in Scotland. The whole family went absolutely berserk over these tacos. Kathy wanted to open a restaurant in Glasgow immediately and sell tacos to Scottish people. I was grateful, but I remained level-headed and reminded her that tacos just can’t be thrust into the face of any culture. They have to be coaxed and eased and nudged into their national palette. People that have been eating haggis for their entire history usually aren’t very receptive to new food stuffs. I suggested that perhaps a couple of pop-up taco restaurants in the foothills of the Scottish Highlands would be a good way in and she agreed. Well, I hope Kathy and Bill enjoyed them because I don’t think I’ll be making the Royal Family tacos any time soon.

Well, once again I guess I’ll have to watch the royal debacle from the comfort of my own home, wearing my giant derby hat while sipping on Midori sours all day. I’m not one to hold grudges, but in this case I feel that the guest list, the seating chart, in fact, the entire wedding altogether is probably their way of politely telling me to stay away from Buckingham Palace, London and Great Britain altogether. I know when I’m not welcome. I just wish that the Royal Family would be honest enough to tell me to my face and not have to go through this façade just to send me a message. Well Chuck and Liz and Bill and Kathy; message received. I hope you both have a lovely wedding and I hope Elton John and Paul Potts and Susan Boyle don’t screw up on their version of God Save The Queen like they did at her birthday last year. I felt supremely embarrassed for all three of them. My version would have brought the house down.