The big day has finally arrived. I want to take this last opportunity to chastise all of you who pretended not to care, who pretended to be above it all; all of you who blogged so cynically, and some of you who thought not blogging at all about the wedding would prove you were unconcerned.
You know who you are.
As for me, the sight of the tent people camping out on the sidewalk outside Westminster Abbey, the excitement of the souvenir coffee mug vendors, the thought of catching a glimpse of the awesome carriages, or of the royal couple, or... of Sir Elton John himself, for that matter, sends chills up my quadruped spine, and I don't mind admitting it.
I have learned so much these past few weeks. Not just how to curtsey, but of the hidden value of the monarchy itself, value many of you scoffroyals will never understand. But I, A LOWLY AMERICAN, have grasped the significance of this event and of the long grey line of the succession. If I may say.
So, His Princeliness is marrying a commoner. Never been done before, they say. Marrying out of his own class, they say. Out of his own class? Hell, some say his father recently married out of his own species, fer crissakes. But Kate's a thoroughbred, make no mistake, laddie.
I pray you will come to your collective senses before it is too late.
And to the newlyweds, I say cheers. Godspeed. May you live a hundred years and my you reign a hundred more.
And may I live to see your successor.