Apparently my ritual offering of five mugged (imaginary) British grannies yesterday was enough TO BRING ABOUT THE DEMISE OF A QUEEEEEN!!! Muahahaha, let all trrremble at my occult puissance! AaarrooooooOOOoOOOO!
Honestly though, I almost wish I could give a shit, but find myself singing neither Ave Maria nor Ding-Dong the Witch Is Dead. I wasn't exactly waiting for her next novel to be released, or for her to discover cold fusion; conversely, whatever subhuman street thug brains me with a brick won't need her help to do me in. The royal family is an entertainment product (and not a particularly entertaining one at that) a public relations service for British finance, and the best I've routinely heard said about ol' Liz painted her as merely the least embarrassing representative of the European subcontinent's centuries-inbred gaggle of parasitic fops. Are you weeping for her because gran-gran was the last of them you could trust not to shit herself in public?
What knowledge about her deeds made you value her existence in the first place? Did she write your favorite song lyrics, operate on your mother's appendicitis, optimize your car model's catalytic converter, place the concept of habeas corpus into proper historical context, pen startling visions of future dystopias, reduce computer fan power consumption, drew your favorite storybook's illustrations of the labors of Hercules, performed the labors of Hercules herself, can you name anything at all this person did to warrant your attention aside from occupying an enviably destructive social rank?
"Famous for being famous" indeed.
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