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Checklist of the Parasites of Fishes of Latvia

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Category Archives: Brits

The Earl of Hatton exits

Ooooooh, good-day to yewe, dear commoners of the Realm! I did have a fantastic time in this ride up Merryfanny Road; thank you for being so considerate. Allow me to impart my family lineage to Royal-watchers such as yourself:

I am the third Earl of Hatton, Duke of Capstown, Viscount of Sweatband, Lord Whatsit of Dometopper and prefect of the Third Huzzah Cavalry, Hat and Kilt Regiment. I have fought in many wars and survived many hardships, including the heat-induced glistening of Lady Beatrice’s scalp on Armistice Day 1997. I once rode atop Lady Churchill during a military procession. I’ll always remember her stench: Leicester cheese and pickled turnips.

Today is an especially grand day because I am meeting Duchess Warmbottom’s hat, the Fourth Lid of Lancashire. We have had such smashing times sitting atop our mistresses’ mazzards, under the verandas of country estates from Wigglesmere to Thithitheton. Oh those were the salad days. A funny story: Lady Runnycheese’s hat, the Second Bonnet of Ballyhoo, was wont to fall of at the slightest gust of wind. Warmbottom had quite the solution: a common staple, impaling the hat and skin, at 90-degree locations round the head. We asked Runnycheese if she were in pain, and she replied that she had all nerves and fluid removed at an earlier time, thereby losing all sensory feedback from any part of her body. This naturally began a discussion about royal copulation, but that recollection is for another day.

Oooh I am looking forward to my encounter with all the royal headdresses. Makes you pine for the Empire, does it not?

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Your hatred has made you powerful, young Skywalker

Special for the Today Show by Edith Crudmuffin

LONDON, England

Ahoy, commoners, and a ballyhoo from the royal residences. Specifically, I am in her majesty’s loo, where the Queen has been busy – as always – overseeing the decoration of the royal lavoratory. For a monarch, she is quite the micro-manageress. She has made it known, from the early days of her reign, that the royal lavoratory must be in prim condition, spackinated, and tally-beed. She relates a story of when Chancellor Hitler’s personal secretary visited one of our loos. Apparently, Herr Meinhof was quite disatisfied with the facilities. He made his displeasure known to her majesty, who was appalled that our Hun cousin would dare compare the foecal receptacle to a Moravian peasant’s. Well, with a huff, the Queen ordered her staff to remove the offending latrine and send it to a public library in Norwich.

Since then Her Majesty has been very keen on latrinal quality. The Queen herself does not possess an anus, but that does not stop her from employing a staff of hundreds to polish and spiffinate the hundreds of comfort stations at Buckingham Palace.

Each washbasin must be gold-plated with a platinum and silver faucet. There must be three settings: warm, cold, and Sherry. Any residual water must be soaked up hastily by Sir John Thielwick’s East Indian Sham, the Queen’s preferred cloth-wipe. The hand towel, made of Scottish beard clippings, must be dried and warmed. The bath-mat must be of superior quality, and the floor mustn’t feel colder than 76 degrees lest Her Majesty gets a chill during a midnight urinary.

The toilet, bane of Herr Meinhof’s existence, is now gold-plated with Welsh lamb’s wool covering, and coated with Lord Rodney Bull Hawhaw’s Anti-Stench Tonic, lest a foul odor cause the Queen to take offense. Next to the toilet is a control board that allows the user to choose his or her entertainment: BBC Radio 4, Sky News, or EuroSport is at your command. (Rumor has it that the Queen herself enjoys the Shipping Forecast as she evacuates herself.) Built into the entertainment device is a ticklefanny and bumswaddler, should you need “extra encouragement”. Cleaning up is not an issue as one of dozens of personal wipesmen are at your disposal, summoned by a red button. There is no need to flush the potty, as there are also several trained flushmen on the premises.

Don’t forget that in England, one washes their hands first and does their toilet last. It is not uncommon to see specks of foeces upon royal cuffs, which they will refer to as “Windsor pudding”.

I hope this tutorial has been illuminating. Cheerio for now, and huzzah for the prince and princess!