A Royal Pain in the Arse
You've been there. Standing at the "Specialty" section of the magazine rack, staring at copies of Cat Fancy or Hobby Farms or Renaissance and asking, "Who the fuck reads this shit?" Obviously somebody with a cat, a farm and a pair of tights. Keeping in mind for a minute that I subscribe to Biblical Archaeology Review, I'm really worried about the sort of pasty knob-gobbler who has a copy of Majesty sitting on their coffee table.
Majesty is the "Quality Royal Magazine", which is to say that it's basically a glossy love letter to the houses of Windsor and Grimaldi...
OK, we need to get sidetracked for a moment, but it's worth it:
Check out this excerpt from Tatum O'Neil's A Paper Life in which she... um... encounters jungle fever survivor Prince Albert of Monaco:
"As I lay on his bed, I could hear him brushing his teeth, coughing, and spitting in the sink. That did it for me. I jumped up, yanking my clothes back on, and called out some lame excuse about having forgotten my contact lenses. Then I fled into the night, running all the way back to my hotel, as if the palace guards were hot on my heels."
On the Scale O' Sad, that's just slightly above "Oh, I forgot to mention that I need to pistol-whip a hooker with a toy ray gun in order to get an erection. Stop crying; you're ruining our honeymoon."
Ant then there's this Princess Stephanie related nonsense.
Where were we? Oh, right... Majesty is the "Quality Royal Magazine", which is to say that it’s basically a glossy love letter to the houses of Windsor and Grimaldi (sure there are other royal families out there, but if you're looking for insightful coverage of Tongo's King George Tupou V – the son of Taufa'ahau Tupou IV, who died last year - chances are that you're shit outta luck, cocoanut fucker): which is to say that it almost indistinguishable from "Freak Show Connoisseur". And that's the problem. Because while Majesty is packed from cover-to-cover with the greatest collection of inbred monstrosities this side of Ben Stein's Family Reunion, the magazine simply refuses to revel in the fact that the head the bears the crown rests uneasily because it's either misshapen, suffering from a hangover, or both.
I swear that if I had the seed money, or any money at all for that matter, I start a magazine called Royally Fucked Up. I know I could easily squeeze an entire issue out of how I head the Privy Council got its start.