Prince Harry In Two Acts

Act I. Phoebe’s Apology of Prince Harry

Nothing unites a country better than royal debauchery gone bad. The solidarity a nation feels when its inbred elite take up self-destructive behaviors is unparalleled. The patriotism that floods a people when its 12-toed top guns start cutting their snuff with other stuff cannot be questioned. When royalty fumbles, a nation’s subjects mature, as a child does when he realizes his parents are fallible. It is for these reasons that I have written this here. As you all know, young Prince Harry of the United Kingdom smoked cannabis and drank spirituous beverages. While such activity must be frowned upon in youth in general, we must also make an exception for our carrot-topped friend.

Royal youth, you see, are a special case. Royal subjects expect their figureheads to use tax money to project an image of a life of ultimate excess to the world. By living extravagant and decadent lives, royalty imply to the world that their kingdoms are wealthy and content. With each hit of cannabis, Harry demonstrated Britain’s strength as a nation; what weak country could afford to allow its royalty to smoke up? I say that Harry should be offered a personal cannabis evaluator, a sort of butler who will test his joints for him to make sure they are of the highest quality. That there will be a spirits taster for Harry goes without saying. No Dmitri Vodka for this young man! Harry is now past the age where upper-class British schoolboys may find each other’s privates sufficiently entertaining. He is also past the point where watching football on the telly gets young male Brits strangely aroused.

Royalty exist to live the lives their subjects cannot. The phrase “above the law” was invented for a reason, you know. Should William desire a harem, let it be his. Should the Queen Mum desire an Eton lad for her personal amusement, he shall be hers.

Act II. What Would Phoebe Do? (WWPD?)

If I am reincarnated as Prince Harry, an event I see as having a 72 percent chance of taking place, I would, as both of my readers know, eat excessive amounts of expensive cheese. I would also begin sprouting ruddy facial fuzz, which I would promptly have shaven off by the butler assigned to my chin and upper lip. As Prince Harry, I would find myself bewildered at the nine years of both all-girls school and Hebrew school I would vaguely recall having attended. My first act as a prince would be to befriend the Queen Mum. She has always fascinated me. Then I would see to it that Fergie’s meals be catered by Aramark, which would allow her to lose those stubborn pounds we’ve all heard so much about. As Harry, I would go clubbing at joints (see above) so exclusive that all on the guest list are closely related to me by blood. Here are some less obvious things I plan to do in my Harrified next life:

1. Threesome with the Bush daughters

2. Turn Rastafarianism into the new Anglicanism

3. Receive DNA testing so as to reveal my true parentage. I will discover that my real father is Henry VIII, which will cause me once again to become a tad bewildered. I will recover, only to realize that the cannabis I had been dealt prior to receiving the test results may have been somewhat more potent than usual.

Phoebe Maltz is a first-year in the college.