It's a Bogan, Bogan, Bogan, Bogan World

Prince Frederik thought bubble:

Can't wait to go home and play all these games with the kids!!! Oh, man!! First I'll take a little dip into the walk-in humidor and see if it needs dusting up, hehe! Then I'll be ready to chill out and get my game on, oh boy!! Then maybe we can go jump on the trampoline!! Oh, please, I hope so!! I hope those gold bracelets I bought Mary will put her in a good mood so she'll let us go outside and jump!! Oh, please, please!! Wha hae!!

Alex Stephens' thought bubble:

Where the hell are my shoes?

Erin Stephens' thought bubble:

I am looking SO COOL with Auntie Mary's hot pink lycra tank top on! I am SO GLAD she let me have it. Mummy said she was purging her closet and said that this was her star making outfit. Omg, I so hope that means that if I wear it and get photographed in it like Auntie Mary that I'll find a weakling prince with mother issues that I can boss around, too!!!

Kate Stephens' thought bubble:

I love walking around in my pajamas. They're so comfy and make moving from the bed to the shops to the trampoline that much easier. Plus I don't bother with my hair for extra time for fun. Auntie Mary sure does teach us great things like how to be lazy and let others do for you.

Princess Mary thought bubble:

Hey, kid, HEY, look at ME!! Why don't you ever LOOK AT ME!!! LOOKER ME, GODDAMNIT!! Jesus, I know I don't spend that much time with you, but it's not like we just met, for pete's sake. Christ almighty this kid weighs a freaking TON! What in the hell does she feed you!? You're a freaking butterball pumpkin-head. Man, you look like the Pictish side of the family. That ain't gonna win you any fashion mag covers, babe, but Rob Roy says it's perfect for retaining Boganson tribal magic. Even your little baby chompers are coming in all crazy crooked. They'd better work some Pictish magic because I don't want to get blamed for your ugliness. It's bad enough that I inadvertantly let the side down when I'm home and show off the real me. Now, looker me, dammit!!

Prince Christian's thought bubble:

Do you see this? Are you getting this on film? I want all of you to take as many photos as you can because I want this shit on record. Do you hear how my "mother" talks to me? Do you HEAR THIS? Can you believe it? I swear to god, ever since I left the de-yellowing incubator she has been like this. I think Far's onto something with all the whiskey. Helloo, couldja BRING IT DOWN A NOTCH? Jesus, do you not think my ears are developed yet? I can HEAR, ok? And unfortunately I can see the world pretty clearly now and let me tell you, the sights at Aunt Jane's house are pretty bizarro. Are you all watching through the glass? Can you believe it? White powder everywhere. And if Far isn't playing with me and my cousins, he's coming up with a new excuse to split and meet with Uncle John's bozo, loser friends. Can you believe my grandpappy's new teeth? Thanks a shitload, old man. Now mine have to be all fucked up. Nice. Aunt Jane's making "Nanny" Mette sick with the vegemite grilled cheese sandwiches and "Mummy" makes her cry by making her set up her personal camera equipment or leaving her alone in the house while we galavant around town for the locals. What a freaking circus. Makes hanging out with Daisy and grandpapa look that much more sane. Jeez, I'm so pissed I could kick a marsupial.

Jane Stephens:

"Mary, we can hear you. Just put him in the stroller. I know you've got a "dedicated mother" thing you've got to try and get out there, but I think Max was right. It's a hard sell. C'mon. Just put him in the stroller."

Mary thanks Anna Johanssen

Hobart
20 March 2006

Dear Anna,

What can I say except THANK YOU AND OH MY GOD THIS IS GOING SO MUCH BETTER THAN I EVER PLANNED! You are a genius, lady, and I am LOVING it. LOVE LOVE LOVING it. And the best part is that NO ONE is the wiser as to our little machinations! LOL!

From the second Joachim showed me and Fred a photograph of his new little French croissant from their holiday last summer I knew SOMETHING had to be done about this. It was as if Fred’s alcoholic, perverted beanpole-farmer brother of his had just shown me a freaking MIRROR! Except this was like one of those magic mirrors that makes you look even better than you are in real life even if in your real life you have spent the equivalent of the Gross Domestic Product of Chile on your appearance makeover. It was FREAKY! (I wish they really made those magic mirrors in real life, I’d love to give them to my family as Christmas presents.) Plus her birthday is the day after mine, but in a better Chinese New Year, the BITCH. GOD, I was literally starting to shake in my Ugg boots.

And Jokke the joke-y, as I call him, was just going on and on about how SWEET and KIND and OPEN and HAPPY and shit this girl is. Oh, and how well-educated and well-traveled she is and oh she speaks a million languages, too. LA-DI-DAMN-DA! Well, if that isn’t bad enough that he has a taste for truly and deeply wonderful women who bring him great joy, he also had to blabber on about how she has a real job that he didn’t have to get for her and how she pays her own rent and has some crazy natural maternal instinct or whatever they call that, well, you can imagine that I was checking out and feeling faint by this time. I almost thought the jig was up when I heard that her dog has a better name than mine and it’s actually related to something besides a failed marketing campaign (which was Siimon’s fault, by the way!). No way is sister going to ruin the good gig I’VE got going, so I called you. It’s bad enough she already has the more Danish version of my name. If our little operation hadn’t worked, Anna, that bitch would fit right into Danish society so fast and I would be forgotten in the flurry of “Our Jokke’s Hard-Working Delightful Princesses: A Perfect Fit in Denmark” publicity. Can you imagine if frog girl started blabbering in Danish in six weeks time, and doing it all the while wearing Danish fashions? I’d be TOAST.

Now since you snuck up on me leaving work to have your goon photographer take pictures of me with a scowl on my face and some “back off” body language for the world, I figure you owe me BIG. No, it’s not enough that later I did pose for your cameras “going to work” and doing all those things that other young women seem to do ostensibly to be SELF-SUFFICIENT but really just do to make me look BAD. No, you needed to really make restitution. So I must say, Anna, congrats babe. This is all just so brilliant, especially in light of the fact that my thugs on the street in Oz can’t seem to contain Amber’s ramblings that are going to expose my strategic operating techniques during one 2000 Olympics. WOULD YOU JUST GET A NEW INAPPROPRIATE BOYFRIEND AND SHUT THE HELL UP! GOD.

I never thought I’d be able to successfully get her address from our little potato farmer, but his “staff” is so damn discombobulated since China Girl left him for that hottie who filmed my docuMEntary, that it was easier than I thought. Plus, Nikolaj knows where everything is kept and is just too young to know the truth about Auntie Mary’s strategies, so it all turned out to be a walk in the park. Nothing like pretending you can’t wait to get out to the Jutland countryside and have a hyggelig weekend together. WHATEVER. Glad that nightmare is over! Maybe you’d like to look into having a COOK and maybe someone to take the DISHES AWAY? GOD. And could you be any further away from a Chanel boutique and civilisation? It’s like spending a weekend with Patty or Jane as they try to make dinner THEMSELVES, AND shut the kids and their hubbies up. I do NOT miss Bogan World AT ALL.

Anyway, thank you for being so amenable to this scoop and for putting up with us telling Se og Hoer, too. I know they’re scummy, but not the same scum level as EB, so I knew they had to be in on it, just a day after you, as per our agreement, just to give our little Marie the right patina. My God, she was more of a bait-taker than I ever thought she’d be! HA! Blah blah blah blah blah, did you just love it? I was HOWLING! And what is even better is that everyone is talking about ME because of the sort of resemblance even though her features are softer and more approachable, but they don’t say that do they? NO! They just talk about how much we look alike!! And that our birthdays are practically the same. It’s all about ME, still!

And if that isn’t already pretty damn perfect, all the magazines are covering her and what you said was just a simple 5 minute conversation with a really nice girl who was just overflowing with charm and happiness (GAG me, Anna), you’ve all succeeded in making her look like a loose-lipped idiot-blabbermouth. GENIUS!! Talk, talk, talk (or seem like it) all you want, girlie, it doesn’t phase me ONE BIT. Because no longer should I worry that you and Fred and Joachim and the Chimney-in-laws are going to all speak French together and leave me the freak out of the goddamn loop. Joke’s on YOU, HONEY! Buh-bye!

Everyone is talking about how DIGNIFIED I am and how DISCREET I was during the “entrapment years” or dating years as BB should continue to call them or else I will sue your ass. If any fool ever thought for one half second that I was strategically planning my way into Fred’s bank account, er, heart, then our little French Better-Than-Mary makes me look quite WONDERFUL and PERFECT, DOESN’T SHE? Eat my dirt, mate! Holy hell, people are finally comparing me – favorably this time! - to the original little miss perfect, our “beloved” Alexandra! Does it get better than this?! LOL!

Yes, it DOES! You’ve managed to make this wonderful media madness so furious that I was able to sneak down to Tasmania with the kid. No one will ever pay attention to the fact that I rented a killer house on an isolated beach to get away from that F’ED UP DANISH WINTER crap. No one will ever pay attention to the fact that my kid is only cute with a LACE BONNET on his head to disguise the big ears and bald skull (thanks for nothing DAD). OK, so I had to pass on the Commonwealth Games because the “real” royalty in Australia was there. No way sister is going to try and STEAL MY THUNDER, so I just stayed at the house. Someone might want to write me a little THANK YOU NOTE, mm?

Oh, the relaxation I’m enjoying here at home! It’s like all the stupid “jobs” that Fred got for me through his friends are forgotten! And forgotten that I got him to subsidize me in stupid Paris after I’d already shown up at his door-step in December 2001 and he was all like, well, um, ok, but you can’t live in Denmark I have a place in Paris I’ll let you stay in. Score! (Or so I thought, it’s in some CRAPPY weird UN-glamourous part of town, thanks for nothing Freddo, think I’ll be coming to Denmark anyway!) Totally forgotten that I couldn’t speak Danish until after the wedding! Totally forgotten that I hate his royal cousins who think they’re better than anyone in the world, AS IF. Totally forgotten about my family’s slurping at the trough and free professorships and central Copenhagen flats. Totally forgotten about my stupid ass best friend. Totally forgotten about my manly physique and once tragic weight and skin tone. And totally forgotten that his mother engaged us after I impressed her with my “discretion” – LOL! And totally forgotten everything I said about modern monarchies because well, I’ll admit that’s a hard one and would force me to give up everything COOL in my life like free clothes, and slaves, I mean servants, and horse riding, and shit. That would SUCK. NO WAY I’m living the life of my sisters serving up Hamburger Helper to snot-nose rug rats in stained op-shop clothes with some plumber I’m forced to sleep with yelling at me if it was me who spent the money for a new roof on a new purse as if that is something that you should EVER have to JUSTIFY. WHATEVER. I’d rather be stoned to death by Miuccia Prada herself, for f’s sake.

So good job, but now burn this letter. It was written in confidence and if you decide to cross me and to print it, so help me, I will open the gates of Hell so fast on your crazy ass your Billed won’t know it’s Bladet from it’s elbow. GOT IT?

MRH Mary

ME starts to get the skeeves

Amber,

What a past couple of weeks! Even my head is spinning (and no Amber I didn't laugh about that post on RD comparing me with the head spinning in the Exorcist), I cannot believe all that has passed, and not at all quite TO PLAN (Max Markson is derelicting the me obligations and chasing after David Hicks I believe).

GODDAM MOTHERFUCKING LETI!!!!!!!!!!! Jesus H. Christ, that crazy, skinny Spaniardess just HAD to do it ALL OVER again. Right after my kid, and this one isn't so bad looking. Leti pops out another little natural beauty without a hair out of place on her skinny head. Can you have a skinny head, Amber? It's what I've been going for lately. Atrophied legs (check out the shot of me with the Swedens last week, that little Chinaman has done WONDERS for me), atrophied head. Stupid, but skinny: suck it, world! And worse, Leti's oldest kiddo is actually super cute and TALKING. Christian is barely grunting, and then only when he's doing his mini-caveman thing. Still, at least that bodes better for his masculinity than Freddles at the same age.

So of course, we had to wait until they did their publicity pics before we did ours. Gave Steen more time to airbrush me and de-yellow the little piggy (that's what we have to call her until July 1st). Bit worried about the piggy angle, actually, my old man looks like a pig. I actually don't like him much. His teeth used to make him spit all over Xian. I guess now they've been Hollywoodised at least he isn't spitting. Must say, I didn't like that do-up. Cuz it showed up Daisy. And she is SO not happy right now.

Actually that crazy Spanish B*TCH didn't even have to pop the spud out. SOMEONE's just a little too posh to push. She got a zipper installed in the ol' incubator. I asked Yehudi to gimme one of those so I wouldn't have to sweat and strain through labour, but he always got a giggle fit going, sputtering out words like, with that Pictish pelvis? or some such madness. Bastard.

So if it isn't bad enough that ONCE AGAIN I have to have a kid within a week of ol' lollipop head, then Monster Chin has to come over and try to STEAL MY THUNDER. Well, guess what, babes, I'M NOT COMING TO YOUR STUPID PARTY! Plus, Daisy told that short, constipated looking king that I will not be requiring a Swedish order (it's a ribbon you wear to look more royal). That crazy knock-knee'd, smoking cow! I'm telling you, this is not good, Ambs, they're on to us and just waiting to push me out. I'm just wondering if I can hold on until Miss Daisy Chain-Smoker kicks it and I am QUEEN finally and can do what I want with the jewels, the power, and Frex, or if she'll beat me to it and kick my arse back down under before I can secure the Boganson wealth for generations to come.

Anyway, I talked to Max Markson and he really thinks that stepping back from this visit and looking thin and hurt will help me twofold: one, I just don't have the dresses and jewels to compete with all those Scandy whores NO THANKS TO YOU, DAIS; and two, with me not being able to get in the way of my husband and his true love Vickan, I get to appear the martyr. (Plus, I had to lose the Roma weave during pregnancy, something about my Pictish hormones and the Romanian DNA not being compatible - man, even gypsies look down on me - so Søren's got to reinstall it now.) It's the Poor Me play torn right out of Diana's playbook. HA! Except it doesn't go as well as it should because Sister Vicky knocks it out of the fucking ballpark clotheswise (which she NEVER does) and shows up one day dressed in white as "Frederik's Bride". She practically had a veil on. Well, shag me in a ute and call me Mama. The NERVE! I was furious at Max, he absolutely should have intervened in matters of Swedish wardrobe. He swears he's all about the details, then lets it all slip through the cracks. Worst of all, Fred loved it. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's photographed from behind. Caught red handed - with it stroking Victoria's bum!

So, to get back at the whole happy party, I get Jane over here under the guise of "helping with the baby" even though we have three nurse-nannies now. They actually spend more time with Frederik. I'm not quite sure what they're up to, since I don't go to his wing anymore, but I'm pretty sure it's no good. Again I ask, what izzit with him and blondes? Jane's been busy in between G&T's (she gets more and more colonial the closer we Bogansons get to the Danish throne) writing out all sorts of prescriptions for Baby Boy, and I don't mean Christian. He doesn't need downers, that's for sure. Fred has really been giving me the skeeves lately. I think he might be dating someone in the American cartel, which would explain all the trips over there and me not going to Brazil with him and all those pics of him looking so goddam HAPPY and relaxed on the Galathea. Just when the news breaks in the press that Fred's "talk dirty with his mates" is actual fact, with prostitutes on board. Eeew, I guess that means all of them talking dirty at the same time. Like group sex or something. I'm actually pretty shat off because if they cut off the callgirl freebies on Galathea, Fred won't go, and I'll be stuck with him here for, well, days on end.

Enough about the Dumbling, Christ almighty Christian looks like my family. Jeez, poor little guy. And he ain't talking yet, either, Amber. That's normal, right? He's like totally normal, yeah? Those slags on Royal Dish are always harping about him being autistic, but you don't really think that's it, do you? So, anyway, the Chimneys-in-law have this old beater they like to ride around in, pretend they're the shit, and the other day it totally breaks down. Well, as the French say, le sang bogan ne saurait pas mentir. You shoulda seen me and Janie go into action. Boy, do we know what to do when a car breaks down, or what? I'd been driving used ones for too long to not have a wrecker service on speed dial. Henrik was pretty impressed for once. SEE! I can so do stuff! So I get some brownie points and give my strange, numbskull kid something to distract him for a few minutes instead of having to read to him or something. Janie and I took our drinks out to watch, too. Just like the good old days: nothing like throwing back a few, watching the menfolk deal with their broken down cars! Garage chicks...don't get me nostalgic, Ambs, but sometimes I wish Fred had a whiff of grease about him, not Mr Dior product or stuff.

So your little pregnancy caper didn't actually pan out, did it? Couldn't go through with it? Or couldn't find a baby the right age and ethnicity to pass as a half-royal Maori-bogan? Half Maori kids should be ten a kroner around Bondi. Oh, maybe not Melbourne. And where's Adelaide? And what the hell were you wearing at the Logies, babe? Are you sure you aren't fulfilling some Brazilian "samba school" fantasy for Fred? And by the way Markson told me you put in an application for "Dance with the Stars" featuring you and MY HUSBAND. Like he'd last long enough to earn you anything. I'm worried about your Miami-Maria aesthetic, Amber. You know damn well Pict won't wash next to "Miss-Universe-On-Every-Corner" South America. YOU DON'T HAVE THE SKIN KIDDO.

Fred rubbed the Scando visit episode in big-time as well, the asshole. Gave me a cheap watch. Does he think I'm going to be pleased by a $10,000 Cartier when I've had to stand within six feet of a real Crown Princess? She gets a real throne. I'm gingering around the concept of Fred passing the Throne to me, and him going off as consort. Early days, Ambs, early days. I've got to head Daisy, Lis and Per the Hornet off at the pass: they're on to the Boganson magic and showing their jealousy in some very unpleasant ways. It's bad enough that the new post-nuptial agreement predicts my demise after the birth of "the spare". Then the lack of Swedish order - I mean, even that peroxided druggie in Norge gets one! I'll have to ask Rob Roy if there is historically bad blood between the Swedes and the Picts, or something - I'm telling you, Ambs, there is a buzz in the air, and like most of my genetic makeup, it is NOT flattering to me! I'm just waiting for Pops and Solicitor Woadbod to get an ALERKA-sponsored beachside property and citizenry reinstatement guarantee for me.

Soon as all that's written in blue blood I'll have time to concentrate on your problems, darls. Oh, glad to see you didn't boast that I'd rung you from the birthing suite this time around. Everyone knows the only person I'd call from the delivery table is Max!

Toodle pip darls. Oh all right. Keep it real. Hooroo!!!

ME

Mary advises Amber

Newport, USA
06 September 2006

Miss Amber Petty,

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOU?

I wanted to be able to confide in you and tell you MY news and what happens? You get further out there in the public eye and I’m having to counsel YOU instead. I tell you, Amber, I’m starting to almost regret making you my best friend. I can recall Beatrice Tarnawski, you know. I mean, she was indiscreet, but she’s starting to look deaf and dumb compared to you.

Do I have to remind you where to draw the line? NO MENTION OF YEHUDI GELDSTEIN even if you’re as pissed as a newt and leaning up against a pub wall. You are really out on a psychic bender these days – did you catch malaria or yellow fever on Celebrity Survivor island or something? Or is this the mood your new beau puts you in (LOVELY!)? What’s with this crud about him being a Maori king or something. I watched coverage of the funeral of the Maori queen Te Arikinui in New Zealand and he was nowhere to be seen. So next thing the press is going to get hold of you for claiming a close association with yet another royal family. Do you mind thinking about me before you choose your boyfriends?

Whatever it is, GET A FREAKING GRIP ON YOURSELF, because I need you to strike a better balance between being a decoy in the press for me and a foil. You know the drill, must I remind you? You are to look just slightly less beautiful and classy than me. NOT like a crack whore. At least they’ve done me a favour with my LIW. God she’s ugly compared to me. No class.

I know you think you’re trying, but can’t you see that I have a MILLION things going on right now? You don’t understand. When you’re kept in cotton wool like me, you get really, really sensitive to things like the smell of ordinary people. It’s awful. It’s like a DISABILITY. Can you not get a whiff all the way over there of the falafel that has clung to me like desperate ladies on deposed royalty since I had to go over to this freaking TERROR CELL outside of Odense and pretend to like them and their bloody awful food and immigration issues? (Must warn you, Ambs, when you next come to Denmark you will HAVE to pay very close attention to your personal hygiene when you are close to me unless we’re outdoors together. Even then you might be a bit whiffy.)

And that damn Vollsmose visit was all for nothing. I mean, really, they arrest nine terror suspects like a week after I leave, washing away all of the PR, and all the good, kind and decent hardcore humanitarian work I did there in the course of an afternoon. Medecins sans fronts have NOTHING on me, I tell you. I really really worked so hard to care and smile at them and pretend that the headscarf thing is not just the WORST fashion statement one could make – HELLO, it makes your hair FLAT. And people were behaving like I’m new to reffos. We had a family of Afghanis in Tasmania before I left, and their rellos kept being released from detention and heading for Tasmania. Ha! Turns out their credentials were all fake and they got sent packing back to where they came from. Come to think of it, let’s NOT GO THERE. Seen the latest New Idea? “Mary To Be Sent Packing From Denmark”. The Australian Embassy had to quickly counter that with a puff piece. The press wouldn’t do it for us. So the Secretary to the Ambassador invented some crap about Frederik and me arriving with a bottle of wine and behaving like a relaxed middle-class couple.

Anyway, back to my travails with the great unwashed. If I relive the day and tell you about it maybe I’ll be detraumatised and process the trauma a little. Do these people realise how little their boat journey stacks up against my trauma? Really, Amb, you should have seen me, I really was ALL SMILES and made sure everyone got a wave. Per was saying that it is really important to make these people bask in my royal glow. Maybe they’re right. I really think that is exactly what they needed, a role model about dealing graciously with adversity and smiling through it - so whatever I guess Daisy’s peeps were right to send me there. I am just the ray of sunshine they need. It’s just such a gloomy place and totally depressing and they’re really poor – ugh, such LOW ceilings - and think that no one likes them which must SUCK, so I tried to pretend I was back at the king of Sweden’s 60th birthday party when I was all totally not feeling it and had to put up with all those crazy blond bimbos STEALING MY THUNDER. Yes, that horse-toothed Marie-Chantal was there! So there I was trying to be, what’s the word, inpathetic, and remember how I felt in Stockholm and realize that these poor people must have felt a thousand times worse. At least I was ROCKING my aquamarines. By the way, remind me to remind that husband of mine that my BUBBLE GUM MACHINE TIARA that his stupid parents gave me is completely, totally, one million percent INSUFFICIENT! Goddamn happy relaxed Maxima! GRRRR.

And so there I was just bubbly, wonderful and so pretty (I wore that fake Chanel suit that Malene whipped up for me that I wore to the American Ambassador’s wife’s breast cancer lunch – I’ll tell you one day about what Pops is up to with them. Ohmygod!) and I just strode into this house where Caroline and I were supposed to eat lunch and just plopped myself down without being invited to, like I was just so eager to eat what they’d given me, and they all were so happy and just couldn’t get enough of me. I made myself try at least a bite of everything so they wouldn’t get upset and try to shoot down an SAS flight in retaliation, and it wasn’t really all that bad. I was worried when we were about 10 metres away from the front door and it was like smelling the lamb kebabs at the Ali Baba franchises around Surry Hills on the way back to Bondi Junction from the Stone Wall and I was so worried that I’d have to breath through my mouth but it was cool. I didn’t finish everything because HELLO I’ve got a figure to keep up – and they don’t have extra bathrooms to deal with butt leak from a gallbladder op (I’m starting to regret that as a weight loss regime) - but Caroline hoovered the yellow rice stuff like it was going out of style. Sometimes, she just REALLY embarrasses me. And we talked about Christian of course and how great a baby he is and how cute they think he is (FAT) and I just kept wondering to myself why they are so bloody depressed about immigrant status. It’s not like it’s hard or anything, and they all speak the language, so big whoop. Now, if they’re depressed about having to live in this country now, well JOIN THE CLUB. But of course I ran out of there like a bat out of hell when it was over, though I was a master and kept smiling and waving like a pro! My image makeover as the new Diana is totally going to work. I may just have to apologise to the chimney-in-laws’ court for setting this up for me, but I guess they were on to something and could see my inner light and how it could help others and make them feel SOOOO much better about themselves.

So after that nonsense, then I had to jump a flight to Newport ASAP since one of Fred’s crew members I’ve hired as a spy emailed me that there were some pretty hot American girls around and even though THAT is hard to imagine among the sailing crowd, I got Fred’s Lego friend to get his private jet fueled up to take me and the bub over to the regatta. What a nerve baby boy has! So since I was never supposed to come, they’re all stumbling over themselves to put together an ID badge for me and get a room upgrade so that the baby and I can spread out. The food’s not bad here, but it’s mostly a liquid lunch these types enjoy. I’m going to start smelling like the QUEEN MOTHER if I’m around anymore gin, for god’s sake. And by the way, can I have a cracker THAT ISN’T STALE, PLEASE? Wasps! What is it about stupid rich people and not spending money!? I will NEVER understand that. They all look at me sometimes it seems as if I don’t belong and I KNOW that’s not true. Like I revealed in my pre-wedding Ninka MEnterview (haha I just made that up!), I am absolutely convinced that even though I never sailed before I met Fred that if we hadn’t met at the Slip Inn, we would have met in Hobart at a regatta. Even though I was living in Sydney to get away from that crazy backwater. Some things, Amber, you just KNOW. I was BORN to be royal.

So anyway I had to read Freddo the riot act once the kid and I got to the docks. What a look on his face! Did I ever tell you how I had to bite his freaking HEAD off (not that kind, Amb, although it’s a good idea) during the honeymoon in Kenya or Tanzania, wherever the hell we were, after he got furious that we were missing Felipe’s wedding to that skinny LOOKER ME witch who thinks she’s all that and some Rioja, too? We just had it out and I laid down the law with him. You should have heard his pathetic arguments to make me make concessions. I DON’T THINK SO, BABYCAKES! WHO was the one who gave up the most beautiful country in the world for a cold piece of Siberia and slow residents? HUH? WHO was the one who gave up cool, hip friends for his hangers-on? I was like THAT with Siimon Reynolds donchaknow. WHO was the one who had to get fat because of her pregnancy? WHO was the one who had to learn a new, stupid, impossible language? WHO was the one who had to endure his indecision and waffling while waiting in stupid Paris teaching stupid idiot French people English? ME, big boy! Me me me me ME! Not him. Me. He’s had to do NOTHING. So I’m just evening the score. Plus, if he cuts into my clothing budget anymore with his liquor bills someone’s going to have to report to HRH Mary Anonymous and say, “hi, I’m Fred, and I’m a scotch-aholic and afraid of both my mummy and my Mor!” I swear he has totally hijacked that stuffed polar bear toy I gave the baby for Christmas and sleeps with it like it’s a damn body pillow. GROW UP, KIDDO AND MEET YOUR DADDY, er, MAMA!

Listen, do NOT tell this to anyone, but I think I should have gone with an American accent at my public debut. I really like it a lot and think it fits. Which is ok, because Judy Davis does, too, and she is totally smart and respected. I’m serious, I cannot keep this Euristocratic tra-la-la bullshit up much longer. I’m NOT talking about bogan versions like from the stupid southern part, but the Newport accent is KILLER. You should hear people here, it’s like their lower jaw is frozen and it just OOOOOOZES class. It almost sounds as if people are putting me - I mean one - down, which of course can come in handy, but it also makes you look like you might have tetanus. It’s kinda English accent-y but it’s not nearly as hard. You just need to tense your muscles – which I do more and more these days – and strain to get the words out, preferably with your chin held up – which I ALSO ALREADY DO! Did you know Alistair Cook from “Letter from America” was acksherly English? And his real name was ALFRED? He was as much of a come-lately as YOU Amber! Maybe I can just make a smooth transition to Newport-speak in a really methodical and imperceptible way in my future public appearances in front of the Slow Ones. They’d never realize it, anyway. Like, remember the time when that asshole actually asked what I thought of the Tasmanian Devils at the zoo and I had to remind him, HELLO, DINGDONG, could you maybe next time listen to my speech that I just gave, cause I kinda lay it all out in there. GOD!

But I’ve mostly just made an appearance here to scare Fred into staying in line. I’m heading over to New York as soon as the club babysitter arrives. I’ve confirmed with them that she must be ugly and fat even if that’s an extra charge. I have GOT to get out of here and get some clothes and chat with Yehudi – he has NOT been returning my calls or emails. He’s slinking around thinking he can get away with inserting rejigged Kate Fischer genes into my baby. I checked out her rellos and they’re at least as scary as Dad’s teeth. OK, maybe they have similar genes. Her mum Pru Goward has been sleeping with the Prime Minister for decades. Some feminist. I NEED Yehudi unfortunately. He’s the only unethical enough geneticist I can locate outside the Balkans. And I’m not risking unwashed Albanian or Romanian genes in my next baby.

So Amber whose genes should I get the Danish Secret Service to steal for the next bub? I was thinking Maori royalty. What do you think? Give Daisy a fright!! I’d love that.

Keeping it real,
ME

Princess Isabella writes to Daniel Westling

30 April 2010
Kancellihuset nursery

Käre Daniel,

Today I write to you in sheer distress and pleading for your assistance in calming my fragile heart. Oh, my darling, presque-cousin, it is almost too much to bear to watch my dear Fjolle-Far, Frederik, reach such depths of sadness and misery.

Life seems to be harder for Far every day. You realise this all started with Cousin Madeleine breaking off her engagement with that Cousin Felipe look-a-like she was with for so long? It’s just so sad and pathetic what Jonas did. After hearing of such skanky behaviour on his part, Dr. Geldstein was alerted to look in his files only to discover that Jonas and my mother are actually very closely related. His maternal ancestors were also from Port Seton and cousins to my "professor" grandfather. Proves that an ancestral fishy smell is damned hard to wash off!

To make matters worse, the news is out that the entire family had been involved with helping Madde reach this decision over the past several months. It’s as if hearing that royal family unity on top of breaking up with a skank can happen, put Far over the edge of reason. "Why don’t I get that support? What can I do?" I hear him in his room every night after More, or Her Royal Highness the Countess of Monpezat (as I am more and more required to refer to her, as we grow further apart), leaves Far’s little den and calls for a maid to flick the lightswitch in the halls onto "flattering pink light" as she proceeds, so she can return to the penthouse. (The maid is, of course, to flick the light back to "fluorescent green tinge" every time Fred appears, to ensure that his self-esteem is kept low when he glimpses himself in any of the 5,000 mirrors Mor has installed).

Far comes often once my soi-disant mama has departed, to talk to me about his troubles … he always wanted me to be named for your adorable bride Victoria. He knows we are all made of the same royal stuff. Sorry, DanDan, but there are just some things that we get that you outliers don’t, even though we love most of you all the same. (It takes quite some outlier to test our capacity for love of the people!) More often makes me jump out of my skin when her Hoganson habits surface. A whore AND a bogan!

Sometimes when he has been reassuring himself with a few sherberts after a particularly Hoganson-influenced family dinner (Mama is partial to Chiko Rolls and ABC Soup), Far reminds me that my honorary uncle, Dr. Yehudi Geldstein, was given orders by my darling Farmor Daisy to make sure that, after the sheer genetic disaster that is my brother Christian, that all Hoganson genes were to be excluded from my genetic makeup. He thanks the Heavens (he is rediscovering the Lutheran church, you’ll be pleased to know!) that all the royal cousins gave DNA samples for him to clone and use on lucky me - including Auntie Lilibet in England! She’s really my cousin, but I love calling her Auntie since she’s so much more cuddly than my Daisy. (Less smoky, too.) No wonder Far gets confused on his relationship to her!

Poor dear DanDan, all of this royal parentage and intertwined family tree business must be so confusing for you! Did you know that it’s More who is related to Vlad the Impaler and the ghost of Anne Boleyn, and not Far? Funny! More is also related to Maggie Kirkpatrick and Myra Hindley! They and Vlad are where my horrid brother gets his murderous tendencies from. By the way, Daniel, if you get offered a White Elephant, it’s safe to accept it. Nikolae Ceausescu’s one is the one they gave More. I think that was Daisy being cute and perspicacious.

Anyway, let me elaborate a little. Far has never really come around to you coming between him and sweet Victoria, but he seemed to accept the relationship as one not unlike his own: a real royal getting her street ya-yas out with a regular Joe. Then came the engagement. And while we were truly very happy for you both, Far went deeper into the realisation that he may never have Victoria for himself. Nothing personal, Dansie, it’s just that he has always seen her as his ideal partner. Naturally, marriage to More never changed that. My darling Daisy made him take one for the team on thatty.

Anyway, I can’t hardly take it anymore with the crying and the moaning and the poor me’s and all that feeling sorry for himself business. My inheritance is already being depleted by More’s shopping sprees, and her inquiries into suitable South American surgeons, and now Fardy-Far-Far is drowning us in invoices for mass orders of Kleenex, rollmops and scotch.

Seriously, that bizarre Hoganson genetic material is contagious – and that worries me. I am still made of different stuff, but I do stress. I was terrified the other day when my poor little left foot showed the beginnings of a bunion just like More’s. I hope I can put it down to her attempts at surreptitiously footbinding me with two-year-old shoes, and not some hideous and spontaneous Hoganson invasion of my person. More’s Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy was finally diagnosed by my teachers - they have me in proper orthopaedic footwear during school hours to try and reverse the club foot affect from the supportless, designer ballet slippers and jodhpur booties More has me wear for photoshoots. But they have to restore my "at home" footwear each afternoon. My nannies cry, but dry their tears by the time we get home, because More gets a kick out of seeing any of the servants cry.

I assure you I was getting to the point where Farfar Henrik throwing me off the balcony of Amalienborg into the crowds – symbolically on Daisy’s birthday – was a loving gesture and sweet surprise. He seemed to be saying, take her, any of you, she will have a better life! Then who comes out of the shadows to "rescue" me but More! I fought valiantly to enable my beloved Farfar to aid my rescue, but thanks to diet pills and steroids, More could wrestle even my most resistant form from any pair of man’s arms. Plus, she employs the presque-zizi as a lever. Now that’s simply beyond the pale, as anyone would agree, and a significant aggravation of abuse.

Oy! Hehe, I got that from Dr. Geldstein! As well as a distinct and constant craving for a sesame bagel with a schmear and the New York Times crosswords every morning. Funny. More knows all about Yehudi – she found out long after the fact, having been convinced that he was a beauty therapist and the saint who was blending up lamb foetus poultices for her complexion. No plastic surgeon could have fixed the expression on her face when she found out. We all cowered under the single fluoro light in the palace that wasn’t tunable to soft pink. She wouldn’t go near us – it was like having a bunch of garlic held over us!

So here’s the long and short of it: I’m on the prowl for a job transfer and since Uncle Yehudi told me about you and Cousin Vics not being able to have your own boganson babies, I’d like to apply for the job. The wonderful news is that genetically I have more of Vickie in me than More anyway! It’s perfect!

I feel obligated to inform you that since I would already be the first born in our new family, that I would also be the future Queen of Sweden. Trust me, the war on Denmark and my brother King Xian Amin Mugabe Ceausescu will be like no other in the long history of our two countries over territory and liquor taxes. You think there are a lot of drunken Swedes passed out along Nyhavn today? You ain’t seen nothing yet – you’ll need stilts to walk amongst the passed out along Strøget! And how would you and my darling new mother like a country home in the south of Sweden, near the border with Germany? I think you get what I am saying about expanding territory.

Mind you, while Xian is really, really thick, he is quite frightening, and we should all take comfort in the knowledge that historical "nemesis" Norway is completely on board with this idea, too. Ah, sweet Cousin Haakon and his darling wife and children! Have you seen Haakon’s face when he is within a bargepole of Mary? She never sees it – he is clearly in fear of turning into stone. Poor Denmark. A bit of nostalgia for what could have been will surely make me feel bittersweet over the eventual union of Norway and Greater Sweden as we watch royal Denmark swirl down the drain of history as if a soup of spit, hair and toothpaste, replete with a mad gurgle of expletives from bamboozled (and boozed) Bogansons and scraggled armies of Freckled Gargoyles before they ever reach the Rosenborg jewel vaults.

So back home I’ve had my spies send out feelers to the rest of the family, and my darling Uncle Joachim and his beautiful brood are naturally supportive of my transfer. They know. Oof, do they! I will miss speaking French with them on a regular basis (that really gets More’s cornichon). Let me tell you a secret – Marie is utterly fluent in English, and so is Jokke, and so is Daisy, and so is Fred – but they simply refuse to enable More’s monolingualism and are still far from recognizing that a woman so well endowed with native cunning could be so slow!

They take comfort in knowing that we will all be united at grand family occasions. I will happily help broker some deals between the female heirs of the Netherlands, Spain and Belgium so that the wonderful Schackenborg line can begin its glorious reign over all of royal Europe. Perhaps Auntie Marie will have another beautiful boy for darling Ingrid-Alexandra in Norway. I’m not sure yet who I shall choose for myself. Adorable Sverre Magnus is too closely related, but those Belgian boys are cute. Or perhaps I should revive an illustrious young archduke or anonymous German prince. Believe me, Dan, with a mother like mine, I’m afraid I won’t be risking marrying "outside".

Remember, too, that as the Freckled Gargoyle cousins from Down Under reach marriageable age, More will be bribing the minor aristocracy with rubies prised from Ingrid’s parure. (Don’t worry, I’m keeping watch on the jewels and I check her bedside table nightly for jeweller’s pliers, under the guise of a goodnight kiss. She has always had a carat testing kit. She tests all the jewels Far gives her since Daisy passed off a gold plated brooch on her after Christian’s birth.)

Dan-Dan, I needn’t labour on account of my cause. My claims of gender discrimination by my own mother will soon be filed with the Swedish Royal Ministry of Human Rights as soon as all of these other details of my new name, official transfer papers, visa, etc. have been processed through the Ministry of Immigration. Oh, I’m going to make such a wonderful and enthusiastic Swede!

Here’s the catch, though, dear Daniel. I shouldn’t really give a true account of More. I should rather be emphasizing her best points. You, my noble friend, will have to run off with More so that Far can have his darling Vickan. Can you do it for us all? I can work with Daisy – Henrik will be able to swing anything with Daisy in the next six months, she is high on the sexually explicit statue he bought her for her birthday. She thinks it is heterosexual! I can guarantee that the payout would be substantial. Far would put his country into debt to build you a gym empire anywhere in the world outside the Scandinavian countries.

The only part missing from my thesis and plan is attempting to convince myself that you and Mary could possibly hit it off – even with More as a beard. Every man has his price, though, Daniel. Please just name it! You would make a great Australian. You look like Jemaine from the Conchords – and they are so jealous of New Zealand having those two! You also look just like their favourite senator, John Faulkner, the Mr. Darcy of Australian politics. If you have a thirst for rock star or political power and influence, Australia is your best bet! They can even arrange a McMansion in a seaside suburb called Manly for you. More just loves it there!

Now, if you insist on having Victoria, you would best be tolerant of a side affair between her and my Far. You have to understand, Dansie, this is how the royals have been doing it for centuries! We can play it either way, depending on your preference, but do give us notice if you’d like to stay on as Victoria’s public husband. My main focus is refuge for myself – I know, that sounds selfish and unroyal, and it’s a further plea for my case. I must remove myself from her sphere of influence!

Much love,

Izzy
Soon to be Princess Ingrid-Victoria Benedikte Marie

Post-Christening Wrap-up from Mary to Fred

[Found handwritten on scented Kancellihus notepaper, with a gilded monogram and edging]

Fred.

LOOK. If I go to great lengths to organise a candid shot of you and me IN LOVE I expect you to RECIPROCATE. There I am, sticking my bottom out to the photographers just like the animal behaviourist we consulted said, doing my baboon-lady thing at the cameras, like I did in Greenland, then when they're all tuned up and ready, WHADDAYADO? You EMBARRASS ME. I mean, the photos show me pursing my lips at you and I've got my ARMS hard around you under yours since I obviously had to grab you first and you just look stunned and like you don't want to be there. What's with the stiff neck in the photos? There damn sure should have been a follow-up kissy kissy shot, so where’d that one go? Don't think I haven't had a good, hard look at the product. Niels gave me a head’s up on what they’d be releasing, as per our agreement. At least all those shots of me looking care-free, randy and highly sexualized a la Diana came through. With NO HELP from YOU, I might add! So much for all that effort tipping off the photogs. Did you really have to invite the girls along? Big huggy kissy Fred-Mary “candid” shots had MOST of their cachet neutralized by everyone wondering if the blonde was goddamn Amber. JESUS.

Please don't trot out your usual excuse: pale, pallid, hungover. I actually WAS pale, pallid and hungover myself the day before the christening when you wouldn't get out of bed to bring Ziggy for a walk. At least Jane & Amber came along to make me look better. I had to ask the cook’s assistant to come along and totally wrap herself up in scarves and hooded jackets to make people think she was Patty. GOD, those bitches are impossible to wake up in the morning. Not a one of them has my self-discipline. And then there’s Amber and Patty who are all salt-deprived and parched from the big tequila bender you organized for yourselves the night before. Proud of yourself? No, Patty, I’m NOT driving you to McDonald’s for HANGOVER FRIES like you made me do when we were younger! GOD. Would that ruin my image in two shakes, or what? “Yeah, hej, I’m Her Royal Goddamn Highness Crown Princess Mary. Will you kiss my ass, then super-size me like Kerry Packer did before he DIED?” GRRRR. Just SLEEP IN, FINE. Of course, did I mind being busted “casually” gazing at photos of you and me in a shop window? NUH-UH. Why the hell do you think I TOOK that route. That is some of Steen’s best air-brushing EVER, even if the bub’s yellowness couldn’t entirely be erased. But who cares, the shots of him in that scratchy, yellowed christening gown are gonna ROCK THE AUSTRALIAN MEDIA. Oh, yeah!

Bottom line. You're letting down the side and I don't like it. We have a corporate restructure happening, Frederik, and I'M the corporate psychopath the DRF advisers let in. Like it or LUMP IT. You know damn well that ALL you have to do is satiate my EGO by making it look as though I'm on a pedestal, and let me get on with the restructure. Do you notice?? Letting the staff along to the christening? BRILLIANT! They haven't noticed the PAY CUT because they're so damn STARRY EYED. I would have let them along for the reception except you pointed out the staff would be indistinguishable from any of my rellos. OK, I conceded on that.

You said you don't want to run Denmark you just want to remain my baby boy, well FINE, but do as you're told, if you don’t MIND. Do you think its fun looking at a five foot ten toddler all day? Do you blame me for looking past you and STRAIGHT at those spunky cameramen whenever I get the opportunity??? OK, OK, so my come-hither look resembles a smirk - but it WORKED ON YOU, remember??? I don’t care that you were drunk all through the Olympics, you certainly came back for MORE, BABY! GOD, it’s like your short-term memory is going haywire again. Have you been dipping into the diplomatic bag, schmookums? Well, GIVE IT A REST. I need you to FOCUS, DAMMIT! You’ve got my work to do.

I'm starting to get the SKEEVES with being Australian. Who the hell told Joachim to marry someone with CHINESE blood? Oh, yeah, you were there at their first encounter, all encouraging it probably. You ALWAYS had a thing for her. You’re most likely still pissed that she didn’t notice YOU as much as your scarecrow brother. WHATEVER. But, look, the Chinese are taking over the whole goddamn world and their economy is growing at 16 per cent a year. I am so burned and ropable that Alexandra has the right blood for trade relations with the Chinese. Why can't I be part Chinese? I want the suits to organize something: some Chinese ancestry for ME. Get Chinese Per on it right away. Bloody snippy crappy little Australia - who would BOTHER. I only used those eucalyptus leaves in the church because of the Tasmanian Devil fiasco and the Scots genes in me MADE me be frugal. Bloody hell, what an ancestry I’ve got. So, GET CRACKING, Freddo!

Speaking of Alexandra, who told her she could wear the best outfit of the day? The thigh-high slit will be MY department from now on, thank you very much. My hockey calves will have been massaged into extinction by next summer. They're working hard on it as I write. I’ve got a little Chinaman right here beating them into atrophied submission. He’s gonna teach me some phrases on the side so I can finally start impressing people with something other than my righteous new skin and hopefully, I’ll finally get some good, solo, heroic-looking, Diana-esque overseas gigs just like LITTLE MISS PERFECT. Now we’ll see just WHO is stealing WHO’S THUNDER!

And LOOK. Tell your mother to STUFF IT about the reception. I am SO TIRED of it, already. OK, so everyone thinks it was kinda CRAPPY. Maybe I wanted it like that. HUH? Maybe that was all part of the PLAN. It’s not MY DAMN FAULT that the staff refused to cooperate and not bring the little flower pots over from the church to the hall on their way back home. They’re so damn SELFISH, sometimes. THAT’S why the tables looked so empty with those bare white tablecloths they use for Rotary Club dinners. They totally would have ROCKED if only the staff had done what they’d been TOLD and not if they’d been coral damask with light green runners and pretty multi-colored bouquets because NO ONE IS ASKING YOUR MOTHER WHAT THE HELL SHE THINKS! And by the way, the low number of tables and the no chairs idea was MINE, thank you very much. That way, people couldn’t get comfortable and avoid gazing adoringly at the baby and kissing MY royal ass! PLEASE don’t think that I don’t think these things out VERY CAREFULLY.

About the flowers, FOR THE LAST TIME, in case you were MISTAKEN, Frederik, that was NOT of my own volition. I fight my Scots frugality genes SO HARD, and so does ALL my family. We're making great headway. Whadja think of that horrid outfit Susan wore? My lady’s maid found it at UFF and I had her sew a Malene Birger tag to the inside. She’s too freaking STARRY EYED to notice it used to belong to some 79 year old pensioner in Odense (probably one of the same idiots who went to see her there on her “book tour” back in November). I am NOT responsible for the red accessories – that was her own brand of crazy coming through. At least we got Patty and Amber in hats that covered half their ugly mugs. Except it stressed Patty’s monster chin. Damn. But, really, didn’t you think the flowers were exceptionally LOW KEY? OK, even though they DIDN’T show up on television, STILL. There was none of that vulgar, showy, drama BULLSHIT from your mother. Just a nice, pathetic, completely out-of-scale and -season little showing of buds to buy some points from the goddamn PRESS about how I am just a simple, non-extravagent being. Plus there was some not-too-subtle messaging going on with those blooms that your mother must have read given her double and triple takes after she was seated. HAHA! That idiot Bodil Cath, of course, bought my scam hook, line and sinker. Except I found myself handing a coat to Hamish's girlfriend to wear to the christening instead of just spending a fistful of kroner on a new one for her. You know, the same one that I let Jane wear at the rehearsal. You know how hard I've been trying. Like how I didn’t even bother getting out a coat for you for the christening. THAT’S why you were freezing your ass off. I had on thigh-length long johns, mmmm, toasty! The less I spend on others, the more that comes to ME for PRADA. And that goes DOUBLE for not spending on Jane and Patty or the ‘rents. Uh, maybe you girls would like to GO HOME NOW AND REINTRODUCE YOURSELVES TO YOUR CHILDREN!? GOD. But look, FRED, if I slip up occasionally, I want you to compensate with a wee taste of jewelry EVERY TIME, OK?! Doesn't matter what color, as I suit ANYTHING.

In case you are wondering why I'm WRITING to you instead of running up and down hallways hunting for wherever you are HIDING OUT on any given day, it's because I've decided MY place in history as the savior of Denmark warrants being on the record from the word GO. I mean, the Queen Mother RAN THE SHOW, but all that's on the record is her hubby blubbering and refusing to cut an ostriches tail feathers in South Africa or something, and the Queen takes over. TAKES OVER. SNIP!!! Tailfeathers gone. Oh, and she got the ostriches tailfeathers too. That’s an anecdote you’d be wise to remember, eh?

As you know, Frederik, I have YOUR peacock tail already firmly attached to my bedroom wall - secured with only one or two pins, I assure you. If you want a figurehead place in the restructured Denmark you will want to take note of my counseling, or it will be escalated to the next corporate stage. And don't count on any unfair dismissal laws. They'll be well gone. And STUFF democracy, by the way. Had a great conversation with George Bush about thatty, and learned a few helpful tricks. Having a highly intelligent narcissist as head of state always works best, so step aside, dollface. Look at North Korea. OK, so the yachting is non-existent, but do they know how to put on a show! AND they don't eat much. It's ALL kept for the state coffers, as it should be. AND there's that really important demarcation between BOGANS - I mean peasants - and the ruling class. I want ALL bogan peasant types kept RIGHT out of any camera frame anywhere near me from now on in, and I'm making that clear. Only aristos, please. Except I DON'T want La Baronesse herself, Helle Reedtz-Thott, in the same camera frame as me again either, thanks. Didn't mind a leg-up the social ladder and the gossip rags going to her wedding, but do you think I want to be photographed anywhere NEAR her anymore? She looks like a damn hologram next to my Amazon build, plus she’s a crap-load more naturally stylish than I am, DAMMIT. Can you see why I want AMBER as my foil? Especially how she’s for the time being still choosing to be with Mark, and baby, mark my words, they’ll be bruises and scabs galore coming out of THAT sick relationship!

Speaking of which, you KNOW I didn't give up a young rugby player - the PINNACLE of prestige for an Aussie chick - for a rapidly diminishing, inbred prince without an excellent strategic plan in place, don’t you? You may think two thousand changes of clothes and a couple of borrowed baubles are enough compensation for humiliations like having to cry along with you in church so you won't look more sensitive than me. Do you know what that is like for someone with my hormone mix having to put on a Bambi face? That’s right, kiddo, DAMN DIFFICULT. So, we’ll be alright as long as you remember just WHO OWES WHO.

And NO attempting to usurp my hands-on parenting persona, OK? I can read you like a book. Next time, I get to carry the mink baby carrier, OR I'm photographed instructing YOU on how to carry it, I mean him, OK? JESUS. And let me just get this out in the open RIGHT NOW, if this Islamic cartoon BALONEY continues, you can just leave my ass out of ANY sort of showing of DRF “solidarity”. I DO NOT condone the showy antics of dictatorial, self-centered, badly-dressed totalitarians! GOT IT, bitch?

Where are you anyway, one of the webcams has had a sock thrown over it or something. Hmmm. It was strange to see that it was a diaphanous sock, and in hot pink, no less. Odd, it looked like those that Misse wears. LISTEN, if it belongs to some bitch who’s hotter than me you are SO in for a lashing. And not a hot, kinky way like I used to let you before I got my ruby ring, ‘cause I’M holding the reins, now! Ride THAT horse, baby boy!

Your real mama,

ME