Her majesty sat quietly in the Fisher-Price throne, whacking away at some of Barbara’s Peanut Butter Puffins while humming along to The Backyardigans. It almost seemed as if she was scheming. I took a five-minute ‘mini-vacation’ to perform a gray hair count in the bathroom. As I sulked (found 4) my way towards the living room, this is what I found.
I immediately considered the fact that maybe she saw my gray hairs as a sign of weakness. She was going to take me down and make a run at the title. How dare she. I was the King!
I was the one who hung spoons on my nose and farted with my armpits to make everyone laugh. I was the one who made my belly button talk and tried to crush soda cans between my shoulder blades. After all these years of dominating immature behavior and making an ass of myself, she was going to step right in, upstage and dethrone me?
She looked up, and offered me a maniacal laugh, wearing the Golden Puffin on her head like a delicious peanut butter crown. She was claiming control of the room.
So I did what any King would do. The most logical and predictable of my options. I ate her crown.
LONG LIVE THE KING!