The Royal Baby Reviews His Trip To The U.S.
On arriving in America:
Mother, Father and I landed in New York to great excitement. Unfortunately, all anyone could talk about was mother’s “baby bump.” Amidst all of the glamour, I was but a royal tote bag. Know this now, Bump. You shall not usurp my position in this family.
On New York City:
This land smells like caca. In a year or two I will be potty trained, yet the citizens of New York can make in the streets. Preposterous.
The first night:
No sooner had we arrived at the Carlyle hotel (which I take to be America’s attempt at a poor man’s castle) than my parents were taken from me to attend a fundraiser. I made my fury known for a good half hour until I finally settled down with my milk and a delightful program about a sponge that wears pants. He’s naughty.
Father flew to this nation’s capital city to meet with the President. Apparently Father joked with him about “the chaos of my birth.” So I am to be the butt of jokes, am I? You intend to use my arrival, the best day of your entire life ever, as small talk? Well, just wait until I learn to talk, Father, for I shall describe to the world the size and shape of your penis. Spoiler: the phrase “unusual scent” will also be used.
Meanwhile, Mother went to Harlem to meet with all of the disadvantaged children she finds more important than her own offspring. But never fear, Sophie The Giraffe and I laughed and played for hours.Â Then I ate crayons.
Father returned today! He and Mother went out to spend the day playing tourists, visiting the 9/11 Memorial (too scary) and the Empire State Building (too tall). Sophie, who is my only friend, stayed behind with me at the hotel where we explored all the buttons and wires in our suite. There were many, and it was a stupendous time. That evening, Mother and Father went to a basketball game, where they met Jay-Z (too cool), Beyonce (too shiny),Â and one Lebron James (that means “The Bron” in French), who had the nerve to touch my mother about her shoulders. That will not be forgotten, large man. When I become king in 60 to 70 years, I will strike against your descendants to avenge the sullying of both my mother’s purity and her Tory Burch coat.
Thank Christ we go back to England tomorrow.