Is Pippa Middleton now Vanity Fair magazine’s secret "royal source?"
Someone–a secret "royal source," is blabbing away at how perfect Kate is, how perfect her birth-giving was, how perfect her new babyless figure is, how perfect and easily Kate discharged her pregnancy weight, how perfect life is now, in Buckblebury, or Anglesey, or wherever.
And if Pippa is blabbing to Vanity Fair, then why not to "US" and "The Globe" and any number of mags and newsies that need a secret "royal source?"
Don’t "pooh pooh" me, now!
Pippa, younger sister of Kate Middleton, keeps telling us that she wants to be a writer. But gosh, writing is so exhausting! And it is hard to stay up all night going to the parties of the week, the month, the year and the decade and the century and the millenium, then rise early, grab a cup of java something, and...well, sit down and write.
And by writing, one misses so much! When people invite writers out to parties, writers have to say, "I am so sorry, but I am busy writing, and cannot attend." But when one is a writer AND a socialite, well, why waste all that writing time when one can just so easily spend it shopping for outfits to wear to the party of the year, or be fitted for freebie outfits by designers who would love to stick your sister in one of their flowery, feathery concoctions?
And then one has to face the reality that nobody is following Penguin Publishers’ lead and handing Pippa a million dollar advance for her foody prose that involves tasks none of us really want to do, like making our own eggrolls. Or giving us Pippa’s tutorials on things we already know how to do, like boiling eggs and putting teabags into a pot of hot water.
Pooh! That is sooooooooo unfair!
Instead of writing, it is much easier to be a secret "royal source."
Yes! Just like giving exclusive interviews and taking family photographs of Kate, Prince William, Baby Boy George, and Lupo with his tongue all hanging out, which are then sold to magazines.
Surely, all the moneys so received by the already-vastly-wealthy Middletons and Uncle Gary are donated to worthy, established charities.
Surely Pippa is the source for all the latest info on Kate and Prince William and Baby Boy George comes from. We can’t imagine Mamma Carole being so indiscreet! And genuine royals must have better things to do, like counting the silver, putting away the "good" jewelry after weddings, and puttering around their vast estates, shooting the odd peasant.
I mean, pheasant.
Who else but Pippa would know that Kate had a "perfect" pregnancy without a single varicose vein, except for that nasty snap early on where Kate supposedly suffered from grave morning sickness and a nurse in her ward then supposedly killed herself after accepting a prank telephone call from Australia?
Who else but Pippa would know that Kate had a "perfect" and "normal" and "natural" delivery without surgery, without pain killers, without labor pains, without, apparently, even dilating?
One wonders how Baby Boy George even came out!
And maybe he didn’t, because even while parading Baby George about on the hospital steps, Kate still appeared to be heavily pregnant.
Perhaps golden royal atoms just materialized in the rarified air, and combined to create the most perfect life-form baby!
Instead of icky goo afterbirth left behind in the bed clothes, maybe hot pink flower petals just rained down from the ceiling as Baby Boy George descended from heaven and took on fleshly appearance.
But then, says the secret "royal source," once back in the Middletons’ Bucklebury fortress, Kate has also managed to perfectly lose all that pesky baby weight through rigorous breast feeding.
Now, who but Pippa would know something like that?
Why, only an older man named George Brown.
Yes, George Brown, supposedly a great friend of the Middletons for over thirty years, has announced to one and all that he recently was privy to seeing Kate breast feed Baby Boy George when they were all hunkering down at Bucklebury. George Brown’s account was in the London Daily Mail, and apparently, he’s been interviewed by actual non-Pippa book writers about Kate’s life.
One wonders: Who is George Brown, anyway? And why is he hanging around? Why is he giving interviews?
And why is George Brown watching Kate breast feed Baby George? Does he wear a stained white macintosh? Does he have identifying scars or tattoos? Does he shuffle when he walks? Does he wear pajama bottoms instead of trousers? Is he a scruffy kind of fellow who you might see outside and then yell for your kids to come play indoors? Does he have a record with INTERPOL?
Who is George? And why is he so knowledgeable about Baby Boy George?
The Birth Truthers gag on the very notion that Uncle George might have donated a little something, and so is entitled to intimate visits that include the royal booby feeding floorshow.
Are the Birth Truthers "on" to something? Or is it just tosh and balderdash? But if it is tosh and balderdash, then why do the posted royal protection officers from Buckingham Palace not tell George Brown to "halt" and state his business? And if George Brown says, "Oh, I am an old Middleton family friend, just call me ‘Uncle George,’ and I am here to view the royal breasts feeding Baby Boy George," well, honestly, is it not time to get out the maces and bar the gates?
Instead, Uncle George is let through, and led past the armed guards into the inner sanctum sanctorum where the royal breasts are, supposedly, unleashed in all their engorged milky glory while Baby Boy George blissfully suckles away, and Uncle George gets to stay and watch as the machine guns point down the road and armed helicopters hover overhead, keeping everyone at Bucklebury safe.
Admittedly, Uncle George getting to watch Baby Boy George feed at Kate’s legendary breasts falls short of Coach Sandusky showering with strapping boys in his programs for the underprivileged.
But it still seems a bit creepy. Is ‘Uncle George’ Baby Boy George’s namesake?
George Brown. Uncle George. Baby Boy George. All kinds of thought arise!
But of course, we should know that nothing is amiss, and all is utter perfection with Kate Middleton and all the Middletons, and could never be any other way because we have earlier accounts of Kate’s perfect upbringing by perfect Carole, who apparently created a virtual web of a perfect life that not only intimidated but actually frightened imperfect mothers who may have sent their children to school a bit less perfectly.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Creepy, creepy, creepy.
George, George, George.