Royal Wedding Madness

Hearing about Charlie Sheen has become bi-annoying, and we’re running out of handsome celebrities to dump Jennifer Aniston, so Us Weekly grabbed “the Royal Wedding” and held on as tight as any of MTV’s Teen Mom’s budgets. The bloody horse is dead, yet we continue to beat it. We are as excited about this monarchial marriage as Rebecca Black is days that start with “F” and end with “riday.” We-we-we so excited. We can’t quite bring ourselves to delete the DVRed Lifetime love saga of Prince William, and have even put some serious thought into buying one of those engagement heirloom ring imitations, but any classy sister laughs in the face of cubic zirconia…and imitations. (Yurman, get on this, stat.) So why are we so excited? Answer: The closest America has come to aristocratic nuptials lately was Chelsea Clinton’s democratic monstrosity of a wedding, and she’s about as cool as knockoff Norts.

So, this Friday, when we kick our frat daddies out early enough for them to make their 6 a.m. tee times, sisters everywhere will throw on their tiaras, butter up their crumpets and have an early morning tea party – pinkies up ladies. Cheers to our new infatuation, Kate Middleton, the bitch who yanked our proverbial fairy tale dream, taking Prince William off the market and Lindsay Lohan out of the tabloids. Does anyone else find it strange that she’s almost royalty so now the media has changed her name from “Kate” to “Catherine?” How pretentious! It must have been “Catherine” that snubbed the now famous British soldier and then kicked him out of her soon-to-be extravaganza of a wedding. Oh well, Prince William is balding anyway (Rogaine bloke), and starting to look a little like a horse in his old age (like father like son). But fear not my sovereign sisters, there is still the polo-playing, single and sexy Prince Harry.

I know, I know, Prince Harry is a full-fledged ginger with a slight case of rosacea and no King-to-be, but he’s the next best thing. And let’s face it, any high profile royalty member that has the audacity to dress up and trot about town in a Nazi uniform has got my heart (kidding…calm down). This means we have to take out Snooki-tanned Chelsea Davy, Prince Harry’s on again, off again oxymoronic white-Africa slampiece threatening our last chance at royalty. We’ve just added new curriculum to the MRS Degree: mastering the British accent. Worst-case scenario, one of us can be William’s Camilla. Just don’t let it be someone from my sorority…slut.

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