Every other month, I pull into Buckingham Palace
to pick up Her Majesty for our trip to the Red Cross
Bloodmobile. When we arrive, I help her fill out
the paperwork, and when we get to the part about
blood type, I write Royal and underline the O
and add a little plus sign meaning positive. Both of us
hate needles so we talk about how poorly the Cleveland
Browns played last Sunday and we get so mad we barely
even notice the needle’s prick. As we’re waiting for our
bags to fill, we keep talking and I finally ask her what’s
the deal with having royal blood and how it can it be any
different from my blood or Paul Newman’s? Then she
peeled off the tape holding down her needle, taking
a few of the royal arm hairs with it, and took out her
needle and dabbed a bit of her blood on my tongue
and surely enough, it tastes just like the Crown Jewels
and the tears of Oliver Cromwell and then I knew
she was ordained by God, or at least that’s what I thought
until she read my expression and said that’s just the
inbreeding, love before adding keep this between you
and me, we’ve got loads of tourist revenue on the line here
as she tucked a one-pound note in my pocket with her face
on one side and Isaac Newton’s on the other.