Shall this plebe return a prince?

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Well, by the Grace of God, and your love and support, we are off to the old country—for those of you who still confuse Miami (OK) with Miami (FL), that’s England.

Last time we went to Oxford, we stayed in London a few days as we will be able to this time as well.  While in London, we went to the Queen Mother’s palace—referred to in Arkansas, as the place with indoor plumbing.  Although we did find her residence extraordinarily comfortable, we were a little peeved by a couple of things.  For one, she wasn’t home.  Secondly, when I explained to one of the gentlemen standing around that we had traveled a long distance to talk with her, he did not even respond. 

Now, where I come from, (Arkansas) that would be considered rude, and well, down right dumb.  You see, we Arkansans are taught formal etiquette, as well as the protocolic delicacies of such encounters from the first time we attend a family reunion.  I mean think about it, why act like a boor at a family reunion when one day you will more than likely be there wooing someone to become your mate for life.

I remember well when Gina was the envy of all of the cousins.  They could tell that I had an eye for her—a hankering for my artless friends.  And, you guessed it, before long she was no longer Cousin Gina (second cousin twice removed on my Uncle Hubert’s side of the family twice more removed), she was Mrs. Ronnie W. Rogers.

Now back to the visit with the Queen Mother. It wasn’t as though the gentleman we asked concerning the Queen’s whereabouts was busy; as a matter of fact, there were quite a host of them, and none of them were really doing anything, just kind of standing there staring off into space.  Oh well, never let it be said that this old dog can’t learn new tricks.   I have taken extra precautions to make sure she will be there this time.

You see, I have come to realize that apparently the Queen is a tad busy, and you can’t just drop in on her unexpectedly; I have astutely deduced this by recalling that there were large crowds in her house at the same time we were there to see her.  I mean they were standing on the lawn and meandering through the palatial corridors, obviously looking for her as we were.  So, you can see that we were not the only ones who were apparently disappointed by her unexpected absence.

Well this time, I e-mailed her that we were coming, and that we would have some time to meet with her on Monday afternoon.  Note that your pastor is not resistant to learning from the past; I am not going to repeat the same mistake.  Further, this visit is not without purpose.  I have a couple of questions that I think she can address.

First, I want to ask her, what is the deal about expensive hotels not having bathrooms or air-conditioning?  What is the deal with that?  Haven’t they heard of Motel 6?  More importantly, I want to share a couple of things about me, which I believe may indicate that I am a descendant of the Royal family.

Now when I told Gina that I thought I might be related to the Queen Mother, she said, “It is more likely that you will find yourself in ‘Darwin’s tree’ than the family tree of the Queen Mother.”  I must admit, that statement is a little over my head, but it doesn’t seem to be a compliment.  Oh well.

Out of sheer modesty, I have not mentioned that I am quite possibly royalty.  However, on more than one occasion, I have actually seen empirical evidence that seems to confirm this conviction.  Heretofore, the following information has not been disclosed to anyone.

You see, for many years now, I have noticed that when I bump into something, I get a bruise just like any other commoner; but here is the difference and the undeniable truth, the blood in my bruise is blue.

Of course that may not signify much to the non-sophisticates—sunbathers in Miami Oklahoma—reading this article, but for those like me whose childhood, should I say, was aristocratically favored—we went to many family reunions—it appears to be incontrovertible evidence of royalty; as you sophisticates are well aware of, royalty are also known as “bluebloods”.  That’s right, royal blood is blue and plebian blood is red.  Now you can see why I must speak with the Queen Mother.  As a potential heir to the throne, I must cast off my anonymity and plebeianism.

I am sorry that I did not tell you of this somewhat auxiliary furtive motive for staying a few days in London.  But rest assured, when my nobility is confirmed—as it shall most assuredly be—I shall not forget all of you who have stood by me during these many years of undeserved ignobility.

No, I shall be the same pastor as I have been in the past.  I assure you that future guest to our castle I mean church, will not notice any changes.  Well, except for the crown I will be wearing when I preach; and of course I will need a throne and Ryan and Randy will probably have to call me “Your Majesty” and I’ll need…but other than that I will be the same old guy.  Thank you my loyal subjects I mean friends.

Indebted

The Monarch I mean your pastor (WOW this royalty stuff is a tad bit even for an Arkansas sophisticate)