Prince Charles Didn't Do Shit

ll of England is in a froth this week as rumors circulate about a deliciously dirty secret tucked deep into the cranny-holes of the House of Windsor. What exactly has a former manservant alleged about that most buck-toothed of Casanovas, Prince Charles of Wales? Newspapers all over Britain are bursting at the bylines to gush about this vile and heinous morsel, a tale promised to be so lurid and shocking as to rip the top of your head off and skullfuck to death your children who have still yet to be born.

But one obstacle remains to the commencement of this public orgy of disclosure: nobody can say what Charles is supposed to have done. Nobody; not the press, not your shopkeeper, not even a little talking cricket with an umbrella. Thanks to a lawsuit brought by yet another of Charles' deposed butlers and England's medieval libel laws, the mere mention of the Prince's alleged crime is enough to get a man strung up by his sweetmeats and fed English food intravenously until hell freezes over, or one of the Spice Girls wins the Nobel Peace Prize. In other words: pack your earmuffs, Gary Leon Ridgway.

This strange tale of anonymous denial and dueling ex-butlers has grown bizarre enough to make Charles's possible crimes almost incidental and likely disappointing in comparison, but regardless curiosity dangles an anvil over the cat's cranium with a vengeance this week.

"The Prince of Wales didn't do shit, and any shit it is alleged he may have done, was not done by him, regardless of whatever exactly that shit entails," Charles's private secretary Sir Michael Peat read from a prepared statement. "We won't say what it is he didn't do, but only seek to make it clear he didn't do anything. At all. No matter what you're thinking of, Prince Charles didn't do it. Furthermore, Charles penned this quote he wanted passed on to the general public: 'I ain't done shit, and you sons of bitches can kiss my inbred royal hiney until it shines. Love, Charles.'"

Managing editor for the Times, William Barclay, agreed to speak to the commune after consulting with his lawyers over how the letter of the law looked upon libelous "hints" and "warmer, colder" guidance. After being convinced that no one with a law degree would be caught dead reading the commune, Barclay agreed to evade our questions in an answerlike manner.

Did Charles… fondle a butler?

"No, absolutely not."

Did he have sex with a piece of antique furniture?

"Not that we're aware of."

Fluff a chicken?

"No."

Pork a stork?

"No."

Are we close at all on the sex thing, are we at least warm?

"We're not at liberty to divulge that information."

Nuts. Was that him in Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty" video?

"I am certain I don't know."

Further inquiry clarified that the alleged offense did not involve dressing an elephant up like a cheerleader, cannibalizing the corpse of a dead war hero, eating an entire case of crisps in one sitting or drunkenly crashing his car into a whale's vagina. He also never choked on a pretzel, had his body painted to blend in with the London cityscape, or smoked Van Gogh's ear in a hash pipe. It is likely there were several more scenarios in which the heir to the throne did not take part, but this reporter was escorted out the door before he could fully formulate one involving Paddington the bear, marmalade, and the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.

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I've been working at the commune for way too long.

Sure, this was true after about day three, but now it's way beyond true. Some office skinflint just reminded me that this week is the fourth anniversary of the commune publishing on a regular basis, which is something like celebrating the day you got bit on the nards by a shark. The scary thing is that Omar Bricks was here even before that, back when we were all working on the much-preferable "When the Fuck Ever" publishing schedule pioneered by High Times.

It was never my plan to stay here for so many years. Actually, my original plan was to pose as an employee for a day so I could drive my dirt bike around inside the office after everyone else had gone home. I also thought I might be able to make off with some fax paper to sell on the black market, since that shit's expensive and employee theft isn't generally considered stealing. It's like a pitcher cheating in baseball, wiping his nose on the ball or shooting the batter with a blowdart or whatever—they consider it showing initiative.

Even the business dudes who get caught with their dick all the way into the cookie jar still get off relatively easy, compared to real criminals. They embezzle millions and end up with a sentence of five months at some white-collar fat camp, with all the quiche you can eat. Whereas if you stole that kind of money from a casino or something, they'd chop your balls off with a lawnmower, or at least track you down and coerce you into pulling off another fantastically unlikely international caper to pay back to dough.

Anyway, in the end that was all a moot point since the commune didn't have a damned thing worth liberating. It was like trying to get blood from a stone, or dogshit from a dead dog. Everything that wasn't bolted down had already been carted off by the commune's longer-tenured employees, or perhaps had never been there in the first place. But who puts together an office with only one chair? Just that first day, the chairfights were like something out of Lord of the Flies. Hell, I didn't get my own chair until I'd been here for two years, and that was only because we raided Crochet!'s offices for supplies and whatever strong-backed temps we could herd into the elevator.

I did get to ride my dirt bike around the office and tear shit up that night though, and that almost made a day's worth of Rok Finger's rants about why nobody makes black toothpaste worth it. I'm still not sure why I came back for Day 2, I guess mostly to see if I could pull it off, but that ended up being a pretty weak challenge. I just acted like I'd always worked here, and nobody'd been paying enough attention to doubt it. I even won "Employee of the Month" my first month here, since I was the one who found the key to the men's room after Sampson L. Hartwig baked it in a cake and tried to use it to get his dad out of jail.

Back then I was still worried about the legality of fraudulently seeking employment in a field in which you have no training or expertise, so my "Employee of the Month" plaque had my fake name on it, Phil Donahue. Actually, that plaque's still up in the break room, and last year we all had to listen to Gay Bagel lecture us all on living up to Phil's example, which was pretty funny since it's my picture on the plaque. But Phil's become something of a legend around the commune offices since he's the perpetual Employee of the Month, due to someone blowing up the plaque-making equipment trying to make an Omar Bricks Bowling Jesus trophy during my second month here.

Incidentally, Ned Nedmiller still calls me Phil, whenever I see him down at the wishing well with his metal detector. Jesus, I've been working at the commune way too long. Bricks out.

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No one wanted it to come to this. Sure, if you checked with Arvelyn, or my other ex-wife, several of my children, or anybody on the commune staff, a number of them may have wanted it to come to this. But no one I like wanted it to come to this: A duel to the death.

I have besmirched the name of Boguslaw Sadowski, and it's no small feat to besmirch his name, given he's a dirty red con-man, heartless thug, and general bad cookie. But the time for words has passed, at least until we resume the slander trial. I for one won't wait that long. The duel is ten days from now. One of us will be dead by the time that trial rolls around, making it a lot easier case for the other guy. Though the survivor will get stuck with court costs, that's no free lunch.

The besmirching in question began two days ago, when I came home to find Boguslaw Sadowski in my home, talking to my wife in that unintelligible Russian blather they both know. Mob boss and Sting-lookalike Yogi explained to me Boguslaw would be moving in for the next few forevers, or until he could find his own place. Well, something snapped in me, good people, probably a couple of lower vertebrae, and I lost another inch in height. That I'm used to, but being made a fool of in my own home, and being completely aware of it, that's something I'm not. As if to make things worse, I noticed Boguslaw, talking to Felchyana still, make the international hand symbol for asshole, which I won't share with you decent folk here.

That was it, I was incensed. I grabbed the nearest thing I could and threw it at the mad Russian, a bucket of confetti I keep on hand for emergency purposes. At first Boguslaw was delighted, then he realized the intended insult and was driven into a mad rage. He threatened to cut off the fingers of all my living children in response, which I laughed off—if he's got that sort of time, good luck to him, right? Then he decided it was more effective to pick me up by the ankles and hang me out my own window.

Well, I've been hung out windows by better than he and didn't bat an eye, but the insult of doing it to me in my own house, in front of my non-English-speaking wife, and revealing my unsightly ankles to the whole world. Boguslaw Sadowski made an enemy for life that day, good people, and the difference now is I told him to his face. I slapped him with a glove I keep for duel challenges, and it left quite a welt, being a rubber surgical glove. I then pulled it taut and snapped it in his face, and his eye has been bandaged ever since—hopefully that will effect his aim quite a bit. Since we are dueling in ten days, as I aforementioned.

You all know I am not afraid of death, when it is happening to someone else. In this case, though it comes for me, I will stand proud against it. Boguslaw Sadowski may fire an endless barrage of bullets in my direction, though technically that will be against all the rules of the duel, and I will not falter. If he tries to kill Felchyana and Camembert and Lee, I will not weaken. If he kills my ex-wife Arvelyn I may even send him a nice thank-you note and an FTD bouquet. But whatever happens, no matter how logic argues with me, I will not back down from this challenge.

For I have been insulted with an obscene hand gesture by a man who barely speaks the language, good people. And some things defy common sense. Rok Finger are one of those things.

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