Queen for a Day

Mrs. P has kindly reminded me that, as a result of my recent Ghoul Pool win, I am queen for a day and subsequently have the right to issue two royal decrees.

But before issuing said decrees, a few questions must be answered. You see, being queen for a day is not as simple as it seems, because there are a multitude of contingencies one must take into account, all of which bear on said edicts soon to be uttered by my royal lips. First off, what is my territory? Or, for the legally minded, my jurisdiction? Am I queen of, say, the entire world? But surely not, for that right belongs only to the Queen of Heaven and Earth, the Blessed Virgin Mary Herself, whose role I could not usurp, not even for a day, not even for so august a win as the Ghoul Pool.

My gaze, then, turns toward those countries with existing monarchies--but out of the handful, which to choose? As I spent two lovely years there, England, perhaps? But then how would one explain the existence, even for a day, of a French-Vietnamese Catholic monarch sitting on the British throne, when the Act of Settlement is still in force and the oaths sworn during the Chrismation Liturgy would send me straight to Hell? Oh no, my dear Britannia, you will not do.

Traveling a little eastward, one might consider Denmark, which would be in need of just such a queen as I to help restore its Viking soul to its Catholic pre-Reformation glory. The thought of consorting with the Crown Prince Frederik also appeals. But the very fact that I met, fell in love with, and was unceremoniously dumped by a Dane I met at Oxford rules it out. Karsten read Theology at Wycliffe Hall (named after the 13th century heretic), and was just the sort of tall, grey-eyed, intelligent, mysterious sort of man my inexperienced, unconverted, 22-year-old heart could delight in. We spent a week together in France doing all sorts of very unCatholic things, my youthful amour growing all the while, only for him to tell me most politely while reading the morning paper on the train back to London that our little affair was just that and no more, thus taking my inexperienced, unconverted, 22-year-old heart and tearing it up into a thousand tiny bits on the cabin floor. Heartbreak on the Eurostar. So, Denmark, you can thank Karsten for my refusal to be your queen for a day.

Perhaps instead I might be queen for a day of the country in which I reside. But then that would mean scrapping the Constitution, the three branches of federal government, and the separation of powers to set myself up as Supreme Monarch, with powers second only to George W. Bush himself. On second thought, I suppose that wouldn't be so bad. My first course of action would be to assign myself a trusted advisor; Elizabeth had her Walsingham, Henry had his Cromwell, and Mary had her Maitland (and then she didn't, and then she did, and then she didn't, and then she once again did), so Christine must have her own worthy sidekick. One mustn’t make such decisions lightly; the Queen’s advisor must not only be bright, capable, and experienced, he must also have the appropriate gravitas. It doesn’t hurt to be good-looking, either. That puts me rather in a bind because practically everyone in the Peperium clique fits the description. I must, therefore, go on instinct with this one, and choose the sole clergy member who frequents the blog and enlightens with each comment: Fr. M. True, he may have been a hellion in younger days, but a decade in the priesthood has surely mellowed him out and lent him the appropriate gravitas.

On to the royal decrees. As I am only allowed two, I must choose wisely and carefully. After all, the United States of America is in a great mess, and I have any number of issues to concern myself with: abortion, divorce, war, corruption, Justin Timberlake. As the last issue is far too disturbing and troublesome, we’ll go with the first.

The First Royal Decree
By royal command of Her Majesty Queen Christine, it is hereby proclaimed that:

Whereas the Honorable Nancy Pelosi is a self-proclaimed Catholic mother of five who refuses to recognize the sanctity of life;

Who regularly commits sacrilege by receiving Holy Communion week after week while obstinately and publicly persisting in her error;

And who utilizes far too much hairspray;

In exercise of Our Power as Supreme Monarch for one twenty-four hour period over the United States of America, We hereby decree that the Honorable Nancy Pelosi be soundly spanked on the bottom as many times as she has declared herself “a powerful woman” in public speeches since her ascendancy to the position of Speaker of the House. This will take place on the National Mall promptly at 8 a.m. every twenty-second day of January each year until the Honorable Pelosi publicly and openly repents of her position with regard to abortion.


The Second Royal Decree
Be it herein enacted that the Honorable Hillary Clinton will perform the public spanking of the Honorable Nancy Pelosi on the National Mall promptly at 8 a.m. every twenty-second day of January each year until the Honorable Clinton publicly and openly repents of her position with regard to abortion.

(Addendum: As Our trusted advisor, Fr. M strenuously objected to the wisdom of such measures; but, consistent with the nature of Our Office, We have overridden his undoubtedly prudent advice and look forward with satisfaction, nay, delight at next year’s anniversary of Roe v. Wade.)