Originals

The Daily Mail: Discomfort With Our Centuries-Old Breeding Program a Sign of Poor Breeding

We cannot remain silent any longer than the four hours that we have already been silent. Let us be clear. We condemn racism. We extend sympathies to our former colonies, where we hear racism and humidity both occur with disgusting regularity. Here at home, we don’t see racial differences. That’s because there are none – not in elite schools, large corporations, the tabloid press corps, and certainly not the monarchy. Only racist people see race, and we simply cannot envision ourselves seeing it.

We stand by our journalistic integrity. We have plumbed the depths to identify why the divorced, American commoner who married into the curated gene pool of our ceremonial oligarchy is so “grating.” Thus far, our reporting suggests that the Duchess of Sussex is “not the right sort,” which is a character flaw and unrelated to our selective breeding program that involves a handful of church-sanctioned, aristocratic, Northern European families.

To demonstrate transparently that we are not motivated by racism, we are thrilled to announce that one of our best friends is Black. Just four years ago, an African American woman married into Breamore House, family seat of a baronet (who is called “Sir” and the full package), and she now lives harmoniously amongst the aristocracy. It happened when we weren’t even covering it! That’s how little we care about Black people and their experiences. And if that doesn’t show that “Meghan” just didn’t want to fit in, we don’t know what will.

If that weren’t enough, we’ve conducted countless polls of average Britons, offering them palatable reasons for the discomfort they may or may not have noticed they almost certainly feel regarding the “duchess.” The results speak for themselves, and we also speak for them, just to be certain they’re spoken for.



We have never once been swayed by defenders of the “princess” or by claims we use our “quotation marks” in a problematic way. In fact, we pointed out that she is rich and therefore cannot be the target of a “racist attack,” even if she wants to be. Incidentally, quotation marks are simply little dots, and it is an over-reach for anyone to imbue them with the meanings that have been suggested. The computer sprinkles them into news articles arbitrarily. Why blame us for something we can’t control? It’s enough to lead to a “mental health crisis.”

Do not fall for the gaslighting of “that woman.” She played a long game here, every move torn from the gold-digger playbook. It would be laughable if it weren’t so deadly serious. It unfolds like so:

  • First, land a supporting role on the most powerful program on basic cable—USA’s Suits.
  • Next, involve yourself in charity work for years before anyone knows who you are so that you can “casually” cross paths with a prince whose right to the throne recedes each time his brother produces an heir.
  • Brazenly, go outdoors. By tantalizing photographers, you will achieve fame that swells larger than this island, even though there is nothing larger than this island. You’ll cast some type of spell with your image, probably having to do with your hair, which is very straight and upsetting.
  • As you execute this plan, you should behave so – We don’t know what…. Badly?… or as Trump himself said, “Not good?” —that no one likes you.
  • Drain the British coffers with your security detail. Or worse, steal our prince away to a place that’s so superficial and phony, where appearances are everything:  CALIFORNIA.
  • Finally, bully the security detail to hand over their earnings in the form of gold doubloons.  After you pour them from a velvet bag with a victorious cackle, use the riches to fulfill your goal — the founding of an empire called Shrewsylvania or New Trampland.

We are close to having proof for ALL of it, and although that is good enough for us, readers may rest assured we will never stop pursuing the truth and also Meghan. We will keep poking about, even though there’s “something” that we just don’t want to put our finger on.