When I Am Queen Of The World
First off, bow, dammit.
I am your Queen. You will honor and obey me, or die.
(any resemblance to your marriage vows is purely coincidental)
Here are the new laws for the whole world, effective immediately.
POLITICS:
If you declare war, or vote to declare war, you will be the first out on the front line. If you are too old and decrepit to be out there, you will be wheeled out into a mine field, by your favorite grandchildren. Don’t worry, Gramps, they’ll get the same kind of body armor and medical care that the regular troops in your country get.
The problem with democracy is that only crazy f***heads want to be president. In view of recent difficulties, apparently only STUPID crazy f***heads can be elected in the U.S.A, because their daddy’s friends own the companies who make the voting machines. Therefore, all Amurrican citizens will be IQ tested, and the president of the United States will be randomly selected by me, Queen Of The World, from a big box of shiny ping-pong balls with all the smart people’s names written on them. I will wear a sparkly dress, like Vanna White, and smile a lot during this grave procedure.
FASHION:
Rule 1: There will be no spandex clothing manufactured over size ten. Fat chicks must not be allowed to wear spandex, ever, and that includes me.
Rule 2: Wearing form-fitting exercise clothing anywhere but a gymnasium or the privacy of your home will be strictly illegal, unless you look good in it. This will be determined by the fashion police, who will immediately ship you to Iraq with faulty body armor if you are caught waddling through a shopping mall with back fat hanging down over the top of your bicycle shorts.
Rule 3: Anyone suspected of having an eating disorder will be sent to Dr. Phil’s Happy Fun Time Boot Camp, to be located in a leaky shack with no plumbing, in scenic Darfur.
Rule 4: If you are apprehended by the fashion police and found to be Paris Hilton, or one of those icky twins, or a member of a boy band, you will be shot on sight, on general principle, unless you are already at the Happy Fun Time Boot Camp.
ONE LAST THING:
No more Twinkies. You heard me. NO MORE TWINKIES. The filling is made of sugar and whipped beef fat.
WHIPPED. BEEF. FAT.
Figure it out for yourself, pervert.