Mt. Farina erupts on the Royal Wedding Dress

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I’m trying to cook breakfast.  I make a layered mini-casserole of it: hot cereal with maca and toasted flax layered with yoghurt and Honey Bunches of Oats and milk.  My secret recipe. The TV in the next room is blaring about the Royal Wedding. Both the Huffington Post and the Drudge Report reek of nuptuals. The in-your-face, in your room, in your breakfast excitement rivals the Olympics.

We got a WEDDING! Wow, oh, wow, wow. The excitement of excess!!! But excess isn’t really all that exciting when you stop and think about it. It is mostly wasted motion, fun little trinkets of plates and silverware specially made for the occasion, lots of bells (no wonder the peasants wanted to revolt), flowers, corsages and nosegays for every nostril, specialty foods created of unique ingredients with DNA spliced genes specially made for this historic, nay,Legendaryday that marks, well, essentially nothing.

OK, royal kids, it’s a good thing to get married, and have fun, but well, the impact on my life of your nuptial future together will be zero. And really your stuff is none of my business. I’m only glad that my tax dollars did not pay for any of it. If the Brits were a bit more savvy about merchandising the whole thing, their taxes might not have to pay for it either.

A spokesperson on the tube actually says it is the British taxpayers way of participating and they have the opportunity to be thankful for being allowed to participate.

TV Announcer: did you love the dress?
Attending street crowd cheers wildly, drowning out announcer for 15 seconds.
Announcer: And what about her stunning hair?
Again, the crowd cheers wildly.

The blaring TV cuts away to an advertisement for a weight loss program. I realize that every woman watching wants to be the bride in a fairy tale wedding: At least we have a real woman as a public model of femininity. The Royal Weddings have produced several stand-up women, and that’s pretty good.

As the wedding proceeds into some churchy rants about creeds valued by the few bought at the cost of the many, I get distracted and dump the ground farina into cold water. Crap. You just can’t do that. You gotta add the stuff slowly after the water boils, so I try the microwave instructions. Gotta stir every 30 seconds. That’s a pain. And if for some reason, the mixture starts to bubble… Oh, My.

The company only published directions for Microwave cooking. They did not give directions for cleaning the resulting disaster. Boiling mush powered by rogue microwave energy will erupt and stick to the bowl, the oven, the sink, everything, even the show on TV.  The bride didn’t even have time to duck.

The time to harden into glue is measured in nano-fortnights and the bride’s dress got splattered! The fairy tale wedding would end in disaster and it’s all my fault.  On live TV, yet! A major OMG. Luckily, the remote control was unguarded at the moment. I punch buttons like a wild-man to rewind the signal (do I have to figure out yet another irritating menu scheme for every f**n gadget!?!?) and carefully scrape the goo off her dress and press ‘continue’.

The royals hardly noticed the interruption.  I’m just glad thatDon Knottsis my TV fix-it guy. I did only have seven seconds, and I think the British Taxpayer has the opportunity to be happy that I fixed it before everyone saw goo on the bride’s dress. Bill Clinton would have been pilloried again.

Bill, you owe me one. This Wedding Fairy Tale is on me. 

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