THE first duty of any son is to care for his elderly father’s prostate. Unless you’re Harry, who is nowhere to be seen when he should be soothing Charles’ inflamed spunk gland.
While Prince William rushes to Kate’s side, Harry would rather make a fool of himself with his celebrity ‘friends’ like George Clooney and Joss Stone. If James Blunt suffered painful rectal inflammation, you can bet Harry would be there like a shot.
Harry owes a debt of gratitude to the Royal prostate. Without it Charles could not have produced the milky fluids necessary to transport his spermatozoa to Diana’s demure ova. And now she is dead, never to be impregnated again. Did you consider that, Harry? I sincerely doubt it.
I don’t claim to be an expert on prostate problems, but would it be asking too much for the ginger ingrate to sit by his father’s bedside with a stick dipped in cooling calamine lotion, ready to be inserted into the Royal anus at Charles’ request?
Harry and Meghan are worth an estimated $60 million. They could easily afford a cool box and a stock of Mini Milk ice lollies, the ideal shape and temperature for our beloved King’s troubled rectum.
But in the Sussexes’ glamorous circle everyone is too perfect to suffer a burning sensation while urinating. A word in your shell-like, Harry – Lena Dunham has a spasming bladder. What do you think of your fake Tinseltown world now?
And what of the British nation? As we sit with our ears pressed to our wireless sets, anxiously awaiting news of the prostate, Harry has betrayed us again, a traitor to the Crown who deserves to be strung up like Lord Haw-Haw.
I wish Harry no ill. Like scorpions, he and his shrewish wife only do what is in their evil natures. But when he is old, I hope his prostate explodes with the force of a hand grenade. Only then will he know the true meaning of ‘duty’.