The Queen Mother, RIP

The day I died was an ordinary weekend. Excruciating, pointless violence in the Middle East, gigantic icebergs calving off the coast of Antarctica, my grandson Charles still an inbred wanker.

We should all be as active for as long as she was. Cheers, old broad!I remembered how I had a quick shot of gin, and lay down to take a wee nap. Then two of my aides came by to check on me.

"I don't think she's breathing, Simon."

"That's what you said last time. Just wait a bit, Wally. This woman will dance on our graves, my hand to God."

"No, Simon, she's really dead this time."

As I listened to them, I kept saying "Woo-hoo! Idiots! I'm RIGHT HERE!" but my mouth wouldn't move.

Next thing I know, I'm stuffed in a box. That hasn't happened since the Blitz, you know. Some bureaucrat is taking inventory of my jewels as he strips them off. What's happening? I can't be dead.

Then there was the funeral. All the family passed by. My poor daughter looked devastated. As Charles passed by, I shouted "Wanker!" but my mouth wouldn't move. I hate being dead.

Then they lowered me into the ground. Wait, wait, not yet! I have a lot of gin to drink! Please, somebody, help me! Get me out of here!

Please, God, I'm only 101!

UPDATE:

The following was reportedly posted on a British "Board of Remembrance" -- we suspect that the entire mess is apocryphal, but thought we'd share:




Mayoral Trivia Page

The Prince and the City

A Message for Jerry

Memo to Al

Dress Code

Nicknames

Russo

Movie

Drinking Game

The Queen Mother

Lake Merritt Shark

Postcard

About KIJE

KIJE Archive Home