King George

King George the turd, his mind a tangled cassette tape chewed by the fat fingers of madness. Porphyria, they called it, a medical gremlin burrowing through his royal grey matter. His thoughts, once pronouncements of imperial dominion, devolved into a cut-up nightmare – muskets firing teacups, Parliament dissolving into a vat of jellied eels.

The American colonies, already a hive of revolutionary hornets, saw their King deteriorating into a drooling marionette, yanked by invisible strings. “Taxation without representation?” they sneered. “Try ruling without a functioning frontal lobe!” The rebellion, a virus spreading through pamphlets and smuggled muskets, found its perfect petri dish in the King’s decaying mind.

But the revolution wasn’t the only mutation. With Georgie on the verge of becoming a drool-soaked crown ornament, power oozed, black and viscous, into the hands of his son, the Prince Regent. A man built like a overripe sausage, his brainaddled by endless flutes of champagne and a parade of courtesans with morals looser than a courtier’s purse strings.

Yet, from this decadent stew, a twisted evolution. The divine right of Kings? More like the divine right of a decent dose of laudanum and a firm grip on the reins of power by Parliament. The once absolute monarchy, a creaking juggernaut, began to shed its chitinous armor, revealing a softer, more “constitutionally suggestive” underbelly.

King George, the “Mad King,” a pawn in a cosmic game of royal dysfunction. His descent, a car crash on the information superhighway of sanity, leaving a wreckage of lost colonies and a mutated form of British rule. A testament to the absurdity of power, where empires crumble under the weight of a monarch who couldn’t distinguish a crown jewel from a particularly fetching chamber pot. A cut-up nightmare made flesh, a lesson scrawled in blood and madness: even Kings are susceptible to the meat grinder of history.