Elizabeth II, the longest-reigning monarch of the United Kingdom, officially died on Thursday, though also possibly she died months ago and the royal apparatus of the U.K. has been sitting on the news; it is fun to speculate about that. At any rate she is deceased. A schoolchild passed Balmoral Castle in Scotland on foot carrying a Cool Ranch Dorito, and the spice fumes in the air caused the 96-year-old to explode.
The death of a celebrity is a lot of things, one of which is an occasion for people to get off their takes: Paul Sorvino Taught Me It Was OK To Be Weird, or Olivia Newton-John Deserved To Die And I Hope She Burns In Hell or whatever. Elizabeth II was either the parasitic hereditary figurehead (most generously) or the authentic hereditary ruler (less generously) of the husk of a spectacularly rotten and blood-drenched empire from which the societies of like a third of the earth’s population have had to spend the last few centuries fighting to liberate themselves; some of them are still working on it. You can imagine people have opinions. My opinion is that this type of shit makes me fucking sick:
Yesterday some British dickweed posted a thing about how British people are extra sad right now because Elizabeth II was their “spiritual grandmother” and I lost like a half-hour only semi-voluntarily noodling out the…
