Get Naked Like A Royal

Once upon a time, in a land about eight time zones away, there lived a handsome prince and a lovely duchess.  A century ago, she would have been considered a princess, but there's some technicality nobody can figure out involving bloodlines and a wicked old queen, so we're going with "duchess" for this tale.

The prince was a studly guy who enjoyed a good time, especially those involving Mead Light.

It came to pass that the studly prince engaged in some friendly games of chance involving cue sticks in a place called Ye Olde Sinneth City. 

Being somewhat vain, and a smidge intoxicated, the prince appeared before some people (not his people, mind you, but they were probably somebody's people) and proclaimed himself to be the greatest Beer Pong player in the world.  As is the habit of people who go around referring to themselves as the greatest, he insisted that he be clothed in only the most exquisite garments.  In fact, he claimed that his royal togs were so magnificent, they could only be seen by those equipped with magic spectacles, called "Beer Goggles."

None among his entourage wanted to appear ill-equipped in his presence, and all agreed that the prince's outfit was the most wondrous they had ever seen.

However, after an unsuccessful game of Strip Polo, the prince was beheld by one honest woman who was Beer Goggle-challenged. 

"Alas," she said, or maybe it was "egad" or "forsooth" or one of those other medieval interjections peasants toss around while in the company of royalty, "I am bereft of Beer Goggles, and therefore cannot partake of your splendor."

"Fear not," the studly prince replied.  "Have you not a Telecommunication Device of Wisdom?"

"Yes, m'lord," the wench replied.  "I have a smart phone."

"Then simply engage thy iPhoto app and capture my haberdashery in all its royal wonderment."

The hand maiden, or maybe ankle maiden, or upper left incisor maiden (when your family owns an entire country and dresses up in crowns without the intervention of a mental health specialist, you can basically get away with having maidens for every anatomical part) complied and captured several images of the Ginger-bred man in all his glory.

"I don't see it," the maiden said once she had examined a few snapshots.

"It's right there," the prince counseled her.  "Behind the philodendron."

"No, that's a tube of ChapStick," she replied.

"I meant my fine new clothes," the prince said.  "Can't you see them?"

"No, m'lord, I see no threaded finery.  I did, however, notice that you really are a natural redhead."

The prince gathered his peers around the device, each in turn offering compliments regarding his couture. 

(Censor's note: "peers" is a disgusting, obscene term that has no place in a family newspaper, particularly after the line a few sentences back about having servants for every body part.)

(Author's note: It would only be distasteful if the scene involved his compatriots standing at a trough in a men's bathroom.)

"Sire," the woman finally said.  "Methinks thou art nekkid."

"Nonsense," the crowned royal said after downing another shot of Crown Royal.  "Fire up thy Facethbook and let's get a few million other opinions."

And that's how the studly prince's crown jewels wound up on TMZ.

The moral of the story: Never show off your German bratwurst when it's obvious you're from Vienna.

As for the lovely duchess?

She got caught with her top off while hanging out in some French guy's back yard.

(When you're only a duchess, you're not afforded the privilege of having your folly spun into a fable by Hans Christian Andersen.  Just ask Sarah Ferguson.)

Scientists are continuing their tests of Ye Olde Royal Water Fountain in search of an explanation for why British Royals continue to have so much trouble keeping their clothes on (above-normal levels of tequila content are currently suspected), and whether there's any truth to the concern that there may be Kardashian blood running through some of their veins.