When Prince Charles came to our house, his staff told us that he had decided to have a typical home-cooked American meal. My mom hadn’t counted on this, so each of us had to whip up one all-American dish, quick-like. I chose an easy one — pork ‘n’ beans. But as I tossed the can in the trash, I started to feel a little guilty. After all, baked beans were pretty dull, even for us. I figured I should class them up a bit, so I removed the usual blob of pork fat and replaced it with a nice lean chunk of pork tenderloin, grilled to perfection.

We all huddled in the kitchen as the Prince dined alone. When he had finished the meal, and two cups of Yuban, his reaction was relayed to us by his personal secretary. He found the food “delightful.” His only complaint was that the pork in the pork ‘n’ beans was a bit greasy.

I was furious. Ignoring everyone’s pleas, I stormed into the dining room and confronted our “royal” visitor. I really let him have it.

“You’ve got a helluva nerve, buddy! You come into our house and start giving orders like you’re the Queen of England or something. Who died and made you king? Awwwwwwwww, so the pork wasn’t up to your “royal standards” — Boo-hoo! That’s the saddest story ever told!

“I’ve got news for you, pal. Most people never even see any pork in their pork ‘n’ beans! The most they can hope for is a hunk of pork fat! So if “Your Majesty” didn’t find it “acceptable” that’s just too damn bad. Because that’s the best we have to offer, and we aren’t about to apologize for it!”

The Prince was stunned. Clearly, no one had ever dared speak to him in this manner. For a moment, his jaw worked soundlessly in his crimson face. Then he sprang out of his chair and got me in a headlock. I tried to bend his fingers back, but he was much stronger than I’d imagined. He tightened the grip on my windpipe until my head swam and I passed out.

When I came to, I was still in the headlock, only now the Prince was kneeing me in the face. Desperately, I grabbed at his hair, only to feel a stab of pain as his teeth sank into my thumb. I could feel myself starting to black out again. Why wasn’t my family helping me? As I began to lose consciousness, the awful truth finally hit me.

He had bought them off with his enormous wealth!

What is the point of yawning, utterly pointless and it's contagious?

well the plan is still great and all that it's just that all the crawdaddying will be done on the thursday rather than the tuesday. the reason being that no-one goes out on tuesdays except to the hub (which i most likely will be doing anyways)

p.s anyone who doesn't turn up will be branded a Quaar for the rest of their lives