1, 2, 3, 4, I declare a thumb war, for the throne!
“…and a thumb war is the only kind of war you’ll ever get to declare, dearie.”
Mummy, you need to meet Sir Jack Kevorkian. He does wonders with all sorts of diseases.
I would make a Weekend At Bernie’s joke, but based on her face and his hand, I can’t tell which one is actually alive.
More like, Weekand At Buckingham Palace’s Crypts.
There hasn’t been a handshake this intense since Predator.
Yo what up?
You my dawg.
“What’s da matter, MI6 having you push too many pencils?”
Young man, let me remind you that paper beats rock, loser.
“We’ll never again speak of the time we had Diana killed, deal?”
“You’re senile, mother.”
“No, YOU’RE senile, dear.”
“No, YOU’RE senile, mother…”
“Mother… I want to be king.”
“…and I really want to give a fuck but at my age, I have none left to give.”
“Mum…Royal Highness, remember me? I’m your son Charles, the Prince of Wales.”
“Where’s my pudding…???”
From the dawn of time we came; moving silently down through the centuries, living many secret lives, struggling to reach the time of the Gathering; when the few who remain will battle to the last. No one has ever known we were among you… until now.
“I say protocol be damned, Mother; let’s get married anyway.”
2 lizards having an arm wrestle over who gets to eat the latest virgin the Beefeaters brought in?
The Royal Family begs the Queen Mum to let Charles occasionally win at arm wrestling, but she merely scoffs and says, “I’m not raising any nellies.”
“Charles, will you please shut your fucking pie hole!?!?
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