Eeps, I mean, Albert abdicating the Prince Regency and giving up Victoria's hand, because of course the throne was not his to hold or give up.
I swear I knew that already, really.
And I'd elaborate on the things that come to mind when I imagine Pete looming in the weird plasticine whimsy of a D-World an Adventurers Club, but that would just lead to another iteration of the A word, so I'll be merciful and refrain.
juliana, YES. We should do a Bourne and absinthe night (not that absinthe is particularly Bourneian, but since Matt Damon spends most of his time in the movies running or driving or skulking through grand and slightly decaying European settings, it's not
that
much of a stretch).
juliana, YES. We should do a Bourne and absinthe night (not that absinthe is particularly Bourneian, but since Matt Damon spends most of his time in the movies running or driving or skulking through grand and slightly decaying European settings, it's not that much of a stretch).
Now who's jealous? ME. That's who.
JZ, Albert was the Prince Consort, not Regent (sorry ... too much Georgette Heyer during an impressionable period)
Oh, dear God! I used to know this stuff, I swear! Anyhow, he wasn't king. I'm quite certain of that. And thus, in our plan, he was expendable.
Well, depends on how you define "expendable" - Victoria thought he was pretty important. But he died young - she could have still married Lincoln!
Comic-Conning. Send booze.
Comic-Conning. Send booze.
So jealous!
So, I'll send you booze, if you promise to go by the Dark Horse booth tomorrow and get me Gerard Way. Does that work for you?
Well, sure, Victoria blah blah blah lovecakes whatever. But, for the good of both nations, how could either one of them have failed to take the nobler course?
We had a whole long long speech about the Civil War-era US, dragging the toddler metaphor out to the land of ludicrosity: a tiny child who wanted to be BIG and do it himself, indulgent Mother England lovingly permitting him to do so in 1776 (merely out of the goodness of her motherly heart), and now it's late afternoon and the US has missed his naptime and broken his favorite toys and his knees are scraped and bleeding and he's a hot sweaty runny-nosed mess, and it's time for him to admit that he's not such a big boy after all and to lay his head once more upon England's maternal bosom and cry himself to sleep.
I'd actually love to go back and redo it; with the current maladministration in place, I'm certain we could take the metaphor and draw some real blood with it.
We should do a Bourne and absinthe night (not that absinthe is particularly Bourneian, but since Matt Damon spends most of his time in the movies running or driving or skulking through grand and slightly decaying European settings, it's not that much of a stretch).
I find this plan both brilliant and beautiful.
So, I'll send you booze, if you promise to go by the Dark Horse booth tomorrow and get me Gerard Way. Does that work for you?
Get me JDM while you're at it, will you? He's bound to show up there, what with CK, JA, JP, et al hanging out.
