“You have to feel sorry for him,” I said to my friend last night.
“No I don’t,” she said.
“But when Prince William was 19 or whatever,” I persisted. “He couldn’t really bonk around indiscriminately like any other airhead student. If he had a one-night stand with someone he didn’t know the background of, she might be more than likely to sell her story to the News of the World or the Sun… You can see the headlines – My Night of Doggie Sex with Wee Prince Willie… There’s some slight chance the British press might not publish it. But she would still get money from American or Italian or German magazines.”
“I suppose so,” my friend agreed grudgingly. “But the problem of Royal sperm is worse.”
“Royal bastards,” my friend said.
“Ah,” I said. “Yes. I suppose if some one-night stand got pregnant, you couldn’t really suggest an abortion and the birth of a FitzWindsor might get to be a PR problem later on.”
“Then there’s the DNA,” my friend added.
“You could bottle it,” I suggested. “Bottled Royal spunk. I suppose if Monica Lewinsky kept the sperm-stained dress from her President Clinton moment, anyone who had a one-night bonk with a Royal might keep the actual sperm if they could get their hands on the Royal used Durex.”
“You pooh-poohed the whole idea of selling bottled semen last time I suggested it,” my friend complained.
“But that was as a health drink,” I said. “Royal semen would sell in the US.”
“But it’s only 10cc,” my friend said.
“The rarity value would increase the price.”
“How do you get your hands on a Royal willie, though?” my friend asked.
“Indeed,” I sighed. “We’re not going to make our million with this, are we?”
“And it’s not really funny enough for a blog, is it?” my friend said.
“I guess not,” I agreed.