Well. Fug Nation UK, it seems as if this will be airing in your neck of the woods sometime next week. All I can say is that I’m sorry, and that I wish this show aired with the disclaimer, “The following television program in no way reflects the opinions nor intelligence level of American people, and in fact, all of the approximately four people who watched it in the U.S. only did so to scream at it. #NODISRESPECTTOBENAFFLECK.” And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I turned up for episode two. Join me if you dare.
Previously: Jankmaster Flex here is pretending that he might possibly conceivably maybe be Prince Harry, because the Laserdisc of facial recognition software declared him a 99 percent match.
I think the next James Bond movie plot involves him breaking into America — as you do; we have very good deadbolts on the door — and burning the masters of this show. FOR ENGLAND, JAMES.
In which we hope the swan chose exactly this moment to relieve itself all over his name.
The show begins with Kimberly poking the premise with a stick:
She points out that she just doesn’t believe “they” would let Prince Harry around a bunch of crazy American girls. “I wouldn’t. Like, that should be a LAW,” she says. I suspect Prince Harry really enjoys being around crazy girls of all nationalities, because he’s a saucy ginger cad, and that the Queen routinely sits down with him and sighs and puts her head in her hands and grumbles, “JUST WRAP IT UP TIGHTLY MY BOY.”
Unfortunately, the impact of Kimberly’s instinct that this show has nothing to do with Prince Harry is blunted somewhat by her belief that shirts have nothing to do with shoulders.