Every time I let it drop publicly that I am a monarchist, I get some kind of smarmy comment or another.

Usually the first comes from the effeminate gay set, or the oh-so-hip straight types.

“Oh, you just want to be the Queen of England”.

Please. I have better taste than that. For one thing, I look lousy in drag; with my big shoulders, hairy legs and beer gut, my drag name would be “Marpusha, the Ugly Russian Woman.” For another, genesis of our nation or not, I consider England a tinpot throne far inferior to about six other monarchies, so why would I want seventh-best? If I actually wanted to be anyone, I’d pick Emperor of Austria, which would give me a fashionable and Catholic country, good food, oogobs of wine and cool outfits, without actually having to get into too many unpleasant wars. Wars, after all, have an unpleasant tendency to make the meringue fall atop one’s dessert. Worse, they interrupt the after-supper figure dances, which have been known to solve more international intrigue than three wars combined.

Then, of course, you get the folk who jokingly propose an American monarchy. Invariably, they pick the opposing side, to demonstrate my foolishness. Republicans suggest the Kennedys, Democrats suggest the Bushes. Well, I’ll tell all of you now that I’d not have either dynasty; the Kennedys may be Catholic but they’re Yankees and they got all their money from bootlegging. I don’t mind their cheap affairs and rumrunning—actually, I respect both—but I mind very much their inability to keep such things behind a wall of potted palms.

The Bushes, on the other hand, have been spoon-feeding artifice to the American public for years—and, political toddlers that we are, we suck it up like so much Pablum. Nouveau riches in Yankeeland, they packed up their plastic in their old kit bag and moved to Texas—which embraces such things—and declared themselves good ol’ boys. Tacked some Woolworth pearls onto Big Mamma to make her look all homey ‘n all—but still bought their boy’s way into Harvard. Note, if you will, that the lordly Byrd family—who settled Virginia when the Bushes were still rooting potatoes somewhere in an unpleasant part of England—could NOT get one of their idiot sons into William and Mary. It does seem that things such as new Texas money and Yankee greed stick together; just as do Southern pride and pigheadedness.

So, in my ideal world, where the Habsburger and Hohenzollern and Bourbons have regained power, who would I suggest for the United States? Well, surely none of our current dynastic options. I say that we let California do its own thing. It always has anyway and somehow, through a cloud of patchouli, papparazzi and pot, it will make out. We’ll let Texas split off as well. They’ve been yelping superiority over the North and claiming themselves the home of true Southern-ness for a century; let’s turn them out on their own and see how long they last. (When they fail miserably, which should take about seven weeks, we can reintroduce them as someone’s colony.)

Maryland and Virginia should be small independent principalities. Since the Calvert family—the Lords Baltimore—have long since died out, we can name a Carroll heir as reigning head of house. Virginia could pick a Carter or a Byrd, although given Virginia’s Anglomania, they might just want to rejoin the British Empire.

The overwhelming advantage of a Carroll-dominated states is clear. The streets would be no better paved than they are now—for Christ’s sake it couldn’t be worse—but gentility would take a front seat. The order of the day would be “curtiseye and gentilesse”. Perhaps the lines at the Motor Vehicle Administration would be no shorter, but the population would be courteous, well-behaved, and pleasant, and everyone would know precisely which well-polished fork to use.