I Found The King Of Everything

(all must bow before his magnificence)

Noted thinker and social commentator Khyan Mansley once offered this gem of advice: ‘Once you start wearing slippers outside, life has either gone bad, or you are the king of everything’. And, in following this most eminent of teachers, I have found evidence of his brilliance: today I found the King Of Everything.

I was just getting back in to my halls, having been to karate to learn to protect myself like the bodyguard-less pleb that I am, when I beheld him. I was wearing ‘clothes’, those most foul of bodily coverings, that only serve to distance our own natural beauty from the appreciation of those around us, and had upon my back in which I carried my meagre possessions. But the King had none of these trivial things.

He wore a white dressing-gown, the nobility of which was perhaps only enhanced by the greeny-yellowy splodges around the collar and under the arms, the reasons for the existences of which are clearly beyond my peasant’s mind. He wore it loose, as any royal should, bearing just enough of his toned, patchily-haired chest to involuntarily arouse me, and instantly impregnate female observers of his radiance, yet not enough that I was satisfied by what was offered to me; this both protects the King’s privacy, and further vilifies me for having the greed to desire more of this man’s sweet rack. For it was, from the glimpse I snatched, a pretty sweet rack.

In his hands were not a rod and sceptre, for our monarch has no need for antiquitous emblems of power; no, he carried – in his own hands no less, the true man of the people that our King is – a Sainsbury’s carrier bag full of cans of Strongbow, and an opened can of Strongbow Dark Fruit. Legend has it that this beverage can only be healthily consumed by those with the bluest of blood, and that the edginess and gloominess of this drink will erode the nervous systems of any commoner who attempts to drink it; like if you were to drink diesel oil. Or a bleach and snakebite shot.

Yet upon his feet – and I say ‘upon’ for the King does not wear footwear, but pounds them into the earth as the insignificant pieces of cloth they are – were his slippers, the source of his power. They seemed a simple pair to one so uneducated as myself, with a single thick strap over the unbound toes, and a thicker still rubber sole that the King has presumably used to break the necks of fallen tyrants, and the spirits of vile uprising peasants. Truly this was the footwear of not only a king, but the King, one whose words are law, whose rule is unquestionable, and whose superiority over the other humans he has the indignity of sharing a common ancestor with is obvious. To him, we owe it to ourselves to bend our knees.

But it must be said that the King was wearing socks under his slippers; and at the risk of sounding like an insurgent, that’s so 2014, babe.

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