People are always so polite.  Sometimes, if you are impolite, polite people look at one another and slowly, gently, and disappovingly, shake their head.  They slightly and politely pucker their lips and slightly and politely sneer-up their nostrils.  They glance at eachother so slowly, so politely, and with such brevity, that the shared message is “the fellow is so impolite that I’m giving you the bare minimum response needed to acknowledge what we both know: that this urchin is despicable.”

I contend, however, that their politeness is false; is a travesty.  That below the large scale artifice of politeness is a whirlwind of nasty.

A rare candid shot of Queen Victoria during a lacrosse match

Take, for example, the Queen.  Who politer?  Why, she must define polititude.  Indeed.  However, politeness cannot run through the depths.

In fact, this queen sits uncomfortably on a chair.  Her queen blood is likely collecting in pools in her ass-cheeks.  Nothing polite about that.

As she sits stiffly, breathing measuredly in and out through her most noble of noses, the mucus membraine within dries to a crisp, forming large crusty snotballs that sit steadfast in an ocean of slime.

As she listens to the instructions of her handlers and the photographer, the inner walls of her ear canal become smudged in a sludge of yellow, fetid wax.

While waiting for the shutter to snap, the queen’s noble anus is clenched firmly shut by muscles largely outside her conscious control.  These muscles prevent the massive landslide of feces from sliding from her regal intestine.  If it weren’t for that one involuntary muscle, she’d be as malodorous and depraved as the most thoroughly alcohol’d reprobate.

Certainly the porcelain queen wouldn’t have armpits where odors fester and hairs slither out with reproachful  slowness– certainly, so polite is she, that a massive pubic bush is not straining against itself to levitate her regnant underpanties?  Certainly not.

While gripping her mighty staff, a raging orgy of bacteria is staged on every square inch of her body.  Her hands, her lips, her gums; all are ceaselessly engaged as host for a saturnalian fuckfest of microbes of all race, colour, and creed.

And yet, as her bowels churn and her anus grips and her viscera moan and her mucus dries and her earwax thickens and her bush explodes and her armpits fester and her microbes fuck, we still think her the paragon of politeness.

True politeness would have these foul bodily diseases under wraps.  True politeness isn’t merely engaging in behaviours that hide the unpleasant, it’s about eradicating such.  Yet modern politeness is little more than a collection of banal deceptions; legerdemain for a crusty upper-class to appear dignified over the savages.

I’d ask the Queen myself how she came to be so duplicitous: but I wouldn’t want to break up the orgy.