Battle royale

We really shouldn’t care.

There’s a faction that thinks we should. In the past few weeks they’ve taken to the airwaves, print and the Internet with the breathless excitement of a small child racing to tell his parents about the frog he caught in a mason jar. The difference is that a kid catching a frog, quaint and ultimately inconsequential as it is, has the benefit of being somewhat interesting. Especially if you’re the frog, which you’re probably not, since frogs can’t read.

But a baby? Well, those are born every day.

In all due respect to William and Kate, I don’t mean to suggest that the birth of a human being is a trivial event. Heck, I was born once. I suspect most of us were. I rather like that I was born, since in the intervening years I’ve had the opportunity to ride a camel, go to Disney World, and master “Yankee Doodle Dandy” on a plastic kazoo, none of which would have been possible if my parents hadn’t split a six-pack one cold December evening and thrown caution to the wind. Things haven’t all been roses – I’ve had the unfortunate experience of seeing Justin Bieber pee into a mop bucket (thanks, YouTube!) – but all things considered, my birth was one of the most important events of my life, second only to the time I broke a personal record by stuffing half a bag of marshmallows into my mouth. College, am I right? Good times.

So yes, the birth of the royal baby (which I refuse to capitalize) is a happy event, in the sense that it’s always a happy event when a baby is born healthy, and without that freakish sixth finger that makes it difficult to find a practical set of gloves. It’s nice to think of the young couple contentedly doting on the rosy-cheeked little tyke, especially since, while they do it, I’m thousands of miles away, safely buffered from the scent of the royal poop.

Just don’t ask me to don a party hat and celebrate. We are, after all, talking about one of thousands of babies who are born every day, none of whom are likely to enjoy the international attention received by the brand-new Brit. At this point, the only child likely to garner such media coverage is whichever one emerges from the womb scratching a tiny goatee and postulating solutions to the world’s energy crisis. And, unlike the heir to the throne, Goatee Boy will have done something to deserve it.

“But wait!” you say. “The royal family is a treasure, and this birth is a monumental event!”

 To which I respond: “Bollocks!”

Before I rip into the British for worshipping a family that’s done nothing to earn its wealth, I should note that we do the exact same thing in this country – and I’m not talking about the baby fever of the past few weeks. In the United States, we obsess over reality “stars” that essentially contribute bupkis to society, save for crappy TV shows that serve as nothing more than placeholders for Sham-Wow commercials. These celebrities – a term I use loosely – make oodles of money for the sole act of inviting cameras into their homes, shamelessly stimulating our voyeuristic impulses and acting all the while like their newfound fame is a birthright. They’re the winners of a warped karmic lottery, but by the viewing public’s own consent, see themselves not as lucky, but entitled; benefactors of their own perceived awesomeness. They think they’re royalty, and who can blame them? We do nothing to convince them otherwise.

In all fairness to the royal family, there’s a pretty wide gulf between them and Honey Boo Boo. They host charitable events, hold meetings with foreign dignitaries, and draw tourists to the British isles, which is a considerably larger contribution to their country’s economy than simply hawking laundry detergent and nose-wrinkling body spray. Although I’d love to see Prince William in a Snuggie commercial, sipping wine and twirling his feet around in a pair of Cookie Monster slippers.

But is all that worth the expense? I’ve been doing a little digging. I hesitate to use as strong a word as “research,” since that implies things like effort, and giving a hoot. But by snooping around, I turned up a recent article by Olga Khazan, global editor for The Atlantic, which estimates the cost of subsidizing the royal family at about $51 million annually – before factoring in things such as security detail, and the cost of preparing for royal visits. That swells the price tag to something in the vicinity of $307 million, according to Khazan. It’s a hefty price to pay for British citizens, and all for the privilege of watching the Queen wave to a crowd from a parade float shaped like an anthropomorphic teapot.

At least we don’t pay a tax to watch Honey Boo Boo. Imagine if we did. I picture legions of anti-tax patriots, clad in frilly petticoats, chucking televisions into Boston Harbor.

I get that it’s a tradition, this royal nonsense. But so was witch-burning, slavery, and dropping acid at Phish concerts, none of which did a damn bit of good for anyone. (Well, aside from making Phish tolerable.) The royal family isn’t an inherently evil or immoral institution, but it is outdated. Shame it can’t be dissolved with the ease of an antacid tablet.

I wish young Prince George a healthy and happy life. Beyond that, I simply can’t muster the strength to care.