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The Revenge of the Royal Sex Puppet

I have always wanted to use that headline.

Now I, like many other guys out there, have my carnal idiosyncrasies. My biases in that regard tend to be rather boring. Ponytails and dark-rimmed glasses on girl-next-door types, kind of a Tina Fey thing, is the lascivious extent of my intimate predilections.

But then, I’m not the Duke of York.

For yes, we read in the legal papers of one of the women who is suing the…I guess now estate of Jeffrey Epstein, that Prince Andrew likes to use a hand puppet in his own likeness when he is pawing women as foreplay.

I am not making this up. Google it. Oh hell, here.

Not to make light of the victims of the late d-bag Epstein. One hopes he is not resting in peace after what he did to underage females. But the Duke of York? Well, he’s more than fair game because when your family makes a living out of being famous you should then try to be famous, not hilariously infamous.

Does the puppet have a name? Does Andrew do a funny voice to go with it?

Is it like, “Aye lass, I’m Randy Andy and I want you to be my temporary consort!” said in a hideous cockney accent?

Or maybe, in heavy French idiom, “Sacre bleu mon cherie! Monsieur Baguette needs ze attention.” Perhaps not likely.

Whatever verbal magic the Duke of Pork employed in puppet-fueled seduction, the basic question is: Why?

He’s a rich good-looking Royal Navy war hero and his mum’s the Queen. Sure, there have been family issues and his heritage is mainly that of German usurpers, not ancient British royal blood at all. But for over two centuries they’ve done a pretty good job with the crown and you can’t hold the Hun DNA against them forever.

So again, why, Your Royal Highness, the licentious marionette?

As a U.S. Army veteran, I’d like to think it’s a Navy habit. Because swabos are more than weird enough to be into that. But nah. It’s probably just the revenge of privilege.

Not the made up by leftists “white privilege.” But legit and anointed royal privilege.

When you grow up and spend your adulthood pretty much getting anything and anyone you want, there must be a little voice inside of you (a voice which will now catch hell again from mom and dad) that tells you to push the envelope.

Oh, I can buy any car I want? Fine, put a Jacuzzi and raw bar in that Bugatti.

I can live in any castle I like? Okay, tear that one down and rebuild it out of Pixy Stix.

Most women want to bed me? No problem, let’s see how they like my alter ego, Prince Pervo.

No matter why, the British tabloids are going to feast on the Duke and rightfully so. Live by publicity and have the taxpayers foot your bill? Get hammered by it too. And this is nothing, compared to the already veering off the tracks train wreck that is his nephew’s wife Meghan. She also has a puppet…

He goes by the name of Harry.

The opinions expressed here by contributors are their own and are not the view of OpsLens which seeks to provide a platform for experience-driven commentary on today's trending headlines in the U.S. and around the world. Have a different opinion or something more to add on this topic? Contact us for guidelines on submitting your own experience-driven commentary.
David Kamioner

A veteran of service with US Army Intelligence, the Pershing Nuclear Brigade, and the First Infantry Division, Kamioner is a graduate of the University of Maryland’s European Division and spent over twenty years as a political consultant, college instructor, non-profit director, and corporate PR director. He hails from New York City and grew up in South Florida. He served with the American Red Cross as part of the relief effort for Hurricanes Katrina and Rita in 2005 and Hurricane Sandy in 2012. For several years he ran homeless shelters, most recently homeless shelters for US military veterans. He currently is a Senior Contributor for OpsLens.com, a writer for American Greatness, and the Editorial Director of This Week in the News with Drew Berquist. He is the author of the novel "Prisoner of the Chattering Class" and lives in Annapolis, Maryland.

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