Being slowly destroyed by a vacuous tart is the most interesting thing that has have ever happened to Prince Harry, at least up to this point. As
@TheGerman pointed out, it is a method of being broken down that is unambitious and absent any imagination. But so goes the Royal family. Since being shoveled from his mother's uterus, his pre-Meghan existence was mainly as a loaf of bread to be chewed upon by adoring fans of the House of Windsor. The ingredients of his dna being nothing more than a gooey paste, mixed up with chalk, alum, and bone ashes, every facet of his person insipid to the senses.
This is so terribly disappointing. I am sure Harry could have picked a modern Elanor of Aquitaine, but such a treacherous and intelligent woman would likely have found him too boring to notice.
It would be unfortunate, and I think unlikely, if Meghan the Molt were to one day simply up and leave him. The greatest benefit to Hapless Harry will be if she drags him through the worst sewers of Los Angeles B-list celebrity, to (further) publicly humiliate him as he learns of infidelity through the tabloids, to hear from chirping birds how she rants to her girlfriends about his mounting list of shortcomings. From this I pray he elevate himself to, or beyond, the level of Charlie Sheen or Gary Busey by washing himself with an outrageous mixture of whiskey, coke and whores rolled in scat, then capturing the footage on an android device to be leaked to the world. He could emerge as a renowned performance artist. I see the possibility of his life becoming an odd form of agitprop.
From such a wretched experience we could hope for a truly inspired Prince Harry. One whose ambition is nothing short of the glory of God and the restoration of all that is Holy to his sacred homeland.
I am calling upon Prince Harry to rise like the Phoenix from the shit ashes of a burned out shit life and unleash the lion that once roared from its perch upon the English throne and embark on a 10th Crusade, eclipsing all of its medieval counterparts for its ferocious consumption of human life and bloody spectacle. One day the exiled would-be-king should return to England to claim what is his, to lop off the head of that decaying cunt of a queen and impale it atop a pike at the gates of Buckingham with the rest of the Royal family strapped to bedposts while the working class take their turns with them as compensation for all of the looting done since 1901 when this wretched bloodline first infested the palace.
His marching hymn shall be ELP's Jerusalem (Blake being a bit much for Harry to consume):
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy lamb of god
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear, oh clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Til we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land
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