Queen Elizabeth II Shrinks, Gets Trodden on by Truss

New Liz surprises with bold move

The entire world that lives in London, SW7, is in shock after it was announced yesterday that Queen Elizabeth II had finally kicked the gold-plated bucket at the ripe old age of ninety-six.

The shy girl of German ancestry who bravely sacrificed her personal life in exchange for being the world’s wealthiest woman, the winner of the birth lottery who was unaccountably put in charge of everything before giving her name to a hundred cruise ships, had, during her reign of seventy years, gradually shrunk to almost nothing, only to be accidentally stepped on in her eleventh hour by rookie PM and former anti-monarchist, but who gives a toss as long as you get elected, Liz Truss.

The accident had been a long time coming, but was almost universally seen as inevitable, considering that the mini-monarch had been noticeably shrinking since she assumed the throne in nineteen fifty-three.

At first this was no more than a couple of centimeters per year, which her doctors attributed to her heavy schedule attending African banquets, which tend to be dehydrating, or evenings at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, during which the weight of precious stones covering her evening dress gradually compressed her spine.

As the years passed, however, the subtle smallification had taken a drastic turn, to the point that the late Prince Philip had had to walk beside her in a specially-dug trench so as not to tower over her.

By 1992, an entire miniature replica of Buckingham Palace had been constructed so that the Queen, who at that point was eighteen inches high and losing ground by the day, could appear to be living her normal life of unabashed luxury interspersed with charitable works such as helping the poor, as long as it didn’t entail giving up one iota of privilege and had her name all over it so people could be suitably grateful.


Elizabeth II was born Mitzi Salzburg von Schleswig-Holstein in a huge, listed Georgian mansion in London’s tony Mayfair district, where she was kept in the nursery by a carefully-vetted army of white nursemaids, governesses, and nannies, while her parents remained on the first three floors with the doors locked so they could enjoy adult conversation.

This upbringing, common to the English upper crust, ensured that Mitzi (who assumed the name “Elizabeth Mountbatten-Windsor” after the checkout girls at Tesco started saying things like, “I mean she’s just a bloody Kraut, needn’t give ‘erself airs, that’s why we fought the bloody war, innit?”) would grow up into the sort of stoic, emotionless misfit destined to rule a global rag-tag assortment of loyal subjects.

As former-Mitzi-now-Elizabeth expressed it shortly before her coronation: “It’s not the wealth one minds so much as the common part.”

Her seemingly endless reign was marked by constant travels as she sought to provide comfort and aid to every country where Britain had colonized the people and stolen the resources, which is why they needed comfort and aid in the first place.

As she once famously remarked:

From Rwanda to Rawalpindi, one is touched beyond measure when one finally reaches the safety of the local Four Seasons hotel, changes into one’s second-best tiara, and has a Pimm’s.

Once the chauffeur has scraped the donkey excrement off the bonnet of the Rolls-Royce, it’s off one goes to the banquet with the braised armadillo followed by the dusky-skinned dancers.

It certainly would be a dismal life without banquets, one fears, and thank god for Susan, umm, sorry, The Duke, who always reads the program beforehand, frankly it’s all just a blur to one.

If it’s Tuesday it must be Zambia, as one says!

Her rapidly increasing shrinkage was finally a matter of record after the shocking death of Diana, Princess of Wales, in a car crash in Paris, in 1997. While the nation mourned the People’s Princess, Buckingham Palace remained tight-lipped.

The public, hysterical with grief, begged the royals for a word, a wave, anything to demonstrate they had normal feelings like the rest of us, or even just a bladder. But nothing. Crowds thronged outside the gates to the palace, where they would occasionally spot lilliputian Liz on a window ledge, peeking through the net curtains, before being whisked away and placed in a Peek Freans biscuit tin for safe-keeping by a lady-in-waiting.

Further inflaming the situation was the awkward moment when a couple of American tourists walking through Kensington Gardens spotted the Queen, incognito, riding side-saddle on a corgi, proving that it was life as usual for the unfeeling Royals.

Our microscopic Ma’am finally pulled herself together and rescued the situation with an impassioned speech given inside a specially outfitted Barbie Dream Home, from which venue she reassured her subjects:

“You know, if one thinks of it, which, frankly, one would prefer not to, one is really jolly sad after last Sunday’s dreadful news about, you know, whatsername. Thing. The Sloanie—Yes, that’s the one.

“I mean, let’s be honest, it’s not the worst news one had all day.

But still.

And “convincing” Elton John to attend and perform is going to absolutely blow the budget, one would prefer to use the money to make charitable donations to third-world countries who wouldn’t need charitable donations if it weren’t for us in the first place.

“But taking all things into account, one was, in the end, quite, umm, fond of her, if one thought of her at all, and if “fond” means that ghastly thing where you start to notice other people.

“So, there we have it and how is one doing? Oh, jolly good, well, enjoy the funeral everyone, send us a postcard or something. Occupant, Buckingham Palace. One just throws them in the dustbin but you’ll probably feel better.

OK then. Talley-ho. Pip pip.

Bloody hell, well that’s over and not a minute too soon. Fond, indeed! Now, will one of you overpaid prats please take away the body mic and I suppose one must ask to be given another eyedropper of Ribena—oh, sod, is one still broadcasting..?”


Elizabeth mastered the art of saying nothing of any import whatsoever in ostentatiously palatial surroundings, to an ever-widening audience, beginning with her first interview with the BBC.

Tell us about your typical day.
Well, if I don’t have any charitable engagements with poor people or third-world countries filled with dusky natives, I find it jolly amusing to make Susan—oh, dear, well, that’s what I call The Duke behind his back, so you see it’s bound to slip out in public sometimes—I like to make Susan dress up like a lady-in-waiting and serve me tea and dry toast points in bed.

Charming! And then…?
What d’you mean, “and then”? That’s the whole typical day. Silly man!

Favorite foods?
One is not fussy, anything served on a Spode plate by an inferior.

Any modern trends you deplore?
This frightful new thing for teeth. One doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Queen Mum was always happy with just a bit of white cardboard with a few squares painted in black magic marker. An occasional rinse with Bombay Sapphire gin and you’re good to go.

What do you see as your role in a world where economic inequality is increasingly a cause for concern?
I see oneself as a beacon of hope that one day, one, too, will be able to wear a sparkly dress by Norman Hartnell or live in gilded palatial surroundings entirely due to an accident of birth. Oh, wait, if you see me wearing the sparkly dress, you’re already born—so much for hope! HAW HAW HAW! That was a little joke, did you like it? Think carefully before you answer.

Her Royal Tininess’s uneasy relationship with the media was once more highlighted by the impending birth of her great-grandson Archie, when his mother, Meaghan, Duchess of Beige, revealed that someone had made racist remarks about the potential color of his skin, which made Oprah’s jaw drop slightly less than when the flamboyant homosexual in charge of her soothing facial creams asked for a raise.

Meaghen did not hold back, revealing, “I won’t say who, and maybe she’s known as The Rottweiler and maybe she isn’t, but how do you think I felt when this unknown Camilla person remarked, ‘Well, for the love of Mike, I mean, enough is enough, there’s no precedent, I mean, is the cuck’s sprog a wog, or an n-word?’

“I mean, I’m only just beige and it won’t even help if Harry spends five minutes in the California sun, he’ll still have the same bright purply-red skin tone he inherited from his dad plus the effects of knocking back a two-four before lunch. It’s still all about me.”


Elizabeth came from a long line of random ancestors who, by an accident of birth, got to behave as monstrously as they liked and to remain at a level of emotional maturity that would get a Neanderthal a prescription for lithium.

Notable examples include:

  • the fun-loving, boisterous Henry VIII, who had his second wife’s head chopped off in public because she didn’t know how to tell her body to make male babies, a crime currently being revived as Bill 24 in the US state of Mississippi; and who popularized an early game-show prototype called “unwind the intestines of that person you don’t like very much on a wheel;”
  • her namesake, Elizabeth I, who brought the so-called Elizabethan period to a glorious flowering of exquisite culture, alternating with unwinding the intestines of people she didn’t like very much on a wheel; and
  • Victoria, who allowed child slave labor and was so sexually repressed she had to cover the legs of her piano lest she get “that funny feeling we don’t like very much that our intestines are being unwound on a wheel. Do you get that, too?”


In a moment of irony you would actually pay good money to view, it was left to Liz Truss, the new Prime Minister of Great Britain and former vociferous critic of the monarchy as an institution, to finish the Queen off.

No sooner had Boris Johnson’s hair, which had just resigned, rushed out of the reception room at Balmoral, when Liz, overcome with excitement at her election win, rushed into the reception room at Balmoral, but failed to see the tiny queen tottering towards her on her cane.

A sickening crunch, a quick look at the bottom of her pumps…

“Never trust an ambitious woman, chaps,” was all the press could worm out of her. She wiped what remained of Mitzi Salzburg von Schleswig-Holstein off her shoe with a look of disgust, adjusted her pencil skirt, and, clearing her throat for her first press conference, stepped out into the light.

In other news: Don’t worry, Meaghan is OK. Thank God.


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