1981. She was a kindergarten teacher from the sticks. He, heir to the throne of Great Britain. Together, their love burned in a torrid bonfire of passion that captured the imagination of the world. A great love. An epic love. A love that kept Sasquatch off the front page of the Weekly World News.
But like all love, theirs could not go on forever in royal backseats and under imperial football stadiums. And so they were married in the eyes of God. Ominously, during the exchange of vows, neither one get the other's name right.
1982. Di-mania sweeps the West. Every woman in Great Britain and the United States with hair has it remodeled into a blond, molded plastic do known as "the Di". It is the first time since Farrah Fawcett that such widespread female hysteria occurred in the free world.
1983. An ovum drifting down a fallopian tube belonging to the Princess of Wales fuses with a royal sperm and becomes lodged in Her Highness' uterine lining. Nine months later an heir is born to the throne of the British Empire.
1985. During a diplomatic visit to the United States cracks appear in the hitherto flawless facade of the Royal Marriage. At a state dinner in Washington, Di dances with only two men: Clint Eastwood and John Travolta. Concerning the latter, the princess revealed that she had wanted to dance with him ever since seeing Saturday Night Fever. Rumors begin to spread that her husband, the future king, is unable to "do the hustle."
1987. Rumors circulate in the world press of marital tension between the increasingly wild Princess Di and her increasingly aged and doddering husband. The nerd who would be king reportedly capitulates and sends his wife a peace offering. The nature of the gift is not revealed, but Buckingham Palace sources indicate that it "is able to perform the kingly role without premature abdication."
OCTOBER 25, 1987. This is where I come in. My firm "Sex Counselling to the Stars" was on the rocks since the Joan Collins divorce. Suddenly the sex market was glutted. And when the stock market is down, not even investment bankers can get it up. I decide to look for counselling opportunities overseas.
England beckons. In the world's capital of sexual perversion bound up in strict but rarely observed social codes, I hope to find my place mending the sick and undersexed. First stop: Buckingham Palace.
Unfortunately, it seems that an archaic rule prevents drunken Americans from dropping in on royalty. Thinking quickly, I don a fake mustache, cowboy hat, and Texas accent, and pretend to be an oil millionaire interested in paying cash for the domain of Scotland. I am courteously ushered in.
The scene in the palace is dismal. Within the courtyard, acres of wisteria blooms seem lacklustre and inanimate. Even the thick gold pavement on the garden path seems to have lost its sheen. The heads of traitorous peasants bob wearily on poorly-maintained pikes. Entering the main hall, I find the prince sprawled, seemingly in despair, on top of a large pile of wrinkled and soiled currency.
Seeing me, Chuck wearily raises his head. "Look at me, peasant," he says. "Look at my money. Look at my beautiful home. I am one of the richest men in the world. But do you think I'm happy?"
"Yes," I say.
The prince pauses. "Yes, I suppose I am. But I'm peeved. And do you know why?"
"Because you're one of the richest and most famous men in the world, and yet you still have to open shopping malls for a living?"
"Partly," he says. "But it's also my wife. She runs around town until all hours of the night. She's hardly ever pregnant anymore. And she beats me at arm wrestling. It's a bitch."