So I woke up this morning to discover Prince Philip had died. In the span of a few vertiginous moments, my emotions swung widely from indifference to mild interest and back to indifference. I went through the five stages of grieving 99-year-old men I didn’t know pretty quickly. I got to acceptance in no time, and then finally settled on crossword puzzles. It was a real roller coaster ride.
I don’t want to seem callous, but the guy was 99. And part of a family that really exists just for show. They’re a glorified animatronic Chuck E. Cheese band, if we’re being honest.
But for some reason, conservatives love them like they love every outmoded institution filled with out-of-touch white people. And so when one of them dies—again, at the age of 99—there’s got to be some nefarious reason for it.