The View of the Duchess From the Cat & Fiddle Pub

I had loved her, sure. Would probably always–even for as much as I now rather despised her, being able to see her for what she was once the haze of my amorousness had lifted. She was the B-rate actress of my aspiring actor dreams. I rather think I was the one who got her started on her British kick, actually. Maybe she owes me a bit of debt for that. She never would’ve gone for that Harry bloke if I hadn’t primed her for the neuroses of an Englishman (“Ray, you drink like a fish and eat like a cheating diabetic”–it’s all part of coping with one’s culture, you stupid git). I don’t really know why I was choosing to torture myself by participating in this little “pajama viewing party” to watch her get married off for the foreseeable future at the Cat & Fiddle. It felt incongruous to be partaking of this pathetic love-in of British expatriates, the ones that had chosen to settle in L.A., a milieu so antithetical to Britain, it was no wonder Steve Martin once falsely quoted Shakespeare as saying of it, “This other Eden…demi-paradise…this precious stone…set in the silver sea of this earth, this ground… this Los Angeles.” Of course, he was repurposing, “This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,/This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,/This other Eden, demi-paradise,/This fortress built by Nature for herself…” from Richard II, but we shall forgive him for trying to make Los Angeles seem more glamorous than it is. For that is always what people try to do. Though they really have no need of upselling it to the already salivating for sun Brit.

That’s how I came to find myself here, roughly fourteen years ago, when Meghan was nothing more than the sort of forgettable actress (which she would forever remain) to be cast as “Hot Girl” in the Boys and Girls meets When Harry Met Sally ripoff, A Lot Like Love (almost as generic sounding as the Jennifer Aniston–who, yes I also had a brief dalliance with–vehicle, Love Happens). It was, indeed, the day after she finished filming her scene that I encountered her at Ye Olde King’s Head, where, she claimed, she had decided to walk in because the sound stage was nearby. Looking back, though, I feel her flavor for the British man was always present, no matter how latent or “innocent.” She tried to pass herself off as drunker than she was that day, too. But I knew I was far more shit-faced when I brought her back to my apartment, a coveted beachfront shack that we rode the Big Blue Bus to return to (that’s right, her Highness took the Big Blue Bus).

“This is it,” I slurred as she set her purse down with all the poise of a princess. Even through my haze, I could tell she wasn’t very impressed. But still, we went at it like rabbits (even if I’m not a very gifted actor, I have always–but always–been able to get it up whilst three to six sheets to the wind). It was a strange time of day for a so-called “one-night stand,” however. For it was only around seven o’ clock when we had finished our–what I thought was–consummate fuckfest. She didn’t bother trying to be polite by feigning to want to stay, the entirety of her drunkenness seemingly dissipated to the point that she realized how disgusting either I or my apartment was (likely a combination of the two). So she basically fled without so much as a “We should do this again” or “Can I get your number?” Prim fucking bitch she always was. I’d say she belongs at Buckingham Palace, but then all women do. Because they’re all prim fucking bitches. Anyway, I assumed that would be it. Another girl who couldn’t handle a foreskin under my belt and onto the next. But then, much like the very premise of A Lot Like Love, we kept encountering one another–whether at casting calls or nightclubs or the grocery store or agents’ offices. It was like the sexual encounter that couldn’t be shook. So we finally decided to go on a proper date where I would pay and she would at least pretend to be mildly more interested in me than she had in those instants after I had given her an orgasm and therefore no longer served a concrete purpose. I suppose she was still too new to the L.A. scene at that point to know that you’re only supposed to bestow your time upon producers or directors–never actors or writers. They have arguably the least clout other than best boys. But then, Meghan must have known that (her father likely warned her) and chose to ignore it for the sake of a one-off folly, a way to blow off steam after agreeing to partake of a shitty role in a forgettable movie.

Somehow, though, she started to warm to me. I had wormed my way into her heart. Before Trevor Engelson fully could. It was just after me that he got a hold of her. And to be honest, he got the rawer deal in terms of how he was treated. Tossed out like useless, non-compostable garbage when she got her damned “meal ticket” in the form of playing Rachel Zane. She claimed it was the long distance strain on the marriage, but hearing the tale, I knew better. Meghan was an opportunist. You have to be to “make it” in Hollywood. Though I still maintain she never really did, which is precisely why she chose to give up her “career” in favor of being the ultimate missus. Come the fuck on–nobody is in love with Prince Harry. He’s a ginger. I’d sooner believe she was in love with Carrot Top. At least he’s probably learned a few things in the boudoir, not having his looks to rely on and all. To make matters worse for a Cancer such as myself, Meghan is a Leo. Born August 4th. The date Lizzie Borden got arrested for murdering her parents, the date Hitler received an Iron Cross for bravery–recommended by his Jewish superior, Hugo Gutmann–the date forty-five people were killed from a suicide bombing in Abyan, Yemen. What I’m saying is: this date doesn’t bode well. And neither does Meghan. Her entire agenda in life has served but one cause: herself. Like all women, she’s apparently needed a man to sustain that objective. She clearly belongs in that antiquated institution we call the monarchy. Well, I’ve got to give her credit, landing the ultimate conducive-to-her-agenda simp. I guess that’s why I’m here, choosing to honor her relationship like the patriotic Englishman and honorary U.S. resident I am. Meanwhile, another non-actress awaits to fuck me for the novelty of my nationality. I’ve got to go. I wonder if she, too, will become the wife of some “important” ruler in the future. If my English tallywacker is some sort of good luck charm for American ingenues with embarrassing filmographies. I suppose I’ll keep you posted.

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