The New Yorker Discovers Prince Harry's Diary

This is too funny. Find it online, here.

PRINCE HARRY: THE ROYAL EXCERPTS by Paul Rudnick
Issue of 2005-02-07Posted 2005-01-31

Since all of that fuss regarding my wearing a swastika armband at a recent costume affair, I’ve decided to keep this sensitivity journal, charting my increasing awareness of the feelings of others, especially those of different races, religions, and smells. Why, just last week I attended a synagogue service, where I wore a little crocheted tea cozy on my head and, during the prayers, I tried to sound like I was continually clearing my throat. I’ve also been watching reruns of “Seinfeld,” a television program that features a Jewish comedian, who seems quite amusing, particularly as he cavorts with other Jews. And, to atone for my much publicized and disgraceful ignorance, on Monday I approached a Jewish schoolmate and announced, “So you’re a Jew. I’m so sorry.”

On Tuesday I explored people of color. Just by peering out of my palace window, I glimpsed so many wonderfully varying tonalities, rather like paint chips. And I pondered: Wouldn’t it be marvellous, and an ideal illustration of brotherhood, if we could just line up everyone in the world by gradation, with the English people right at the front? Immigration is simply a matter of every nation assembling a complete box of human crayons, and never forgetting even those shades which no one ever uses, not if it’s a picture of a bright sunny day.

I’m becoming even bolder in my quest for communion, so on Wednesday I sought out male homosexuals, not limited to those in my immediate family. I’ve heard that homosexuals often enjoy cultural pursuits, so I lingered in the men’s loo at one of our popular West End musicals, hoping for an informative chat. Everyone there was remarkably friendly, even offering home phone numbers and constant references to my grandmum. Feeling refreshingly comfortable, I told one snappily dressed fellow, “I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t find you morally repellent. Perhaps if I got to know you better.” Later I was quiveringly excited to come upon a lesbian, but when I questioned her Camilla replied, “That’s still not funny, Harry.”

I want my sensitivity to attain a sweepingly international scope, so I’ve been travelling in disguise these past few days, hoping to befriend Americans. To prove our kinship, I wore a great mound of padding and spoke very loudly. I immediately experienced a true bond with Yanks everywhere; I felt that we shared so much more than merely the gleeful bombardment of Muslim lands. I practiced yodelling “Hi!,” “Howdy!,” and “Does that come in extra large?,” all phrases useful at both shops and bistros. I eventually mingled with a band of Texans outside Big Ben, who were asking their guide, “So which Prince is the moron?” As we chortled together, all I could think was: Poor Andrew.

I’m still working on the Chinese, or is it the Japanese? Whenever I approach them with my jovial martial-arts kicks, they all roll their eyes, or as much as they can.

I most especially wish to truly understand and appreciate women, and not simply as back-alley mistresses. I’ve made a concerted effort to treat females not as sexual prey but as utter equals. In keeping with this idea, I’ve begun regaling various young ladies with the very same questions I ask of my male chums, such as “Do you think those are real?,” “Does that one seem drunk yet?,” and “Would it be cricket for me to shag Fergie, now that she’s thin?” I’ve learned that equality simply feels so much better and that’s why, at my next costume bash, I’m going to appear as a proud Jamaican wet nurse.