Trust me, I have some very good sources on this. They all agree: Being a king stinks. Royally. First off, there are the hours. Kings work all of them. If there’s an emergency at night, be ready to get up, because you’re king. Inconvenient war starting in the middle of the play-offs? Tough. Kings don’t get to have vacations, potty breaks, or weekends. Instead, they get something else: responsibility. Of all the things in the world that come close to being crapaflapnasti, responsibility is the most terrible. It makes people eat salads instead of candy bars, and makes them go to bed early of their own free choice. When you’re about to launch yourself into the air strapped to the back of a rocket-propelled penguin, it’s that blasted responsibility that warns you that the flight might not be good for your insurance premiums. I’m convinced that responsibility is some kind of psychological disease. What else but a brain malfunction would cause someone to go jogging? The problem is, kings need to have responsibility like nothing else.
