Although members of royalty have been know to correspond with other members of royalty, rarely do they take quill in hand to write Letters of Complaint. Usually, they are more direct and rather prone to dispatching couriers who behead the offending parties.

Now and then, howver, exceptions are made to this custom, either because of the physical inaccessibility of the offender or simply because the Royal One has a natural inclination for putting words on paper.

Here is one such letter found in the hip pocket of the pants of a flamenco dancer who passed away last week in a cheap bordello in Spain. Unable to pay for his arroz con pollo, he was thrown out of his hotel, leaving his pants behind him. A chambermaid (who has requested we withhold her name as her parents think she is really a bullfighter) found the letter and gave it to the author in a burst of generosity. The letter is from a queen of Spain to a sailor named "Chris," and it is dated October 14, 1492....

Chris, mi querido,

I don't know if this letter will ever reach you. I am going to put it in an empty Port wine bottle and hope it hits your Gulf Stream, or whatever you call it.

As you know, it's been over two months since you left town. (Did you put my garter on the mast of the Santa Maria like you promised? Naughty boy!) I hope you're doing O.K. Frankly Chris, I think you been going a little strong with the Madeira or something because that bit about the world being "round" is too much! I don't want to get on your back, Sweetie, but have you ever noticed, for instance, when a ship is coming over the horizon? You see a little bit at a time. Right? Why? Because it's coming straight up from the other side which is pure perpendicular. Also, if the world was round people would be falling off all the time. That just isn't good thinking, Chris. But I promised to butt out and I will.

Not much doing around the old palace. (Also, how come, if it's round, I have a square globe on my desk?) We took Granada last week from the Moors. Ferdinand (you remember him) has been chasing the Moors out like crazy. Gets a big kick out of chasing them down the street, hitting them on the head with his sceptre. Ferd says we should get rid of them all. He says they're all Commies. I couldn't care less.

What I'm writing about is this. You know all those jewels I gave you to hock so you could buy the three ships? Well, the other night Ferd and I went to a little off-beat spot for some espresso and Danish, and he asks me where is the charm bracelet he gave me for Mother's Day? I like to died! I gave him some wind about leaving it in the powder room at the Doge's Palace, but I don't think he bought the idea.

I was wondering -- could you stick the charm bracelet (if you haven't hocked it, too) in a bottle and send it to me?

Love,

Izz

P.S. Also, if it is round, how come the streets don't have big hills on them?

The next letter was found in a box of fresh shirts returned from the author's laundry this morning. It was written, according to the date of the postmark, in 1777. The handwriting is rather elaborate and difficult to read, what with royal seals stamped all over it, but, on examining it closely, it appears to be signed by one Marie Antoinette, Queen of France.

Semi-Fini Cake-Mix Co.

Cannes, France

Gentlemen:

I have before me the letter containing your generous offer to endorse your ready-mixed Semi-Fini Devil's Food Cake.

First, let me sincerely express my thanks for your offer. A thousand gold francs and a dozen boxes of the cake mix is a most tempting offer.

However, when I spoke to my husband, Louis, about it this morning, he felt that we should see what the copy is that would go with the endorsement. From your letter, I see that you would want to do an oil painting of me holding the box of the Devil's Food Cake Mix while pointing at it with my forefinger, upon which you want one of the royal rings.

Louis would also like to know: Would this be done with or without the Royal Crown? If it is done with the crown, Louis feels that this is worth an extra hundred francs. Also, if any of my attendants are to appear in the painting, would there be some fee designated for them? The last time we posed was purely for promotional purposes, an oil painting billboard with myself and two ladies-in-waiting saying, "See France This Summer." The two young ladies raised quite a stink when they found out it was a freebee. Also, are you thinking of my pouring the milk into the mix? If so, I have a lovely bowl you could use that I brought from Australia with me. It's terra cotta. But would terra cotta be sufficient background contrast for Devil's Food?

Now, a word about the copy. Louis feels it shouldn't be too commercial. He has written some ideas which I will copy down here for you. He feels that he would want either these (or others as dignified) in keeping with our position.

"You Can't Beat SEMI-FINI for Kitchen Funnee."

"When Dad Has a Hard Day in the Fields from Morning to Night, a Cake Made from SEMI-FINI Will Make Things All Right." That one seems to be a bit wordy. But the following one isn't bad.

"What's for Dinner, Marie? Just Wait a Moment and You'll See!"

As for myself, I like them all. (Although I still feel the second one is a bit wordy.)

We're all quite excited about your offer, down here at the Palace. Goodness, I had no idea my little "Let 'em eat cake" would create such a fuss.

Royally (and for "SEMI-FINI," you can bet!),

Marie Antoinette

Sometimes, Royal Letters of Complaint lead to further correspondence and, in one known case, romance. A tourist poking about in an old castle, formerly occupied by a Prince Charming and a Princess Cinderella, found this letter written on parchment.

Royal Palace
Castle Road

Cinderella Smith
Frugal Street
Dear Miss Smith:

You may have heard by now that I have been searching all over town for the owner of a glass slipper with a broken heel that was left at my Father's Royal Ball last Saturday night. Reliable sources have informed me that you were the young lady wearing the glass sliper.

I would like to point out a couple of things to you, Miss Smith, that have prompted this search. When you left the ball at midnight last Saturday, one of the pages pointed out that you must have been dancing for free all evening as the back of your hand was not stamped as a paid admission nor were you carrying a press pass.

I think you should know that the one ducat admission charged by Dad for his annual ball is hardly enough to pay for the orange punch and the candles, let alone the cost of the orchestra. (Do you have any idea what Hot Lips Haydn and his Crazy Violas run to for an evening? And the fellow on the vibes is extra.) In all the years Dad has run these affairs, he has never once increased the price one farthing. Where else are you going to get for that one ducat charge:
General admission
Barbeque'd Quail
Corn-on-the-Cob with Whipped Creamery Butter
Dancing to three-piece orchestra (guarantee of six minuets and Paul Jones windup)
Moonlight Moat Ride
Party Favors.
You go into town and you're lucky if a wandering minstrel lets you stand within six feet of him for that kind of money. Only a deadbeat would try to beat Father out of the ducat.

Then, there is the matter of those glass shoes. In the first place, glass shoes went out with wedgies. You couldn't be more declasse if you showed up in Khaki pantaloons. On top of that, your glass heel busted just before Pops went into his specialty trepak which he dances in the tradititonal manner, barefoot! It's a lucky thing you left. He sure would've chewed you out.

So, I run down the steps after you, with a couple of guards in tow. But when we get to the driveway, what? We slip and fall on our cans from those slippery pumpkin seeds and all that mice dung. What the hell kind of car you driving, anyway?

I will be up to your place personally to collect the ducat. You be in.

Royally,

Prince Charming

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