Screw all y'all! I'm the king! That means God already decided what I do is right. I don't need to go hither, thither, and yon handing out alms to peasants like that schmuck Good King Wenceslas. I don't want to hear about that self-absorbed twerp anymore!
In case you hadn't realized by now, peasants are supposed to starve to death; that's why they're peasants and I am king. If God didn't want those losers to die of famine then he wouldn't have had me raze their crops for my super-sized lawn-bowling field. The sooner they freeze to death, the sooner God will be able to focus on blessing my St. Stephen's Day feasting. I worked hard ordering my guards to whip my servants so that the goose and duck could be fully fatted and I better not have to listen to any more hagiography about that wannabe-boy-scout Good King Wenceslas while I am indulging my royal appetite. No one likes a fawning fan-boy at their dinner table.
No one likes a goody-goody-two-shoes either, so Good King Wenceslas can shut his engorged cake-hole then use it to kiss my ass. What a show-off! We get it already! You want to be a saint! Stop pretending that you spotting some low-life serf struggling across your estate was an inspiring coincidence. Of course there was some pathetic planter trudging along there, I'VE BEEN EXILING THOSE MONGRELS FROM THE SAINT AGNES FOUNTAIN AREA SINCE FIRST SNOWFALL! (I want to convert that fountain into a wading pool for my pheasants and Saint Agnes was a total hag anyway.) You were probably waiting with your slack-jawed page since daybreak for a one-toothed serf to make his way by your window.
And for Christ's sake, stop trying to make yourself look like Jesus, you self-aggrandizing weiner-hole! The beard and the white robes were already over-the-top. Now you are walking in front of people to make their path slightly less arduous? Could you be any more transparent?
Maybe next time you want to go rescue some dime-a-dozen farmer from the cold you shouldn't bring a pint-sized page with you when the snow is 2-feet deep. Why do you even keep those midgets around? Use my test: if a page or squire can't break a peasant's forearm with one blow of their club then they shouldn't be on your secondary barn staff, let alone in the divine presence of a king.
I would tell you to get off your high horse, but you aren't smart enough to have one. Never thought of that, did ya? Riding a big horse through the deep snow? Or a pack mule to carry all your alms and other crap? You're not impressing anyone with your masochistic bravado. I mean, no one in the village is saying, "Hey did you hear about Good King Wenceslas? He made some holes in the snow with his fat feet. What a hero!"
Sod off.
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