By LARRY WOODY
Did you hear about a baby being born last week to some young couple in England?
I think there was something in the news about it.
Prince William and wife Kate presented their new-born Royal Rug-Rat to the world amid unprecedented media mania and public hysteria.
It's not as though Willie and Kate did something that's never been done before. They had a kid. Big deal. Why's everybody getting their Pampers in a wad? How many births were there that same day in Bangladesh?
I don't get the fawning fascination with the British royalty, whether it's the King, Queen, Jack or Ace.
In England the commoners still allow themselves to be called "subjects." I suppose that tells us all we need to know about the Brit's mind-set. After all, they gave us the term "lorded over."
But what I don't understand is why folks here in the colonies (or the United States, as we prefer to be called since winning our independence from, ahem, England) have a similar royal flush.
Worshiping British royalty should go against our collective grain. Remember Bunker Hill? Remember Concord and Lexington and Kings Mountain? Remember the Beatles?
Perhaps I take it personally, given the fact that several of my ancestors played a role in casting off the British yoke. Martha Woody was the maternal grandma of Paul Revere. And my great-great grandfather, James Woody, fought the British in the War of 1812.
Not that I hold a grudge.
Since that unpleasantness with King George III, we've become buddies with the Brits and helped bail them out of couple of tight spots during the past century. But darned if I'll cow-tow to the Crown. I refuse to bend a knee, and it's not just because my gout is acting up.
I'm no psychiatrist (anybody who would go to a psychiatrist should have their head examined) but I have a theory about why so many folks are consumed by the Royal Family. Call it the Fairy-tale Syndrome.
The beautiful princess marries the handsome prince and they live in a magnificent castle. They have splendid wardrobes, dazzling jewels, and troops of servants at their beck and call. They attend symphonies and polo matches and get to ride around in limos and gilded carriages.
If they have a job, nobody can figure out what it is, but so far their checks haven't bounced.
That mystical Magic Kingdom lifestyle has a vicarious appeal to Joe Sixpack and Wanda Wafflehouse as they sit around eating pizza and watching wresting on TV in their rented double-wide. And it's not just Joe and Wanda - even the well-heeled tend to break out in a royal rash every time Her Highness sneezes.
OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. I admit I watched the Kate Wait along with the rest of the world.
I'm glad that the birth went well, and I'm sure Kate and William will be swell parents, even if Kate's not exactly a Soccer Mom and Willie's no NASCAR Dad. The new little guy will be prince of a fellow.
As for the non-stop media circus, we might as well get used to it -- starting with CNN's upcoming two-hour special on the first royal burp.