It’s too bad you can’t recycle a king. Too many toxic components. You’ll just have to settle for tossing him into the landfill next to the vast panorama of billions of burst diapers, a legion of blue Chevettes with permanently stuck driver’s side doors, vistas of coverless paperbacks of Trump: The Art of the Deal, and a mountain range of a trillion plastic water bottles. It’s how it goes.
In any case, the king’ll have plenty of activities to keep him busy.
The king can order up an army of plastic bottles to conquer the Chevettes.
The king can bestow special honors and ranks upon the best and brightest of the burst diapers.
The king can schedule a private screening of Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis or Kevin Feige’s The Marvels or Warner’s Joker: Folie a Deux.
And when that Climate Inferno heat dome manifests, the king can host a spontaneous human combustion themed performing arts festival by booking scores of unemployed theatre and studio art majors as the talent.
Pity not the king in his landfill.
He’s having a thoroughly okay time of it.
