JULY FOURTH SATIRE

Happy Monarchy Day

250 years, and we’re back where we started

Monarchy Day Photo by Sinisa Lekovic on Unsplash

The king lures his peasants to come closer with a lewd smirk, curled baby fingers, curdled orange flesh, a fork tongue, eyes full of pus.

He will wring you out like Granny’s old drawers, brag about his golf stroke, and funnel your Social Security into his Swiss bank account.

He is a cobra. Serum goes straight to your brain, paralyzing your heart. You can’t move. Fake news takes over. You become a flag-waving Confederate, a slop-eating, pot-bellied putz.

His dad was a dybbuk. His mother drank a demon brew while pregnant, gave birth to Rosemary’s baby, placed him in a black crib and called him Satan.

Don’t worry, he says. I’m not a monster. I’m not a villain. I’m a fabulous person who wants a pound of flesh, and feed your remains to my necrophiliac friends.

My flame burns black with stormtrooper boots and swastikas. Drink my Jim Jones fruit punch. Flash me that Kool-Aid smile. Lady Liberty must die. Uncle Sam must go.

I own the Republic for which it stands, one nation under my thumb, a country divided, rigged and blackballed, with liberty and justice for a wealthy few.

So let us celebrate Monarchy Day with fireworks and a military parade. Let us splurge on taxpayers’ money and torch the Epstein files. Honor thy king on Saturday. Your purple, perverted majesty. Long may the felon reign.

Hail Caligula!

Hail Macbeth!

Hail Donald the Terrible!

© 2026 Mark Tulin

About the Author

Mark Tulin is a retired marriage and family therapist from Philadelphia. He won’t celebrate the Fourth until the monarchy is over and democracy is restored. In the 80s, he was a Republican, but antipsychotic medication cured him of that mental illness. His father never voted, and his mother always forgot to close the curtain at the polls. Before settling into a career in family therapy, Mark sold jokes, produce, and ideas, and now sells poems. He currently lives in Long Beach, California, with his near-perfect Mexican wife, who taught him to warm tortillas on a comal, though he refuses to eat menudo. Mark is an adamant loose-leaf tea drinker and a Dylan, Bukowski, and Grateful Dead freak. He’s 71 and still wears T-shirts from rock bands and Converse high-tops. Mark likes to boast about being friends with the neighborhood crows, though the crows do most of the boasting.