Fuglange Knowles

It must be hard to be Knowles The Lesser. It must be close to the modern equivalent of being the younger, lamer sibling of the heir to a throne. You’re just Duke So And So and everrrrrrrryone is all het up about your brother, kissing his ass and bringing him candied pheasant tongues and big fat fancy brooches and chatting him up about their duchy or their hot young daughter or whatever in hopes of winning favor, and you’re just left alone at the back of the throne room to play with the ostrich feathers in your hat and give him dirty looks and drink copious amounts of mead and then eventually getting so bitter about how no one pays any attention to YOU that you get up a group of untrustworthy followers and try and stab your brother with an arrow or something and then you get exiled to Majorca or whatever and it’s all a huge disaster.

I mean, she’s already got the feathers:

And if this isn’t a cry for attention, I don’t know what is. Beyonce better up her security, is what I’m saying.