Lap Pillow

Lap pillow? More like crap pillow. What do you think I am, sister? Some kind of bed-wetting, smooth-legged little boy? Nay; Today, I'm a bed-wetting, smooth-legged young man. The whole milk you've hounded me to drink over the years has born fruit. I'm taller than you. I can envelop your hands in mine. I can princess-carry you with relative ease. Now who's going to cry on whose lap?
Try me, little brother. Princess-carry, piggy-back, pile-driver? Pft. I'll stand on my toes to pat your head, and you'll wither to my feet. Your tallness shall be your fall, small one. Mind the gap moe, brother. Envelop my hands, and turn over the left: Thrice trace the gap--in our heights, our ages, and your logic--along the marriage line of my palm. May one not marry their 外見 and 内面? May an angel in the streets not marry their devil in the sheets? If men were angels, would no government be necessary? And if you're looking down, do note: My thighs are still fatter than yours.
You disgusting woman. Your thighs have ballooned like a balloon. Fair enough. Have a seat, then. I'll entertain you, you entertain me. Don't forget that trademark "pat pat", unless you want me to double-slap those flabby meat sticks of yours. I hope that's not one of your favorite dresses, because I'm going to blow into it like a horn.
Hah, fool! I've worn dresses decorated with your snot to dinner parties. I've wiped mucus off your nose and licked it off my fingers. I helped mother change your diapers when you were a baby. I've handled your urine-stained underwear in the laundry. You think I'm scared of your bodily fluids? I could have it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But toggle your ogle of this royal skirt; Tonight I'll have you rest your cheeks on something woven with skin rather than silk.
You don't mean!
That's right, little one. Bare legs. Now, sacrifice your dignity once more to your ruler.
You evil woman! You've sabotaged my coup, and now you disgrace me!
As you know, little one, with our parents out of the house, the regency is mine. Your feeble attempts to uproot the divine right of my thighs has failed. Now, submit.
Hah! You win this battle, queen, but will you win the war? You do understand your that the husbandless regent would be advised to stay husbandless, lest you meet the humiliation of Margaret Tudor. Yes, I can already taste the cream; a Christmas cake in the making. A lone woman.
Our relationship transcends brother-sister, little one. Nay, I need not marry. For I am not Margaret, but Olympias. And you are not James V, but Alexander. Now, let us put on a performance! Pat, pat. The Oracle of Delphi beckons you.