A few buddies of mine were coming over to watch the game. I had recently purchased an enormous flat-screen plasma HDTV, and I thought, what better way to break it in than with watching grown men crashing into each other wearing teal uniforms?

My friend Craig called around noon.

“What’s up? Are we still on for the game?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course. You coming solo?”

“I’m bringing the King of Beers.”

He said it just like that, casual, like it was normal to invite royalty over. I’ve never heard of this place, Beers, but then again, there are a lot of places I’ve never heard of. Can you believe there’s a country named Chad? Weird.

Anyway, a king is a king. And though there is a definite lack of royal blood in my veins, I’ve always felt a connection with kings and queens and the like. Maybe it’s my god-given grace or classic handsome features, but every time I see a picture of Prince William, I wonder if we were separated at birth.

I imagined the king walking into my home, (how the hell does Craig know a king?) me kissing his bejeweled hands and his harem rubbing his feet as we watched some football.

But I couldn’t have his majesty walking into my cluttered apartment. There was no way I was still serving cheese doodles and Vienna sausages. I sure as hell wasn’t going to insult him with generic cola either. I’m smarter than that. My recliner was not king-worthy, and neither was the art on my wall. I had some major changes ahead of me, and they had to come fast as hell.

I threw off my Barry Sanders jersey and black sweat pants and hunted through my closet for clothes worthy for a kingly visit. Nothing. I had some nice threads, I assure you, but nothing royal.

So a quick trip to Men’s Wearhouse was in order. That guy on the commercial guarantees you’ll look great. Sounds good to me. I went and bought the best that they had and then I had some rubies sewn in along the shoulders of the cream-colored suit. I also had them make me a three-foot high velvet hat with an eagle’s head stitched into it. Simply fantastic.

On the way home I picked up a boar for roasting. Kings don’t eat snacks -- they attend feasts. I bought an extra long wooden table and lined it up with cold meats, fine cheeses, pheasant sorbet, and golden bowls filled with grapes.

I threw out my Yosemite Sam welcome mat and replaced it with a red velvet walkway. My Elvis hip-swinging wall clock? I trashed it. In its place I nailed up some swords and axes from the Middle Ages. And finally, I hired a dozen veiled women who belly-danced and acted demure on command. They also held grapes in their hands waiting for a worthy mouth in which to place them. My old recliner, the leaf-green one with the cat scratches along the bottom, well, I chunked it. Instead I built a throne made out of porcelain from my toilet, gold melted down from my mother’s jewelry and pearls I dived for myself. I fashioned an immaculate chair worthy of any royal tush.

When the knock on my door came, I was smiling big. I couldn’t wait to meet the King of Beers and show him how majestic I was. I practiced my humble bow a few quick times before opening the door. My apartment was transformed into a mini-castle, my handsome self morphed into a dignified and illustrious host. My friend Craig stood in the doorway with a six-pack of beer and confused look on his face.

“Is that an eagle head?” he asked.