7 Reasons Joffrey Baratheon Would Make The Perfect Husband

Game of Thrones
Game of Thrones
Warning: Season 3 spoilers.

1. Um, you get to be queen.

In all seriousness, who doesn’t want to be a queen, especially in a land which is as fabulously/nebulously Mediterranean as King’s Landing? Aside from the errant tour around the city pretending not to be disgusted when you touch poor people, your job duties generally include being fabulously wealthy, eating grapes while in a reclined position, drinking wine out of T-Pain-esque gobelets, and giving orders to handmaidens in saucy backless gowns. All things considered, there are many worse professions that one could fall into.

2. Your new mother-in-law will hate you regardless, so you don’t even have to try.

While most blushing brides-to-be are overwhelmed with the nuances and complexities involved in winning over their future mother-in-law, you can sleep soundly in the knowledge that you are always going to be the bane of your new family’s existence. As it happens, Cersei is always going to deeply resent you for stealing away her precious ball of impotent sadism while not being a direct blood relative. You could wear nothing but turtlenecks made out of burlap and she’d still call you a trollop when you are just out of earshot, and her first order of business is probably going to be to have you killed and made to look like a suicide regardless of your political affiliations. So you might as well get day drunk and make passive-agressive comments about her age-inappropriate hair length, because it’s not like you have a chance of moving up in her esteem.

3. Unlimited access to creepy phallic weaponry.

Have you ever wanted to feel a teenager quiver as he held various deadly extensions of his manhood made out of mahogany and metal? Have you ever wanted to reassure him that he is indeed a strong, handsome, worthy man who didn’t just fall into his destiny by being the bafflingly non-deformed offspring of the kingdom’s Aryan version of Donnie and Marie? Well, fondle those crossbows to your little heart’s content, because now, pretending to be interested as your man-child plays his Nerf darts game in the hallways of his giant plastic ball pit of a castle is your full-time gig.

4. Lance Bass hair.

I think we all left our hearts back in 2002, where our idols of masculinity had the good sense to collectively frost the tips of their locks with a silvery-yellow sheen and gel them into a Sonic the Hedgehog kind of submission. It was a look that promised endurance, a keen eye for the aesthetic, and a crispy little pool of half-dried product left on the pillow in the morning. Now these delectable frosted tips have become as rare a commodity as the drawstring capri jorts, and you could have one of these relics of anointed sexiness for your very own.

5. Henchmen to do all of your various bidding.

Basically everything from murdering the neighbor you had a dispute with at the grocery store to removing your false lashes after a particularly sweaty gala at the castle can be handled by servants and yes-men and maids who know they will have their fingers chopped off one by one if they so much as question your choice in eyeliner. You never have to dirty your royal hands again, because your new husband has built his whole empire on using henchmen as a real-life video game console to enact his indiscriminate violence. It’s perfect!

6. In the eyes of the people, you can only be a step up as a ruler.

You might not be a great leader on your own, but you’re essentially being compared to a sentient ball of swamp fungus whose OkCupid profile lists “dismembering call-girls and cowering behind people taller than me” under “What I’m Doing With My Life.” You only stand to be seen as an overall positive influence.

7. Automatic disposal service for all who betray you.

While most of the dirty work is clearly going to be taken care of by facially deformed indentured servants who are likely to turn at any point, if you are ever in a bind and need to dispose of, say, a political dissident or a disloyal prostitute, just hand them over to your eager new beau and his My First Maiming Kit. Imagine it’s like giving the scraps to the dog off the plate so you don’t have to throw them away, except you have a corpse lingering around your bedroom to dispose of at the end of the evening. I’m sure there’s a handmaid who can take it out to the crematorium. Ask Shae, she’ll clearly do anything not to get shipped back to Farawayland of Nonsensical Accents. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Chelsea Fagan founded the blog The Financial Diet. She is on Twitter.

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