Royalty.

Yours truly.

No, seriously.

And I don’t mean royalty like that Johnny-come-lately Windsor crew. I’m talking about a divine right stretching back to the dim and darkly days when the dapper Duke of Cambridge’s clan wore mostly dirt and ate boiled peat for breakfast, lunch and tiffin. But hey, I’m not here to run down my noble cousins.

That would be common.

I’m here to talk about the social media’s awesome ability to socially elevate. Sure, I’m an extreme case, but several other examples pompously strode across my Facebook wall this month, each instructive of how reg’lar folk can exploit the reality-altering power of the Internet to raise themselves above the common swamp and achieve a mossy perch of marginal respectability.

Case in point:

A few weeks ago, Linda Morris posted a photograph of, and link to, a fancy-pants “tea sandwich” recipe. They’re dainty little morsels, full of hifalutin ingredients like Persian cucumbers, chopped scallions, and a cheese that has, if I understand correctly, been “creamed” in some way. Thing is, I’ve learned through semi-reliable channels that Linda subsists almost exclusively on a diet of Slim Jims, Pringles and Mountain Dew. And yet, in a stroke, she’s now perceived in more credulous circles as a woman of taste and refinement. I downloaded the recipe because it looks like the sort of thing that hereditary kings probably eat a lot of.

Without the crusts.

Tom Carby raised his public stock by sweatier means, posting this self-congratulatory notice on Apr. 10: “This is the 100^th day of 2012. I completed my 10,000^th pushup today. 100 pushups a day for 100 days. What’s next?”

Surgery would be my guess, but you can see how Tom, who once refused to get up off his La-Z-Boy and open the door for the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol because “I just got comfortable”, has, with a few keystrokes, turned a dreary exercise regimen into a solid cyber-reputation for physical prowess. Of course, once I assume my rightful place atop society’s Olympus, I’ll doubtless have people to do my pushups for me.

You know – little people.

On the other hand, while a fitness cred might evoke a certain grudging deference from Buchanan’s stationary-bike crowd, it won’t cut much ice with the pomegranite-martini-and-brie-brouchee brigade down Gotham-way. That’s probably why John Steinle shunned gym shorts in favor of a smart blue double-breasted with gold piping and two shiny rows of brass. No, he didn’t dress up as Cap’n Crunch, but that was a good guess. He was impersonating Capt. Edward Smith, by which artifice he secured a berth at the Molly Brown House Titanic Dinner and Gala at the Oxford Hotel.

Implausible? Not at all. Consider – Capt. Smith had a beard and mustache; John has a beard and mustache. Smith was born in on Jan. 27, 1850, in Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent, England; John was also born. Capt. Smith’s last words are purportly “Be British”; The last words John said to me were “be quiet.” A masterful illusion, and by posting a photograph of himself in the guise of the unfortunate ship’s unfortunate skipper, John has achieved a new and superior social status by virtue of contrived association. Good show! But you may be wondering what all that has to do with my own claim to majesty.

Not as much as you’d think.

Late last month, Kayte Christopher-Walker posted a simple diagram professing to describe the three most common types of human toe arrangement – Greek, Roman and Egyptian. It came as quite a revelation, as I had not previously imagined that somebody might take the time and effort to codify such information.

“Did I really just pull my sock off to find out which way my toes are aligned?” Kayte wrote. Of course she did, and I did too. When Socrates said “know thyself,” he appended no exemption of the pedal extremities. Meticulous examination reveal my toes to be an artistic blending of the blunt Roman and tapering Egyptian styles. The conclusion is as obvious as it is inescapable – I am directly descended from a heretofore unidentified love-child of well-heeled Roman general Mark Antony and Cleopatra VII Philopater, the last of Egypt’s cash-flush Ptolemy line. I’ve checked my findings twice, on both feet, and there can be no mistake.

It’s science.

The way I’ve got it figured, I’m entitled to either a triumphal arch on the Piazza del Popolo and my own province (Calabria or better), or else clear title to Alexandria. Either way, as soon as I submit my evidence to the proper agencies, I don’t expect you’ll be detecting my haunting fragrance behind you at the supermarket checkout anymore because I’ll be reclining on a silk divan in my Mamluk palace nibbling crust-less tea sandwiches and seeing to it that my valet de chambre does at least 100 power-crunches a day.

For my fitness cred.