The Shittiest Princess is a series of funny fairy tales for those of us who ain’t exactly cartoon princesses. Stay tuned for a new adventure every week! You can find the whole series here.
In a kinder, gentler time, when beheadings were family events, there was born a glorious princess to the kingdom of Kingdomville on a very auspicious day. That’s the way the story of Princess Poot would have begun if she’d popped out on the 31st of Blonduary and not the 1st of Blorgvember.
When her labor began on Blonduary 31st, Queen Lovely XIV strained and struggled and thought birth-ey thoughts, but the blessed event happened after midnight. Instead of a lithe, gorgeous daughter who would inspire poets to verse, Kingdomville got a dog/fish-like bundle who would attract comedians.
King Handsome, the father, gazed at his youngest seed for the first time in the birthing chamber (also known as the “#@¢<ing #@¢< You *&&hole” Room). He then asked, “What is it?”
“Give me a damn cheeseburger and all the drugs in the world,” replied his loving wife.
Handsome leapt backwards to avoid her slashing claws of affection. “Summon the Most Exalted Good Pill Doctors, as well as my Official Dudes Who Do Magic!” he bade. “And perhaps the ASPCA.”
The Official Dudes Who Do Magic shuffled into the birthing chamber and hovered over the wee babe, currently drooling into its royal blankie.
“Drool isn’t supposed to be green,” said Official Dude One while scratching his Gandalf-esque beard.
“Princess tresses aren’t supposed to be brown,” astutely observed Official Dude Two, who was less fond of facial hair, and of Tolkien in general, frankly.
“Damn, lady. That is one shitty motherfucking princess,” said Official Dude Seven (Official Dude Three was out sick). Seven’s beard was blonde. It won’t come up again; he just wanted you to know. He toyed with his balls and added, “It’s clearly the mother’s fault for giving birth on the wrong date. Why, oh why do we go to the trouble of making virgin offerings for a Blonduary baby, when some stupid queen is just going to squirt shit out in Blorgvember?”
“Huge waste of virgins,” agreed Handsome, shaking his head sadly.
Everything bad happened in Blorgvember—pestilence, plagues, the cancellation of Don’t Trust the B in Apartment 23. The ninth month before Blorgvember is named NoDickuary specifically to prevent ugly babies.
It was also a truism in Kingdomville that unpleasant things could, and should, be blamed on a woman. Stub your toe? Blame the pretty lady you were staring at. Get fired from your job? Blame your wife who put an apple into your lunch pail instead of a beer. The sky rains SharkBears? Blame the Weather Wench, who clearly forecasted PuppyPandas.
Handsome became very upset. “This princess is the least princessy princess to ever princess!” He hadn’t been this peeved since NoDickuary, the longest month of the year. He turned a non-handsome shade of red. His eyes became unattractively watery. His feelings of powerlessness in a world in which he was supposed to hold ultimate dominance burst forth in a flood of intestinal distress—
Pooooooooooooot! echoed through the vaulted ceilings of the #@¢<ing #@¢< You *&&hole Room, acoustically designed to emphasize the audible suffering of beautiful childbirth.
Handsome spun around, frantically seeking a dog on whom to blame the noise—for kings do not fart, just as they do not make bad decisions, forget birthdays, or prematurely ejaculate. Oh, but this was already a dark Blorgvember, what with the uggo baby and the cheese cutting.
Official Dude Seven cried, “The vile babe has farted a great poot! Let us name her Poot, so that she may never forget her inauspicious beginnings.” The courtiers in the room nodded from the reviewing stands. Handsome released a breath and promoted Official Dude Seven to Official Dude Five.
Queen Lovely XIV set aside her double-avocado bacon burger and sat up on her elbows. “Wait just a damn minute! She has a name—Princess Princess III. It’s not a good name, but it’s already been woven into the Official Kingdomville Tapestry with Royal Family Names Weaved On. I’m not calling my child ‘Poot.’ What is wrong with all of you? And why are there bleachers in the birthing chamber? God, I hate this kingdom. I wish I’d never left Hamalot.” (Hamalot is the non-trademarked sister city of Spamalot.)
“Madam,” began Handsome in his most admonishey voice. “This disastrous female creature happened because of your sub-standard womb-innards.” He examined the child and gasped. “Is that a fin?”
Lovely XIV took a sip of milkshake. “I think her fin’s cute. But then again, I’m on a lot of pills at this point. You know what I really love? Mashed potatoes.”
All assembled could agree that mashed potatoes would be bitchin’ right about now. All assembled also agreed that Lovely XIV should be banished from Kingdomville for producing the shittiest princess in the whole wide world.
The One Who Gave Birth to a Fart would miss her sweet, new daughter, who reminded her of mashed potatoes; she’d probably not pine for her other kids, though—entitled brats the lot of them. She definitely wouldn’t yearn after Handsome, who was not named King Well-Endowed. So she left for parts unknown, never to be heard from again. At least until there’s another story about her.
And that is why Poot is called “Poot” to this day. It’s a good thing, actually, else she surely would have been named “Vomit” according to what the king did, er, didn’t do next.
Next week’s story stars everyone’s favorite friend-wife. Get ready for Prince Agnes and the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party!