TSP logo banner 600 x 200

Prince Agnes and the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party

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.

There once was a friend-wife named Agnes… who hated Limericks. Agnes had married Princess Poot of Kingdomville in exchange for the title of prince and a salary of fifteen kegs of beer a day, even though Poot was a very shitty princess. Well, by conventional standards, and according to the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space.

Agnes, however, glowed with fondness for her wife, who had interesting hobbies — and smells. They did not get it on, as they were both straight, and of romantically incompatible astrological signs: Poot was a Crapicorn and Agnes, a Libral. Everyone knows that sparks fly (the dangerous kind that burn your arm hair off) when Librals and Crapicorns turn on the Barry White. Friendship was okay, though.

One day soon after their marriage, Agnes and Poot were lounging upon their royal sun deck and sipping on royal margaritas when the royal mail came. Royally. “I have a letter — addressed to Prince Agnes!” said Prince Agnes. She’d never seen her title in print before!

“Oooh, open it.” urged Poot. “Maybe it’s low-introductory-rate credit card offer.”

It wasn’t, unfortunately. Fortunately, it was something almost as wonderful — Agnes’ official invitation to the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party, an annual summit for princes to meet and discuss very serious topics affecting their soon-to-be kingdoms. This year’s theme was Plague Victims:  Annoying Menace or Interesting New Taco Ingredient?

“You should go,” Poot said as she spilled her margarita down her lopsided cleavage. “My brother, Prince Athletic the Butt Patter, goes every year, but never returns with any intelligent ideas for improving the kingdom. Usually he just brings back a new venereal disease, or a new secret butt-patting code.”

Agnes had no idea what the hell a “butt-patting code” was… perhaps because it was a secret. However, she determined that she would travel to nearby Brotopia to check out the summit. She was a prince, now, dammit — and would contribute to her adopted kingdom’s prosperity. Although she did miss the rolling hills and tuba juggling of Respectica, her homeland.

And so Agnes packed her best manly clothing (puffy shirts and tights) and set off to Brotopia to attend the esteemed Princely Palooza Pleasure Party. When she arrived, the Carrying Important People Minions set her off their shoulders, and she handed them their customary Big Macs of appreciation. She straightened her hot pink puffy shirt and matching boots and started for the entrance of the convention center.

“Hey, baby!” called the man with a clipboard blocking her path. “The dancing girls go through the back.”

Agnes pulled herself to her full height and replied, “I am Prince Agnes of Kingdomville.  I dance for no man!” She straightened her crown. “I dance for ladies, though, when the DJ turns on some Mariah Carey.”

The man made a note of that in his clipboard. “No one can resist Mariah Carey, no matter how much they want to,” saith he. “I beg your pardon, Prince Agnes.  Here is the secret code for gaining entrance to events.” As she walked past, he patted her on the bottom: pat-pat-patpatpat pattity-pat. Agnes turned, grabbed his arm, and flipped him over her head until he landed splat! on the grave. “Thank you, Your Highness!” he groveled groanily.

“Well, I never!” huffed Agnes as she grabbed her welcome gift bag and proceeded inside. How dare he touch her butt without her permission? Was she a crocodile at the petting zoo? Disgusting!

Agnes sucked in a breath to behold many more repugnant things before her. Firstly, she was shocked to see that Love Knockers wasn’t a convention center at all, but a club for ladies to strip in. All around her, princes in puffy shirts groped and grabbed at women trying to dance to Mariah Carey in peace. In that corner, two princes bare-knuckle boxed while simultaneously huffing bath salts. In another corner, two princes played Extreme Candy Land while a woman in a bikini took bets on the outcome; the onlookers slobbered upon her exposed love knockers instead of losing their money at a respectful distance.

“Where is the Addressing Minion Pay Gaps in Private Corporations meeting?” she asked a passing prince with no pants on.

“In my lap!” he replied. Although this answer made no sense to Agnes, several of his prince brethren high-fived him. “Here, let’s share the secret pat.” The giant blond prince yanked her, face down, across his lap and began touching her bottom:  pat-pat-patpatpat pattity-pat. Her protestations of, “Stop! Unhand me, thou asshole!” went unheeded.

That’s it. Agnes had had enough of these donkey farts who clearly had not gathered in order to address the inherent injustice of monarchy-based governance systems, or the need for greater access to fresh fruits and vegetables for inner-kingdom children. She grabbed the emergency mini-tuba she always wore around her neck and blatted a great blat. The blond jackass fell off his throne, taking her to the floor with him. The entire rest of the room, including the dancing women, stopped to gape.

Butterflies pooled in Agnes’ stomach, even though she hadn’t eaten any. She stood, smoothed her prince tunic, and said, “It’s wrong to pat unsuspecting butts!”

The group gasped. Except for one dancer, who clapped enthusiastically before she stopped to rub her sore bottom.

A stocky blonde prince pushed his way through the crowd to sway drunkenly in front of Agnes. She recognized him as Poot’s vile brother who routinely set flaming bags of poop in front of their palace suite.

Prince Athletic the Butt Patter slurred, “Your Poot’sh wife, right?” Athletic was such an idiot, he used the wrong “you’re” even when speaking aloud. “Shush up and show us you’re boobiesh, Exotica lady!”

“I am from Respectica, you walking potato pile.” She climbed onto one of the round stages and gripped the steadying pole. “Princes! Your people have sent you here to this venerable Palooza Party so that you can improve your kingdoms and, by extension, their lives! The first thing you can do is abolish this butt-patting culture. You, sir — how would you like it if male Minions or peasants just walked up to you and grabbed your junk?”

The man recoiled in horror, exclaiming, “But Junk-Touching Minions have been banished!”

“And so they should be,” Agnes replied, although that was probably unfair, as Minions didn’t get a choice of how they Minion-ed. She made a mental note to bring that up later when these idiots sobered up. “And you, um, other blond prince — ” Ugh, all these dudes looked alike. Inbred, no doubt. “How would you like it if just anyone was allowed to stick things down your pants, as you are now doing to that Food-Schlepping Minion?”

His forehead crinkled with consternation, and he ceased shoving cotton candy into the frowning waitress’ underwear. “What are you, some kinda Libral?”

“How did you know?”

Another fellow twirled his golden mustache and said, “You mean, some Poor could stick anything down my pants?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Like… piranhas? Or water balloons? Or stuffed koalas? Wait… I might like that last one.”

“Geesh, you and your stuffed animals, Larry!” someone called out. “Shut up!”

“Um, yes,” Agnes agreed. “It would be terrible if random Poors were allowed to stick fish down your pants, wouldn’t it?”

Everyone agreed on that, except for Prince Salmon from Ice Town, who abstained.

Agnes continued, “So… mightn’t it be disrespectful for you to do that? For you to grab random ladies’ behinds and stuff things into their panties that will surely give them yeast infections, and also PTSD?”

Several of the men nodded. One of them said, “When they have yeast infections, they can’t make sex gruntings.”

All of the men now nodded, for at last they understood body autonomy, at least in terms of lack of sex.

It was a good start, thought Agnes.

Her face fell. Well, a start.

Ninety-five percent of the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party that year still consisted of a disgusting waste of public funds, drunkenness, and overall vile behavior, but Agnes managed to hold several meetings of actual importance, which three or four princes attended and stayed awake for. All the princes signed a pact to never again butt-pat without permission, and it made Agnes’ heart soar to see one prince say to another, “That was a wicked burp, dude — may I pat your princely backside in admiration?”

The women of Brotopia erected a statue in Agnes’ honor. It consisted of a giant, bronze butt featuring a red circle with a line drawn through. Agnes couldn’t decide if it was racist, sexist, or just plain artistically ugly. In the end (pun intended), she took it for the small step in the right direction it seemed to be.  Except for artistically — there was no redemption to be found there.

The other princes at the Palooza treated her with new-found respect, and they voted Athletic to be Prince Puke of the conference, which greatly amused Poot when Agnes told her upon their reunion. Agnes had purchased them both souvenir beer hats, which they drank from as the sun set over Kingdomville.

Agnes knew that the next butt pat she’d receive would be entirely consensual, and that’s a great feeling. Not as great a feeling as a nice, consensual ass spank, but darn close.

The end.

Be sure to join us next week for Poot’s neck-beardy valentine’s story, The Shittiest Princess and the Friendzone.

Published by

Profile photo of Lucy Woodhull

Lucy Woodhull

Lucy Woodhull is a novelist, humorist, parodist, and all-around geek. Her new venture is THE SHITTIEST PRINCESS, a series of un-fair-y tales right here on Persephone. You can check out her sexy, fun romantic comedies at www.lucywoodhull.com.

One thought on “Prince Agnes and the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party”

  1. I am so glad we can be friends, yea, Besties at that, even though you are a Libral, and I a Crapicorn. O, and methinks someone should erect (heh heh) a statue in your honour, Lucy W., for the following brilliance:
    “Your Poot’sh wife, right?” Athletic was such an idiot, he used the wrong “You’re” even when speaking aloud.

Leave a Reply