The Shittiest Princess and the Three Ghosties, Part One

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.

Once upon a fortnight dreary, Princess Poot wandered, weak and weary. It had been the shittiest two weeks of the shittiest princess’s life, and that counts the time she’d tried to join Kingdomville’s roller derby team, Women Who Are Awesomer Than You.

Firstly, Poot had stubbed her spleen. Whilst repairing it, the Royal Human and Horse Surgeon had sewn a jar of leeches into her. Then, her father, King Handsome, held a bingo night with her as a prize, and all fourteen participating princes had taken voluntary turns in the iron maiden instead of in her. Yes, the torture device was no longer a maiden, but Poot still was. Her self-esteem was smaller than the baby leech hatchlings they’d pulled out of her.

Only one thing to do: visit her fairy godmother. If Poot couldn’t get her act together, then she’d never obtain a prince, and a princess without a prince is like a happy single lady on the prowl with the unabashed freedom to pick her nose in her underwear whenever she wanted. And who the hell wanted that?

So Poot undertook the epic journey to Fairy Godmother’s lair. She crossed the dry cleaner’s parking lot. She climbed the treacherous escalator by the public fountain. She raided the pun-named cupcake emporium and got very distracted for a while, but then trudged through the mall until she reached the Stitch ‘N’ Witch, Kingdomville’s most popular yarn and revenge store.

The door opened with the tinkle of a bell. “Fairy godmother? Art thou here?” A class of bat dissection paused and stared at her, so Poot hurried through the yarn and demon-summoning sections to the back.

“Princess III!” said a musical voice.

Poot grinned — her godmother was one of the few who ever used her proper name. It might seem strange, but Poot didn’t always appreciate being called “fart.”

“Is that a new surgery wound?” asked Fairy Godmother.

“It’s a safe bet!” They embraced, and Poot stood back to examine Tinkersmell, whom she hadn’t seen in ages. She appeared to be a forty-year-old human woman, but was, in fact, a four-hundred-year-old fae with purple hair and a penchant for slutty club wear. She really pulled it off, for she had cans as large as Poot’s, and her wings highlighted her bubble butt. When Poot was born, Tinkersmell was the only witch who voted “no” to the “sacrifice her to the Kracken” plan.

“Fairy Tinkersmell, I’m depressed. I hate being a princess; I’m terrible at it. My hair’s the wrong color, and I keep setting things on fire. Accidentally.” Although she’d tried, Tinkersmell could never magically alter Poot’s hair to blonde—green, grey, paisley: yes; blonde: no.

Tinkersmell tut-tutted and offered Poot a magic mushroom. “There’s nothing wrong with brown hair. I get tired of looking at blondes. The world only needs so many Fox News anchors.” Poot snickered, but still her frown would not flee. “I shall cast a spell to help you determine what your fate is.”

“Don’t you do tarot for that?”

“My deck is on the fritz. It told me to pick up a trucker last night, but that guy was so bad in bed I ate his head.” She broke into peals of infectious laughter.

Her mystic pillbox hat on her head, Tinkersmell began to call forth the witchly arts. She poured olive oil into a small bowl, added some dead flies and a crab wonton, and leaned directly over it. One finger to her nostril, she snotted a glob of mucus into the bowl. Her magical prowess spewed forth from her nose, as her mother’s, Merrysnotter, had before her. Tinkersmell grabbed her wand and said, “Spice up your life!”

A shower of sparks exploded, blinding Poot. She peeled her eyes open to behold…a buttered biscuit. Tinkersmell said, “Eat this, my dear Princess III, and you will have a vision of your destiny.”

“Can I cover it in gravy?”

“Naturally — that’ll boost its magical chutzpah. Now give me a hug; I’m late for dollar moonshine night at the Salty Homewrecker.”

Poot left Tinkersmell and skipped home to the castle to eat her biscuit and gravy. She ate and ate, and licked the plate in a royal way. Nothing happened…not during the Hair Metal Ball that evening…not when she petted her worms good night. Finally, she put on her nose-straightener and went to sleep.

“Pooooot! PoooOOoooooOOOooooot!” Poot bolted up in bed, knowing that a combination of upper and lower case Os meant someone was speaking in a ghostly voice. “I am the Official Royal Ghost of Princess Past. Come, glide with me.”

Poot got to her feet and started toward the hovering pink princess phantom.

The phantom huffed, “I said glide. Glide. GliiiIIIiiiIIIde. Is there something wrong with your feet? Ugh, never mind.”

Princess Past clapped her hands and suddenly they popped into the queen’s quarters of the castle. Poot knew they were in the past because everything was flickery and the constant sound of an old movie projector permeated the vision. “This is Queen Perfection the Good at Choosing Wines,” Past said. “Look at her. Unparalleled blondeness, impeccable skills, and a perfect Bordeaux with that filet of unicorn. When she was three, she mastered the art of feng shui and dramatically improved the scoring of Kingdomville’s professional football team, the Grade Two Concussions. By ten, she’d opened for Lady ImitatesMadonna ImitatesMadonna. In the end, she married Prince Chiseled the Gets Around.”

Damn, how Poot would love to have a chiseled man who got around to her.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Princess Past flipped her glowing, honey blonde hair and rattled the golden chains around her neck. “What the hell is feng shui? But the point is, look at her.”

Queen Perfection frowned.

“Did you see that?” Past hyperventilated into a shopping bag. “Frowning! Frowning leads to frown lines. Long story short, in ten more years, she’ll be called Queen Used to be Perfection, but Now is Slightly Marred.”

“So —” Poot began — “you’re here to teach me that even the most perfect princess can be unhappy, that bouncy hair and fly dance moves don’t count for much. Maybe…feeling okay with my imperfections will lead to eternal happiness?”

“No! God, you’re the shittiest princess of present or past.” Past swiped a glass of Bordeaux and drained it. “The point is: don’t frown! You don’t need any more facial flaws than you already have. Bury your feelings deep down and spend your life pretending you’re happy. It’s what princesses have always done.” She polished off the Bordeaux bottle. “‘Bouncy hair doesn’t matter’” she sneered in imitation of Poot. “What is wrooooOOOOoooOOOooong with you?”

Past clapped her hands, and Poot found herself alone in her bedroom once again.

Poot plopped onto her bed and clutched her stuffed tarantula. Was pretending to be happy really her fate? If she was gonna do that, she needed a lot more magic mushrooms from Tinkersmell. Oh, well. Poot curled up with Daddy Fur Legs, positive that she would definitely not be disturbed again in part two of this story that comes out next week. How’s that for subtle foreshadowing? Writing students, take note!


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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

4 thoughts on “The Shittiest Princess and the Three Ghosties, Part One”

  1. Whilst attempting to comment on Poot yestereve, mine husband, Duke Jerks-a-Lot (hey, I was mad at him last night) happened upon me, moste scowlingly, and I bethot to myself, “Haha. Mayhap he thinkest I be thumb-typing with my hot, cyber-friend, B-Actor-the-Well-Hung-Pirate-Yar.”

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