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The Shittiest Princess and the Manly Games

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.

It came to pass in the country of Kingdomville that the king held an annual event for the betterment of boners and armpit sweat: The Manly Games. Besides crusades, wars, Minion-crushing, tournaments, Tuesdays, and gay pride parades, there were no opportunities for men to run about waving their implements at one another, so the Games were born.

This year’s prize was most exciting — a trip for two to Amsterdam. Princess Poot heard the news with great joy, for her friend-wife, Agnes, wished to go to Amsterdam more than anything. Agnes loved making charcoal sketches of bridges and bicycles, and that place was chock full of ‘em. And she liked to do it high, so bonus.

Poot decided to win The Manly Games, or get very tired trying. As the morning of the Games dawned, the combatants entered the field. Poot, hidden by a giant cloak, marched along with them. The Manly Announcer read off the challengers’ names. When he got to “Coots Nippers” (the anagram Princess Poot used on Reddit), she threw back her hood to reveal herself!

Five of the men fell over from the shock of a woman in their midst… or maybe that was Poot’s Battle Cry perfume. Either way, five fewer people to beat.

Her father’s Sword-Rattling Minions rushed to remove her, but Poot declared, “Anyone who touches me will earn my instant adoration. I shall follow you day and night until you love me.” It was an effective deterrent, and always worked with telemarketers. The sword rattlers backed off, and the games began, albeit with quite a few dirty looks.

The first event: The Snake Toss. Poot lined up before her king cobra and tickled it under the ear whilst singing “Close to You” by the Carpenters. The blissed-out serpent immediately fell asleep in a rigid, stick-like position. Poot knew this would happen, for her nanny from the ages of three to eight had been a snake, and it had always adored Karen Carpenter’s mellow, yet heartfelt, voice. While the manly men struggled to avoid a venomous bite or tossed their snakes in a flippy-floppy way that yielded no great distance, Poot shot hers like a javelin and won the event! She and the cobra high-fived, much to the consternation of her father, who’d long ago said they should have replaced her snake nanny with a dingo.

“Go, Poot! Rip their heads off, Wife!” screamed Agnes from the stands. She received several confused glances, and also several horny glances.

The second event: Horsey Chicken. Unfortunately, this contest was not to determine who could eat the most fried chicken while riding a horse (something Poot practiced every day). The contest proceeded thusly: The entrants formed a circle and galloped toward the center, sharp lances in the “maim” position.

The Manly Announcer said, “Get ready!”

Poot gulped and lowered the visor on her pointy princess hat.

“Get set!”

Poot stuck out her Pretty Pink Princess (TM) Brand Gutting Lance.

“Bock bock bock!”

All the men hollered, “Yah!” manfully and began galloping toward certain doom, nary a chicken in sight. Coots Nippers couldn’t do it. Sure, casually playing with deadly snakes was one thing, but proving your courage by being super duper stupid was a man’s purview. Her strategy of “thinking” paid off, for every other contestant was killed, shanked, or pissing in fear by the time the groans stopped. Since the last person standing was the winner, Poot emerged victorious again!

Agnes waved a giant foam finger with a “P” on it. “Poot, Poot, she’s our manly man! If she can’t do it, then I guess we won’t go to Amsterdam! Although, I guess we could anyway! Because we’re rich! And she’s a princess! But we’d rather beat the men! Yay!”

The seven remaining intact men grumbled and mumbled that a girl; a princess; an ugly princess; an ugly, hairy princess greasy from fried chicken was beating them at being manly! Every one of them agreed that manliness emerged from the penis, and that games should be won by the penis, so this shocking turn of events rocked their penises. Poot knew this line of thinking to be silly, for all sorts of genitalia could win a game, and that manliness, in actuality, had nothing to do with penises, but was directly proportional to how many flashy capes one wore.

Only one event was left…

A dramatic drum roll rumbled through the field.

The last contest: Running With Scissors! Yea, this was an event so dangerous, so deadly, every mother warned her young ones to avoid it. Poot’s non-manly armpit sweat began afresh at the very idea. She lined up at the beginning of the course, her Pretty Pink Princess (TM) Brand Non-Safety, Left-Handed Scissors pointed out and not down. She’d never felt more badass in her life.

The signal cat meowed (after a while), and the combatants were off! The burly redheaded dude to Poot’s left stomped on her skirt and she fell splat! face down in the muck. Poot tripped seventeen times per day on average, so she nimbly hopped to her feet and ran once more. She leapt over the kiddie pool full of alligators; she was excellent at long-jumping because she often had to hustle over the moat in a hurry when being chased by villagers. When another man tried to elbow her, she plopped her pointy hat on his head, which immediately slumped and covered his eyes, just as it did hers. He went down with a pathetic whimper.

Poot heard Agnes cheering her on with a dirty Limerick; it pushed her to more speed. She was almost at the finish line… ten meters… five meters… suddenly, an ogre appeared in her path! Three of the manly men began battling it with their scissors, but Poot pitied the poor creature, who was merely ogre-ing, as was his wont. She ripped open her bodice to reveal her large boobies. All three dudes (and the ogre, truth be told) stopped dead and gaped. Uneven or no, tits are tits.

Their staring left her free to zip around their frozen forms and dash to victory!

The confused Half-Clothed Trophy Damsels gave her kisses on her cheeks and a golden victory ruler for measuring her appendages.

A strange feeling settled over Poot. Was it the refreshing breeze on her boobs? Nay. It was pride, and much preferable to her usual swelling of heartburn mixed with crushing inferiority. Poot had bested the best in Kingdomville and won a friend-honeymoon for Agnes and herself, fuck yeah!

They traveled to Amsterdam and drew all the prettiest sights, and measured all the prettiest dongs.

The end.

Next week, Poot meets a horrifically honest new friend in “The Shittiest Princess and the Magic Mirror.”

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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 www.lucywoodhull.com.

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