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The Shittiest Princess and the You Betta Werk

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 the boring-ass times before satellite television, there was a princess so shitty that Kingdomville held an annual Dunk Princess Poot Self-Esteem Festival. The louts, Minions, dirts, “ew”s, and generally filth-encrusted populace from all ’round would show up to hurl beanbags at Princess Poot, the shittiest princess, thereby knocking her into a cistern, so that they might look at their fish-smelling lives and think, Hey! Things ain’t so bad. At least I’m not Princess Poot, who looks worse than my gouty ninety-nine-year-old great aunt Petunia.

Poot adored the Self-Esteem Festival. No one had ever told her the actual purpose, so she thought the dirts and Minions chose her, of all the castle, to dunk in order to show off their throwing accuracy. She’d root them on, saying, “I know you can hit me harder! My false teeth haven’t come out yet!”

One of the better-dressed (in that she wore shoes) Kingdomvillains proceeded to the front of the dunking line. She curtseyed to Poot. The princess nodded to accept this due tribute, and then promptly tipped into the water because balance ain’t her strong suit.

The woman approached the edge as Poot pushed sodden hair from her eyes. “Your majesty, I am Spinnaker, a public relations expert. I’d love to help you improve your standing in the community.”

Poot rose from the water. “I stand very well, sometimes, and just look how everyone displays their aiming prowess for my approval.” Something smacked into Poot’s face; she splashed backward into the water. When upright again, she fingered a scrape on her forehead. “That Dirt mistakenly hurtled a rock at me. But I think it took off my wart.” She waved at the crowd. “Thank you, common layabout!”

“O-kay,” replied Spinnaker. “I have several ideas. Have you considered modeling hats? Large, covering hats? Models are the most popular women in the world, much more sought after than lady scientists. After all, you can’t put a bikini on a big brain — it only fills one cup.”

A man walking a toy poodle dressed as Matt Lauer walked by and remarked, “Lady scientists? Ha! How stupid!”

After Poot righted herself from the impact of a particularly dense tomato, she said, “What fun! I’ve never been a model before. I think this possum stomach face cream I’ve been using is finally working.”

Spinnaker scribbled something in her notepad and muttered, “Yup, gotta change that… possum stomach? Awful. Possum placenta, perhaps…”

They agreed to meet backstage at the Royal Ridiculous Hat and Non-Ridiculous Dog Show. The Chapeau Guild sponsored the event, as dog enthusiasts often purchased matching hats for themselves and their Weinheimers.

Poot munched at the craft services table while the elegant models eyed her pork roll with greedy eyes. A pointy-nailed beauty had just begun to approach her with gaping maws when Spinnaker whisked Poot into a hat fitting. “Your Majesty, this is No One Elsa Schiaparelli, who makes hats like, well, no one else!”

No One Elsa made Poot turn in a circle. “Strike a pose for me, Princess.”

This was Poot’s big chance. She’d always dreamed of modeling when perusing the pages of Potato Aficionado. Making sure to smize as Tyra Banks-the-Advertising-Dollars had taught her, Poot struck a dashing position!

“Aaaaah!” hollered the nearby cater-waiter.

No One Elsa ducked to avoid a stray elbow.

The entire Herding Group of dogs howled.

Spinnaker grabbed three of Poot’s limbs and rearranged her. “Ha ha ha! Poot, you’re such a jokester! No One Elsa, let’s get a hat on that double-jointed head.”

Poot couldn’t actually see the effect — the hat covered her face, and neck, and too-large boobs, but she could tell the fuchsia confection looked wonderful, thanks to the gasps she was hearing. Suddenly, music began thumping, and Poot was shoved from backstage into another room. People bounced off her right and left; she stuck out her hands to navigate.

The light changed, became brighter. “Enter the arena!” she heard, and she was pushed again into another room — a large one by the echoing sounds. “In a circle, please,” she heard. With a grin as large as her third nipple, Poot held her head and hat high. She put the base in her runway walk, waved her hand majestically to the crowd, and only bounced off a single obstacle. Butt clappin’, tits waltzin’ — she felt just like Elle McFiercein!

The end of the show finished as most of her Official Princess Outings did — a cold-handed examination of her undercarriage. Finally, she was whisked back to the green room.

No One Elsa jerked the hat from Poot’s head. “My reputation is ruined!” cried the designer.

Spinnaker hurtled some lumpy red sludge at Poot. “I bought possum placenta for nothing! You suck so very much! Your Majesty.” She then huffed away, after dipping into a very half-assed curtsy.

Poot’s face screwed up, and she felt the familiar onslaught of tears rushing forth. What had happened? She’d thought she’d done so well. Now she’d never model spring’s fingerling potatoes!

“Princess Poot!” A small man hurried to her side. His floppy hair ended where her chest began. “Oh, wonderful Princess Poot! You’ve done it! You’ve taken the blue ribbon!”

“In sucking? But I won that last month at the Siphoning Show.”

“No, Your Majesty.” The man bowed. “You’ve won first place in the Terrier group.”

Poot had never won a non-ridiculous beauty contest before, not even amongst animals, as her dismal fifteenth-place finish in the Insect Invitational could attest to. She screamed, “Whee!” and picked the man clear off his feet.

Flushing, he stuttered, “Th-th-thank you, Princess. I’m very sorry about examining your whatnots — I thought you were a well-dressed Airedale named Patsy. I am an Official Licensed Doggy Doctor, if that makes it better.”

The princess did not win best all-around, but did wind up on a date with the short judge, who did not seem to mind that her boobs were too large to be in fashion. In fact, the first-place blue ribbon looked smashing pinned between them. And so Poot learned that common men can French really well, and that a win is a fucking win, no matter the contest.

The end.

Next week Princess Poot prepares for dudely battle in The Shittiest Princess and the Manly Games.

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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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