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.
If you look up “handsome” in the “Kingdomville Extremely Long Scroll Full of Word Meanings in Alphabetical (Mostly) Order,” you’ll see a drawing of King Handsome of Kingdomville. His jaw was so chiseled that they used it when the Nude Sculpture Minions went on strike.
Upon the occasion of King Handsome’s birthday, hundreds crowded his party to behold his splendid gifts. The ambassador from Respectica gave him an ornate map of their country. Handsome rolled his eyes, because everyone knew that their country, Exotica, was located in a different place. Boy, those people couldn’t locate themselves on a map any better than they could take a joke.
The ambassador from Smug Meadows brought a cake made of watermelon, which was not a cake at all, but instead a turd birthed by Satan.
But the worst gift came from the Kingdomville Witch Coven (join them at their monthly midnight forest dances/chili cook offs!). They gave Handsome a Get Out of Ugly Free Card, good for one magical beautification.
Handsome bristled at the witches’ insult — why, he was called “Handsome!” Couldn’t those hocus-pocus ninnies read his name tag? It had rubies on it and everything.
Just as Handsome had decided to throw the witches into the Disco Inferno, he had a thought. He almost didn’t recognize it, as his thoughts were buried under so much hairspray, he was considered a fire hazard for children six and under. “Poot!” Handsome called. “I have a present for you!”
Poot looked up from the buffet table and nearly burst from excitement, for even on her own birthday she rarely received gifts, unless they were of the sock variety. She put down her witch chili and went to her father. Handsome handed her the Get Out of Ugly Free Card and said, “Jerky conjurers, I require that you remove the uggo from my daughter.”
“I can hear you, father,” Poot said, staring at the ground.
“Yes, and I can see your scabies; that is precisely the problem.”
Handsome shoved Poot at the witches. Poot wished that her Fairy Godmother Tinkersmell was amongst them, but she was on holiday in Scandalnavia for their Lutefisk and Cheese Festival. She’d sent a vagina-shaped souvenir Gouda just last week.
The coven crowded around Poot and chanted the sacred Nicki Minaj lyrics. As they spoke, a warm tingling began in Poot’s ear. It spread to her elbows, and then jumped to her hair. Her feet felt fiery, and her boobs buzzed bee-ily. What had happened to her?
Their job done, the witches backed away and hip-bumped each other in congratulation.
Handsome rushed to Poot’s side while the court crowded around them, everyone pointing and smiling. “You’re beautiful, my daughter!” said he.
Poot glanced behind her, certain one of her worthier sisters was standing there. Not so. Two Reflective Decorative Objects Minions hurried up, carrying Benicio the Magic Mirror between them. His face floated forward in the shiny, wispy depths of his prison. “You… are the prettiest of the lot. Or am I still high from last night’s rave…?”
The princess could scarce believe her eyes. Her hair hung in golden curls, the unruly kind, like a proper heroine. Her breasts matched each other and looked wonderful in their starfish coverings. And her face! Symmetrical, pert — with nary a blackhead, whitehead, or plaidhead! Her bland perfection was worthy of being a TV hostess.
A sick pool of weird settled in Poot’s stomach. But there was no time for any emotion save vanity, for the court spent the evening ooooohhhh-ing, aaaaaahhhh-ing, and sometimes even bbbbbhhhh-ing over her, which is harder.
When Poot could take the bizarre, positive attention no more, she carried Benicio back to her apartment. He and Friend-Wife Agnes decided to stay up and play strip poker, but Poot turned in, exhausted. She’d never seen so many people smiling at her at one time since the marijuana farm suffered that fire. Poot curled into bed, and Agnes handed over Poot’s favorite sleeping buddy, Daddy Fur Legs. “Remember, wife,” said Agnes, “You were always beautiful — your face is not who you are.”
But wasn’t it?
The next day, Handsome invited Poot to breakfast with him, which never happened, as he said the shape of her old nose soured his eggs. A prince named Ryan joined them. Ryan sucked in a breath of adoration for Poot’s perfect countenance. He spent the meal gasping and gaping at her in silence, even when Poot brought up neato subjects like giant squid care or how her knees no longer clicked.
Prince Ryan took a huge bite of kipper just as Poot smiled. Overcome by her beauty, he immediately broke into song — a weird thing he called a “mashup” of Twisted Sister and Celine Dion — and began choking. Handsome clapped for the Heimlich Minions, but they could not dislodge the fishy food fragment, and Ryan fell over, quite dead, but grinning.
Sadness overcame Poot, but she couldn’t mourn him, not really — she’d heard his kingdom of Glee was irritating and got steadily worse as the years went by.
Later that day, Poot attended an appointment at the palace’s beauty salon to have her newly un-yellow nails painted. So riotously did the manicurist adore her oval finger helmets that the poor woman got too close and inhaled a wet, glittering glob of “Princess Her? I Don’t Even Know Her!” It clogged the manicurist’s sinuses and killed her on the spot.
Poot fled the salon and headed for the comfort of the moat-side potato skins vendor. She ordered a fried triple-skin surprise (the surprise was a fourth potato!) The adoring and distracted vendor accidentally fried his hand instead of the quad potato skins. Before he croaked, he said, “Eat my beer-battered hand, your highness! What an honor — aaaagggghhhhhhh eeerrrr gggrrehjehejhej!”
“I’m a monster!” screamed Poot to the heavens. The heavens admired her shining honey locks so that they tripped over themselves to see and accidentally let loose with some man rain nearly two weeks before The Weather Girls reunion concert. The hunky downpour splatted across the castle and hit a gaggle of nuns, who got very, very happy at the occurrence. Until they all died terribly.
Screeching in horror, Poot hitched her skirt over her perfect head and bolted toward the Witch Wing of the castle. The sight of her amazing princessly nether-regions wiped out a nearby class of sparring knights, whose swords went willy-nilly when they saw that the unruly curtains matched the unruly drapes.
Poot arrived at the Witch Wing and yelled, “Change me back! This face is evil! And I can’t fill a bra anymore.”
Vacuumhilda, the Witch Executive Officer, said, “But pretty is always better. Don’t you watch TV?”
“I was fine the way I was before!” Poot blurted. She placed shaking fingers to her perfect skin. “My face is not who I am,” she whispered, understanding her wise wife at last. Anyone who liked her pretty, but didn’t enjoy her the regular way, was a jerk.
But they’d all died, so that would learn them.
“Fine before? That’s insane. If before was okay, then after photos wouldn’t exist.” Vacuumhilda shrugged. “But you’re the princess.” The WEO fetched her magic wand, pointed the implement at Poot, and chanted the anti-beauty spell–which was, of course, Coldplay lyrics.
Poot felt her boobs grow, and her nose grow, and her chin hair grow. “Ahhhhhhhh,” she murmured, happy to be Poot once again, and not a danger to others, unless she water-skied.
Besides, who wanted to brush their hair every day? And Poot was pretty sure that CC Cream was not actually a real thing.
She had much better things to do with her time than vanity anyway, like surfing the Internet.
Next week, Princess Poot gains a bona-fide nemesis in “The Shittiest Princess and the Darkest Timeline.”