The Shittiest Princess and the Darkest Timeline

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 were, once upon a time, two childhood girlfriends named Poot and Bucky. Poot was the shittiest princess, and Bucky was the shittiest daughter of a duke this side of Hazard County. Bucky was so named because her front teeth stuck straight out. Also, because she resembled a bronco.

Poot and Bucky clung together through thick and thin. At the beginning, this was mostly because the other kids threw chickens at them, as was the style at the time. But later in life, they shared milestones like their first period; graduating from Kingdomville Royal Academy of Tapestry Embroidery and Agreeing With Men; and playing “seven minutes in heaven” at a party, so named because the other attendees locked them in a closet so the popular kids could have seven heavenly minutes of not looking at them.

So it was a sad day when Bucky’s father’s dukedom got transferred to Milwaukee. Poot hadn’t seen her bestie since that mascara-streaked day when they were both fifteen. But today, Poot would embrace her BFF again when Bucky was formally presented to her father, King Handsome, in court. Bucky wished to marry a Kingdomvillain because mullets were the rage in Milwaukee this year.

Poot stood beside her dad as the eligible maidens (and doctoral candidate orangutans) paraded one-by-one in the Official Gilded Room for Royals to Peer at Non-Royals and Make Them Feel Inferior. She had thought Bucky was up when a rather tall orangutan doffed a hat to the king, but it wasn’t her.

Next for presentation came quite the most spectacular beauty Poot had ever seen. And she’d seen every episode of The Real Housewives of Miami, so she knew from classy young women. The auburn-haired lass performed a spectacular curtsy and the room broke into applause. When she arose, she said in a voice tinged with summertime bluebells, “I am Marguerite the Finally Worth Something, your majesty. But my friends call me ‘Bucky.’”

Poot fell over her father’s throne and landed in a pile of networking apes.

“Bucky!” Poot disentangled herself from a stray furry limb and stood. “I didn’t recognize you!”

The young woman laughed. Three knights and a priest offered her marriage on the spot. “I recognized you, my dear friend Poot! The only thing different about you is that your boobs are even larger and less fashionable than before. Do you have fewer real teeth?”

Poot nodded, glad she’d soaked her dentures in bleach the evening before.

“Yup, same old Poot,” Handsome said. “We still have to pay the cat to ignore her.” He shoved Poot aside and descended the throne stairs to meet Bucky. “But you! You have blossomed, Bucky! Look at how her teeth turned out, Poot. She has some.”

“Yes, one day I woke up, and they’d just fixed themselves.” Bucky smiled; several courtiers began sculpting her likeness in marble. “Then my blemishes disappeared. My butt turned from an innie to an outie. Finally, one afternoon, I made the transition to full super model, except that modeling is for commoners. But I totally could be one if I wanted to. Ta ta! I have to go make a spreadsheet of my many marriage proposals.” She headed off; ninety-percent of the men followed to add themselves to the list, including Handsome.

“She can’t really marry my father,” Poot said, despair gripping her heart like a mall Santa clutches his flask.

“Aaaah aaaah aaaah oooh oooh eeee!” replied the only remaining orangutan. Translated from the ape, it means, “Not if I can woo her first!” He ran off to join the others.

Poot sighed, for he’d been quite the most attractive of the lot.

The next day, Handsome married Bucky in an elaborate ceremony involving dancing unicorns. Poot cried in the corner, her paper head bag becoming quite wet. Bucky, her new stepmother, had insisted she wear it. The tears flowed unabated, for Poot had dreamed of dancing unicorns at her own wedding, which would surely never happen. Her sisters had been featured in the ceremony and got to ride in the unicorn parade. Poot was made to clean up the glittery, rainbow unicorn poo, which smelled worse than it sounded.

Once the droppings were dropped off, Poot went to congratulate the happy couple. “I wish you many happy years,” Poot said with a curtsy.

“What?” Bucky laughed. “I can’t hear you through that head bag. Better that you don’t speak anymore, Step-Fart.”

“Step-Fart! Good one!” Handsome joined in on the guffaws. “Wait, who is the awful person in the bag?”

Stabs of sadness stabbily pierced Poot’s sad heart. This was worse than the time her father had brought her to the dog track to compete. And she’d never caught the bunny! Poot sobbed and ran away to her suite.

Friend-Wife Prince Agnes, who hadn’t been invited to the ceremony because Bucky objected to extra toes, put a comforting arm around Poot. “You shouldn’t be surprised, Princess III. A wicked stepmother was overdue in this series. But you’re still a princess, and no one can take that away from you.”

Knock knock! sounded at the door. “Your Highness Step-Fart, we’re the Royal Movers Who Take Things Away From You. We’re here to transfer you to the under-moat dungeon.”

And so Bucky the Wicked Stepmother caused Poot and Agnes to move into one small, dank room under the moat. Sure, Medium-Sized Squid was in closer proximity, but otherwise, this was a slimy, moldy comedown, even though Poot usually enjoyed the freedom of open-air toilets.

Poot and Agnes were trying to determine where to put their cots to avoid the precarious stalactites when Bucky swished into the chamber. “I think this place is appropriate for you, Step-Fart. It’s gross.”

“Why are you doing this, Bucky?” Poot asked. “We used to stick together through thick and thin.”

“That’s because our back braces got tangled!” Bucky swiped at Poot with a talon painted purple, the Official Queen Color. “I decided to improve myself, so I’d never again be stuck at the loser’s table — it always gets put beside the bathroom. As God is my witness, I’ll never smell poop with my dinner again!” She took a step closer. “I should really thank you, Poot. In you, I saw myself, and I resolved to become better in every way. And it worked! I’m a queen, like you never will be.”

“I may not be a queen —” Poot said, inching toward her stepmother, but then taking a step back because damn, she was scary — “but I have a friend-wife, and a squid…oh, and my LiveJournal of haikus about Chris Evans is very popular. I like my life, even in a dungeon.” Her loud, positive proclamation dislodged one of the stalactites and sent it crashing through her laptop. “My gif collection!” she screamed.

Bucky sneered evilly (she’d been practicing!) and flounced away.

“Thank goodness she’s left — presumably to hump your dad,” Agnes said.

For some reason, that didn’t make Poot feel any better.

“Um, can someone please move me away from the pointy rocks?” said Benicio, a quiver in his dashing voice. “That’s how my brother bit it. Now he’s used in terrible Pinterest craft projects.”

And so began a dark time in the life of Poot, The Shittiest Princess. At least they still had Agnes’ fifteen kegs of beer a day, which they put to good use that night while they dreamed of revenge against Bucky the evil stepmother. And of ways to shore up the ceiling, so Benicio wouldn’t end up in a macramé owl on Etsy.

* * *

Chris Evans, your butt

Alone can save the day now.

Help us, perky cheeks!

* * *

Woe for Princess Poot! Even more woe shall woe woeingly next week in “The Shittiest Princess and the Shittiest Queen.” That’s a fuck ton of woe!

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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

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