The Shittiest Princess and the I Want Song

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 good old days, when ladies weren’t allowed to vote because of their estrogen spells, there lived a super shitty princess named Poot. This is a flashback story, so it takes place in the good older days. Don’t worry, though — ladies were still way oppressed.

Every sixteen-year-old princess must complete a certain set of accomplishments. One, she must learn to eat sausages without reminding onlookers of cocks. Two, she must sing her “I Want” song at her Coming Out Ball. In Princess Poot’s case, the “coming out” part of the ball would be when she removed the paper bag she’d worn on her head since birth. You can imagine how Poot anticipated this glorious day: the end to her food tasting of bag residue, the beginning of peripheral vision.

Every princess sang about what she wanted in life. Princess Redheaded Trademark wanted to paint toenails instead of fish scales. Princess Brunette Trademark desired to be left alone to read a fricking book already.

But what did Princess Poot want?

She wanted a prince, of course, because that is a princess’ only purpose. She hoped to become a Trademarked Princess someday, with her own line of decorative unicorns.

But was there anything else? Who was Poot? What was the meaning of life? Poot sought her Fairy Godmother, Tinkersmell, to help her sort these big life issues.

“I don’t know what the meaning of life is, Princess III,” said Tinkersmell between drags of a joint. “Except to be as happy as you can be in this filthy, disease-ridden existence full of ill luck and assholes. Everyone tells a princess that hair conditioner will make her happy… but you should question the system. Burn it down! Run away and become a belly dancer! Let freedom r — damn, I could use a burrito.”

Poot couldn’t burn down the castle — her favorite ghosts lived there. She did know, however, that Tinkersmell was wise. Hair conditioner had never made her truly happy, it just made her head bag soggy.

In the days leading up to her Coming Out Ball, Poot took long walks by the moat to reflect and write her “I Want” song. She listened to the breeze, and the cicadas, the wailing cats having sex on the shore. Yea, she found much to inspire her.

The night of the ball arrived. Poot applied makeup as best she could under her bag, her stomach flipping barrel rolls of excitement.

Her father, King Handsome, arrived to escort her to the event. “Well, well, Poot. Um… do you know what’s under that head covering? Is it… better?” he asked.

“Better than what?” asked Poot, her voice familiarly muffled.

He patted her hand. “Let’s just hope for the best.”

“I always do!”

Poot couldn’t wait to see her (surely glorious) princess dress and her (surely platinum) blonde hair. And she wouldn’t be clumsy anymore (which was surely due to the head bag). Tonight would begin a new chapter for her! Maybe the courtiers would be more respectful. Maybe a prince would fall in love with her. Maybe her father would call her by name, instead of after intestinal gas!

Trumpets tooted (but thankfully, not the partygoers) upon Poot’s arrival. Handsome did some speechifying about himself, Kingdomville, and how today’s temperate temperature made him more handsome. Then he abruptly snatched the bag from Poot’s head. A collective gasp arose in the overly-warm room.

Poot clapped her hands over her eyes — the bright lights were too shiny for her weak ocular muscles. Slowly, she opened her lids. Mousey brown hair hung in a curtain around her face. She tugged. The hair was hers! How could that be?

“It’s an abomination!” hollered one person.

“Someone send for Minion Clairol!” begged another.

Poot flipped her hair back and looked up, her smile quivering with trepidation. Several serving wenches fainted, one of them spilling wine all over Poot’s pink princess dress. Screams echoed shrilly off the elegant, curved ceiling. Poot had thought that the pointing would stop after her head bag was gone.

She took a deep breath. So I’m not blonde, she thought. And I have a sopping dress. And, from the looks of the crowd, I have something on my face that doesn’t belong. She felt it. Nose… eyes… chin… second chin… eyelids… gills. Nope, everything was normal.

Nothing to do but go for it. Perhaps her glorious singing voice would rouse the passions of the menfolk. She cleared her throat, grabbed up her recorder, and began singing, her falsetto warbling like a drunken parrot:

“The birds, they chirp chirpily/The fish, they flop squishily/My dentures, they clack toothily/And through it all, I want lunch.”

Bleeeeeeeet! screamed the recorder.

“The cheese, it creams yummily/Cocoa Puffs, they yum poofily/I yearn for a prince who eats heartily/With me in our distillery.

“Let’s raise unicorns hornily/And collect tchotchkes geekily/The kingdom will be happily/Happy that we’re so knowledgeable about Star Trek.”

Bleeeeeeeet! Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

“We’ll avoid wars diplomatically/Our Minions will move freely/And get paid handsomely/In a land ruled democratically!”

Yup, that’s when King Handsome stopped her, for he did not want his Minions getting the wrong idea that they were entitled to things like “money” and “rights.” And who the hell had taught Poot that she should want food? Eating was one of the more unladylike things a Princess could do, besides grow hair below her head.

The Kingdomville Publication for Dispensing News and Also Innuendo Couched as Fact declared Poot to have the worst “I Want” song since Princess New World Trademark sang that white folks shouldn’t appropriate land. Poot didn’t receive a movie deal, but did get several eggs pelted at her door.

On the upside, she was never forced to wear a head bag again, save for special occasions like her birthday. Oh, and she received an autographed picture of George Takei, which made her whole song worthwhile.

The end.

Hold on to your silly pointy hat, Poot fans–next week will feature “The Not the Shittiest Princess Anymore and the Magic Spell”!

Published by

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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