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The Shittiest Princess and the Shittiest Queen

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.

Just sit right back, and you’ll read a tale, a tale of a fateful trip that started from ol’ Kingdomville aboard a tiny ship. With Princess Poot; and Agnes, too; Benicio; and their beer. But no one else.

The occasion was Poot’s vacation, and this year would be the best of all, for she’d taken her friend-wife Agnes with her. They’d decided to find Poot’s long-lost mother, banished from court lo these many years for having birthed the worst uterus turd since Glenn Beck. Poot figured if she could locate her mother, then her Evil Stepmother’s marriage to her father would be null, for bigamy had been illegal in Kingdomville ever since a woman took two husbands. A man having ten wives is just sensible; a woman doing it destroys family values and causes volcanoes to erupt.

They traveled o’er the o’ceans to Poot’s mother’s homeland Hamalot, where the major export was beef. Agnes and Poot set foot on the warm, sandy beaches of their destination, happy to be off the ship. The seamen had all been gay, which worked out quite well for Benicio, but left the female passengers flirt-less, except for the occasional overzealous dolphin.

Everywhere they went, Poot inquired after Queen Lovely XIV, but no one had heard of her.

“She was probably born with a better name,” Agnes surmised.

Finally, they found an old lady in an opium den who remembered that the king of Hamalot once had a daughter named Pamalot. After a couple of enjoyable days smoking and playing Parcheesi, they woozily left the den and asked around for Pamalot. Unfortunately, Pamalot was the most popular girls’ name in Hamalot, after Crystalalot, so a fruitless week passed.

Poot took Agnes out to a belly-dancing-themed pasta restaurant to thank her for helping with the parental pursuit. Agnes studied belly dancing for fun, and had become so good she shook it like a Polaroid picture, as the poets say.

The waiter served Poot a heaping plate of linguine and ham sauce. “With extra bacon and cheese, yay,” said Poot.

“Extra bacon and cheese?” The belly dancer beside their table stopped shimmying and leaned in to stare at Poot. “That’s the way my long-lost daughter always took her breast milk! Oh, and she wore a pointy hat with a ‘P’ on it, too. Princess III, is that you?”

Poot’s stupefied gaze took in her mother — she stood tall, like Poot, and possessed the beautiful olive skin common to the Hamalotish. Although Poot’s olive had a rather rotten quality. “Mother? I’ve come to Hamalot to search for you!”

“Right on, daughter! You look wonderful — just as I always dreamed you would. I knew your teeth would grow in eventually.”


They hugged, and Mother sat down at their table, her tassels swishing and her bells tinkling. “How is it you’ve become a belly dancer?” Agnes asked. “You’re wonderful — and your tummy really gets to wobbling!”

“Life was so much better once I left Kingdomville and didn’t have to eat the Official Queen Diet of Ex-Lax and kale drippings. But I missed my baby daughter, Princess III, who never bit my boob, unlike my other horrible children.”

Poot glowed on the inside — not just from the firefly appetizer she’d eaten, but with love. “Yes, my siblings are the worst.”

Mom took a bite of bacon. “I love my homeland, but my father was almost as oppressive to princesses as your father is. When I returned here, I hid away at the beach and studied my lifelong passions, belly dancing and nuclear fission. I tried to get Handsome to let me study in Kingdomville, but he said that hobbies got women a-thinkin’, and that leads to hurricanes. What a dumbass. He should be called King Dumbass!”

They clinked their wine glasses together and had a good laugh.

“Please stay here in Hamalot with me, Princess III. Women are free to belly dance and discuss intersectional feminism, often at the same time. Nobody cares if your hair is brown, and pointy hats are not in fashion. It’s paradise! Oh, and we can change your name to whatever you want.”

A different name? Poot could scarcely believe the wonderful things she was hearing. When Poot spoke to herself in her head, she secretly called herself “Leslie,” after Leslie Knope. “But… I don’t want any of the princesses in Kingdomville to be oppressed. And common ladies probably don’t want fall under the boot of the patriarchy, either.”

“Thanks for remembering we exist,” Agnes said.

“It’s the least I can do.”

Everyone agreed on that.

“Besides, Mother” — Poot took her hand — “if you don’t come back, then evil Bucky is my stepmother. She calls me Step-Fart and has me living in a dungeon.”

“Like a common person,” Agnes said.

“Yes, it’s horrible! I have no idea why they do it.”

Pamalot ordered another bottle of wine. “I cannot go back, Poot. I’m sorry, but I cannot.” She looked around. “This is my home.”

Agnes cocked her eyebrow. “The Shake and Shake is your home?”

“Hamalot is my home.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality, as if she were talking of a beautiful, mystical place that didn’t have “ham” in the name. “The never-ending beef… the silly walks… the polygamy laws. I have three husbands here who need me. They’re only twenty-five-years old, and there’s no one else whose approval they’d rather wrestle naked for.”

Poot and Agnes exchanged a glance. “We can’t really argue with that,” Agnes said with a whistle. “Can we meet them?”

“Sure!” Pamalot stood and called their waiter. “Tonight they’re going to perform nude feats of strength to see who gets to wear the dog collar in our evening four-way. You can watch.”

With a shudder, Poot said, “Um, I’m happy to watch nude weightlifting, but maybe not the four-way, Mom.”

Pamalot shrugged. “To each her own. I don’t know how else you’re going to learn, though.”

Poot knew that she would have to forge her way ahead in Kingdomville without her mother, who’d made a new life for herself. It hadn’t been Mom’s choice to leave, so Poot couldn’t be angry that she’d made herself happy elsewhere. Happiness was the point of life. And cheese. But cheese leads to happiness, unless you’re lactose intolerant, so really it all comes back to happiness. Unless you’re lactose intolerant, then it all comes back to the toilet.

They spent the next week ogling Pamalot’s three gorgeous husbands, having fun at the nuclear reactor, and learning how to shake what their mothers had given them. Agnes won an amateur dance contest and was fêted with three young, nude studs of her own! Poot’s new radioactive glow improved her complexion so that she appeared fourteen percent better in her princess dress.

It was with heavy hearts that Poot and Agnes boarded their ship back to Kingdomville. Instead of waving her hand, Pamalot shimmied her everything else as way of goodbye. The tribute made Poot’s eyes water with a piña colada of feelings, more sweet than sour. And then Agnes handed her an actual piña colada, because what else do you do in the face of emotions? Deal with them sober? That’s madness!

The end.

Men are the worst next week in Poot’s adventure “The Shittiest Princess and the Discount Hero.”

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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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