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 once was a magical place called Kingdomville. (For the purposes of our story, “having a pretty nice skating rink” is the same as “magical.”)
Every other week in Kingdomville, a celebration of womanhood took place, a glorious ode to the natural beauty of adult female-kind. King Handsome loved the ladies, and that’s why he made sure the blessed ceremony was mandated by law, for their betterment. Nothing honors a person like forcing them to do something. Especially something like having all their body hairs forcibly ripped from their tender flesh. Thus, every woman’s favorite bi-monthly holiday, the Ouch! Crap! Noooooo! Day was born.
Princess Poot did not enjoy the Ouch! Crap! Noooooo! Day, but then again, she was a weirdo, and such a shitty princess that they almost changed out the “P” on her pointy hat to “POO.”
On one of the blessed holidays, Poot lay on a flat bed beside her friend-wife Agnes while the Royal Fuckheads Who Inflict Pain waxed their labia. Poot said, “I say, Agnes, but this glorious ode to my womanity blows great chunks. Eeeeeeeeeekkkk! Oh, hairy hell, it hurts so fucking much!” She took a deep breath. “I like my down-there hair. When it’s gone, I pee all sideways-like.”
Agnes gritted her teeth and replied, “Aaaaarrrggghhh!” Her mandated beautification momentarily completed, she continued, “I agree. We don’t pull this shit on women in Respectica. Everybody has whatever body hair they like, and we still manage to prosper in peace and have a fine selection of frozen yogurt places.”
The ladies rolled over, as compelled by law, and continued discussing their opinion of Handsome’s obsession with hairless lady folk.
“Aiiiiieeeee!” screamed Poot.
“Noooooooooooooo! God, whyyyyyyyyyy?!” replied Agnes.
“Gggggaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Poot concluded.
Limping and ready for beers, Agnes and Poot retired to their dungeon apartment. Poot applied ice to her red, throbbing bits. “Why do the other women not seem to mind this horrible bi-monthly torture?”
Agnes held a cold beer bottle between her legs. “Handsome has convinced them that they are bad and ugly if they have body hair. Just the other day, Queen Bucky imprisoned one of her ladies-in-waiting for having a wonky eyebrow. She’s in the next dungeon over.”
“Hey, ya!” said the lady in waiting, her voice echoing through the dank cells. “Only three more years for me! Do — do you have a pair of tweezers?”
Poot stood. And then groaned and sat down. “I say we fight back! It should be everyone’s individual choice whether they inflict ouchies on themselves or not. Why else do we live in an absolute monarchy?”
“Damn right!” Agnes weakly fist pumped, and then took a swig of her crotch beer.
Two weeks from that day, Poot and Agnes were brought to the waxing parlor for their Ouch! Crap! Noooooo! Day celebration.
The Head Royal Fuckhead pointed to the torture table.
Poot winked at Agnes.
They whipped out a rolled bundle from behind their backs to reveal a protest banner. It read, “HEY, HEY, WE LIKE HAIR! IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, WHATEVER, THAT’S COOL. FREEDOM FOR FOLLICLES!”
They explained to the astonished Fuckheads and assembled victims that no one should be forced to get waxed ever again. With a jaunty march, they paraded around the room, dumping pots of wax on the floor. Several of the astonished ladies joined in the protest, relieved to have peaceful junk for a moment.
After a few minutes, Handsome exploded into the room, followed by his mistress, Lady We’re Just Friends. He said, “Poot, what is the meaning of this? Why aren’t my freedoms being freedomed upon you?”
Poot stood on a table. “Father, it is wrong to compel women to have their hairs ripped out. It hurts! How would you like it if I plucked away your downy man fur?”
Handsome laughed. “But men’s hair is natural and perfect! It is only women who are disgusting.” He shuddered. “Your armpit hair makes me confused, and your no-no hair gets in the way.”
“Of what?” asked Lady We’re Just Friends. She shook her head and turned to Agnes. “Even without hair, he has no idea what’s down there. He’s not called King Finds the Clit.”
“Women are perfect the way God made them,” saith Handsome with a swish of his cape. “But I am perfect-er the way God made me, for he made me the king over the women, and the lizards, and the rocks, and the olives, and the—”
Poot looked askance to Agnes, who got an idea. “King Handsome, I am sorry that you’re so wimpy you cannot handle a gentle wax. One would think that if all these weakling women could do it…”
The gears and cranks in Handsome’s head went to work. Clang! His ear twitched. Crunk! His eye flexed. “Wait a minute…” he said. “I am not wimpy. I am Handsome. H-A-N-D-S-U-M. Why does no one read the name tag?” He took a step toward Agnes and pointed a regal finger. “I am manly to the nth degree, and I shall prove it!”
“Wife, I love you,” Poot said.
“But of course,” replied Agnes.
Handsome dropped trou and climbed onto the nearest pain table. A shaking and cowering Fuckhead went about his business, stirring the molten wax and praying. He lifted a stream of the goo and slathered it across Handsome’s royal truck nutz.
“Ooooh! It’s warm and soothing,” said the king. The Fuckhead smoothed a strip of fabric against the wax. “What a lovely feeling. I don’t know what you jabbering women are comp—”
The Fuckhead pulled.
The sound uttered by Handsome that day has ne’er been heard before nor since. The witches in the nearby coven thought a demon from hell had jumped into their dimension by “accident” again. Squid thought that the Kracken was readying for a surf ‘n turf war. Benicio the Magic Mirror peered into time and space, observed Handsome’s sobbing form, and said, “He’s not the prettiest of the lot when he’s blubbering thatta way. He should be called King Snot.”
Handsome was returned to his suites via stretcher. Poot ran and got the Big Book With Rules Written In and, in his tingly stupor, Handsome slashed Ouch! Crap! Noooooo! Day from the books forever. Thereafter, womenfolk could choose whether or not they wanted to suffer. In regards to hair, that is. They still couldn’t drive a carriage, own property, or eat cheese on Sundays.
Poot and Agnes celebrated their rebellion by eating a giant pizza the following Sunday. Nobody ever visited the dungeon, so they weren’t caught. The small act of misbehaving was fun anyway, especially with their itch-free, brushed and fluffed crotches. Poot had dyed hers bright blue — any color but pink.
Forevermore, the women of Kingdomville flashed their cooters at Agnes in appreciation of her clever gambit. It was really funny at first, but got weird after a while.
Next week, be prepared for a terrifying story full of terror! And probably some stupid jokes. BUT MOSTLY TERROR! For Princess Poot must deal with… “Pooty and the Beast”!