The Shittiest Princess is a series of funny fairy tales for those of us who ain’t exactly cartoon princesses. You can find the whole series here.
In the olden times, when nobody was there to make friends, the land of Kingdomville had the shittiest princess since Princess Always Suggests Kale. The shittiest princess, Princess Poot, was very awful — even though she would never eat kale.
One evening, Poot and her wife Prince Agnes experienced some epic boredom. Firstly, they lived in a dungeon, and seven different of their TVs had been destroyed by stalactites and/or mole people. They’d also run out of ice cream, the Wifi was totally pooping out, and the only magazine available was Medieval Mopping.
So, naturally, they bribed the dungeon guard with a keg of beer and snuck out to find excitement on the castle grounds. But alack! The Official Order of the Super Horny Holy Men was in Vegas for an all-nude revival. Moat Squid had joined them; he was amazingly persuasive when talking about cephalopod Jesus.
Poot and Agnes had nearly decided to streak through the Minion group toilet when they heard voices in the Dukes ‘N’ Flukes Wing, where the dukes and the royal illegitimates lived. A short way into the section, and they heard the following spoken by some ladies:
“I just found out that my Toe-Polishing Minion’s ex-husband is having an affair with my coke-fiend niece, Lady Fun at Parties… and her Masseuse Minion, Sven.”
“What the hell, Frangelico? Sven is also my Masseuse Minion, and we’re running away together to study smugness in Whedonville! It’s going to be the most amazing thing ever, according to fan boys on Twitter who’ll call you a whore for disagreeing.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it, Lady Bronzer, you bitch. Sven is the father of my cousin’s baby’s nanny’s sister’s half-man/half-dog Hot Tub Slave!”
Agnes turned to Poot. “This is the best conversation I have ever heard.”
Poot agreed, “Makes our entire lives seem pointless.”
They hurried to the room from which these amazing statements were being statemented.
A group of women sat around a glass-top table, the base of which was a sculpture of pink prancing dolphins. They saw Frangelico, the Duchess of Blingsplosion, which was also the name of her line of ankle bracelets for baby goats. Also in attendance was Lady Bronzer, who was not allowed by law in the Kingdomville Sephora anymore. There was The Duchess of Mombie, who had quadruplets that she never brought up in conversation. And the Countess of Wannabéy, whose album had been about to drop for twelve years.
Wannabéy looked up from her glass of Supa Real Jalapeno Weight Loss “Liquid” by Iggy Azalea. “Hello, Princess Poot! And her… Foot-Peeling Minion?”
“Tongue-reshaper?” offered Frangelico.
“Sven just loves your hip pads,” said Lady Bronzer. She then turned to Duchess Mombie and rolled her eyes.
Duchess Mombie grinned and sat up straighter. “That reminds me of the time when little Bradelyenne asked for her first hip suctioning. I swear, my life —”
“— Was pointless until you had quadruplets, yes,” said everyone else.
Countess Wannabéy handed Poot a diet champagne yogurt slurry. Poot took a disgusting sip and said, “This is my friend-wife, Prince Agnes. What are you ladies up to tonight?”
“We’re talking about how anyone who had a C-section instead of a vaginal birth isn’t a real mom and should be thrown into a volcano,” said Mombie.
Poot sat on the empty couch, Agnes beside her. The princess said, “My vagina’s prolapse means I have to give birth through my back vent. Of course, I’ll probably have to pay to be impregnated by the monster that lives in the abandoned self-tanner mine anyway.”
All four of their new friends leaned forward. “Tell me mooooooooore!” sang Wannabéy. “Drop it like it’s hot.”
“The ’90s called — they want their phrase back,” Agnes said.
Mombie clapped at this sick burn.
A small goat trotted into the room, her hoofs jangling with giant gold bells trimmed in feathers. “Oh, how unexpected!” Frangelico exclaimed. “It’s my kid, who happens to be wearing some Blingsplosion. Princess Poot, you have very goat-like ankles, if I may say so.”
Poot nearly spit out her veganist canapé. “Thank you so much! My leg parts usually get compared to a big-mouth bass.”
“Kid?” Duchess Mombie stood and threw her jalapeno water in Blingsplosion’s face. And then in the goat’s face. “That thing is not a kid. My four precious babies are human children, and everything else that anyone occupies their time with is a pile of shit compared to Bradelyenne 1, Bradelyenne 2, Glammourati, and Table!”
Agnes clutched the crying goat to her bosom. “A baby goat is called a kid. Blingsplosion’s statement was accurate. Which is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”
With a shriek, Blingsplosion flipped over the dancing dolphins. “I don’t know if you were saying that sincerely or sarcastically, but I choose to be insulted!”
“Oh, I think she meant to insult you,” Poot offered.
“Definitely,” said Bronzer. Then, with a shriek, she stood and flipped over the dancing dolphins. But the other way. “How dare you attack Mombie. And also not compliment my new method of contouring! You’re just jealous!”
Poot’s eyebrows knit. “Do — do you mean me? Or Agnes?”
“Whoops, I’m sorry. I meant you, Your Highness.”
Bronzer jumped on Poot and wrestled her to the ground. She ripped out a chunk of Poot’s horrible brown hair. “Jeaaaalllllllooouuuusssssssss!”
Wannabéy reached into her cleavage and pulled out a wireless microphone to sing. “Everyone is jealous of me! And my voice like Mariah Carey! You all sound like a faaaaaart —”
Poot spit the blood from her mouth. “Rude — I take fart jokes personally.” She threw her slurry into Wannabéy’s face. The “singer” gurgled and collapsed onto the faux-leopard rug.
Agnes gasped, “My psychic said this would happen!”
Frangelico Blingsplosion sauntered to Agnes and the quivering goat in her arms. “Did your psychic also tell you to wear such an ugly yak fur maxi dress?
“Why are you so mean? I saved your goat from the Supa Real Jalapeno Weight Loss ‘Liquid’ by —” Agnes put her hands over the goat’s ears and whispered, “Iggy Azalea.”
Frangelico screamed, “I’m intimidated by your fashion sense and title! And Lady Bleatington is my favorite goat, yet she appears to like you more. I have, like, three infected goat bites. Uncontrollable truth telling is a side-effect of the Jalapeno liquid.”
“Bleeeeeaaaaat,” added Lady Bleatington in what was, without question, the most cutting observation of the night.
“I think I’m starting to get the goat mania.” Duchess Blingsplosion sank onto her haunches and took a bite out of the couch.
Poot kicked Bronzer in the cooch and rolled out from under her.
Agnes tucked Duchess Bleatington under her arm and ran. She slapped Mombie and Wannabéy on the way by, and then Blingsplosion for hot-gluing bells to the goat’s hooves.
Our heroines raced for their lives. They made it to the door!
Flipping her hair as well as a brunette can, Poot turned back and said to the writhing royals, “Same time next week?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mombie after she stopped biting Bronzer.
Wannabéy hitched up her cleavage. “Next week we’re having an intervention séance for my comatose drag queen half-cousin’s sex puppet.”
Agnes waved. “I’ll bring the bong!”
This is the last Shittiest Princess for a little while. Thanks to everyone who has been reading Poot’s adventures, and there will be more to come in the future!