The Shittiest Princess and the Twelve-Toed Suitor
“But fulfilling female friendships that don’t revolve around men are forbidden in my line of work,” said Princess Poot.
Once upon a time, when men were men and women were property, there lived a very shitty princess. Verily, she was the shittiest princess in the seven kingdoms, and in the three kingdoms beyond them. She was worse than even the most terrible royal in that weird duchy that celebrated Christmas all year ’round. It took a month to pry the tinsel out of your sensitive parts after a visit to that accurséd place, a pox upon it.
The shittiest princess’ name was Poot. You’d think she’d be the fartiest princess, but that title belonged to Princess Amanda Who Is Rarely Invited to Sleepovers.
It befell to Princess Poot to get herself a handsome prince, for that is what princesses were supposed to do. Well, that and look skinny in pink.
Poot appeared putrid in pink. The color made her sallow skin even yellower, yet emphasized her pustulous zits. And she wasn’t adept at having small boobs, as per the fashion of the day, the better to glide gracefully in gossamer gowns you can’t wear bras with because they’re designed by men. Instead, Poot’s tig ol’ bitties wobbled to and fro like an oversensitive Jell-O.
Despite these faults, Poot dreamed of finding a prince who would admire her collection of plates featuring human teeth. She hoped to have an entire set some day, both in platter-form and in her mouth.
After years of princes leaving horrifying Yelp reviews about Poot, her father, King Handsome the Handsome (the people in their kingdom, Kingdomville, weren’t too imaginative), decided to hold a contest for his daughter’s hand. He needed her married off already. The Social Media Minions were threatening to strike, for Poot’s bad publicity was impossible to overcome; the black death had more Instagram followers than Kingdomville. So Handsome decreed that whichsoever royal did slayeth the dragon currently menacing-eth the 7-Eleven shall marry Princess Poot.
No princes applied. Firstly, most of them avoided their princely duties by surfing online, and they knew about Poot’s weekly recorder recitals of Abba songs. Secondly, Princess Poot had brown hair, which, as everyone with sense knows, is doing woman wrong.
Handsome extended the contest to minor royals… rich persons… tradespersons… circus folk. No takers. Finally, he opened the challenge to absolutely anyone, at all, of any gender, and only half-humanness (but he was flexible).
One person took up the mighty task: Agnes the Twelve-Toed. Agnes was a poor lady, as in, she had no monies, but pity her not. With clear, copper skin and melting brown eyes, Agnes was way too good for Poot, looks-wise; then again, she was a vile Poor, which evened things out. She hailed from Exotica, a community a couple of kingdoms over. Agnes’ own people called their land Respectica, but no Kingdomvillain called it that, because of “Geesh, why are you people so sensitive? It’s a compliment!”
Agnes almost wasn’t allowed to enter Kingdomville because of her twelve toes. Ten was considered the ideal number of toes — nine being okay as long you’d lost the one saving an attractive blonde from a runaway carriage, or if you were Alexander Skarsgård. He’s so hot that nobody cares how many toes he has, since they are likely equally hot as well.
Poot bubbled with glee to know someone was willing to battle a fierce dragon for her sake, even though she knew the Prince title (and salary of fifteen kegs of beer per day) was what Agnes wanted. Still, the Poor was a hottie, and Poot didn’t deserve any better, being a brunette and all.
The next day, Poot waved a hankie to wish Agnes well on her dangerous quest. Agnes, dressed in cardboard armor, rushed down Street street to face the horrible wingéd menace at the convenience store.
The dragon, whom the store clerks had named “Aaaaaaaaaah!” breathed a bolt of fiery fire straight at Agnes, who dodged it nimbly. The molten stream melted the automatic doors and hit the hot dog rotator; the smell of yummy, charred franks filled the air.
Agnes wished she wasn’t quite so poor a Poor, for she possessed no actual weapon, save her courage and a pipe she’d found by the side of the road. She grabbed a handful of the hot dogs and mixed the pipe amongst them; she thought she might choke the dragon to death, and thereby earn herself some awesome beer and a de-loused place to live. Respectica was a wealthy kingdom, but someone had to come from the louse-catching class.
“Hey, Aaaaaaaaaah!” she yelled to the dragon. “Have a delicious snack of hot dogs!”
“Hooray!” cried Aaaaaaaaaah! the dragon. “I’ve been threatening the 7-Eleven for weeks, waiting for someone to offer me greasy junk food.”
The dragon slurped the weenies into her mouth. Her eyes got big, and she started choking.
“Oh, no!” said a voice behind Agnes. The Respectican turned to see Princess Poot. “The dragon is dying, when all she wanted was some hot beef. I understand, for that’s all I want, too.”
Poot dropped to her hands and knees.
Agnes scrambled onto her back, and then the dragon’s. The creature reared, but Agnes hung on, for twelve toes are better than ten when one wishes to cling to a dragon’s hide. Agnes slapped the gagging Aaaaaaaaaah! between the shoulder blades and out popped the pipe.
Poot clapped. Agnes struck a dashing posture of victory. The store clerk yawned and emerged from hiding.
“Hey, Aaaaaaaaaah! dragon person dude,” began Princess Poot, elegantly, “if we supply you with hot dogs every week, will you stop loitering in the parking lot and setting fire to the free weekly paper stand? The publishers of Savings ’N’ Smut are getting quite put out.”
“Yes,” croaked the dragon. “But I also need coins to operate the claw game. When I use my own claw, I break the machine and get glass in the stuffed animals I want to cuddle with.”
King Handsome agreed to these sensible terms, and declared Prince Agnes engaged to Poot. A few citizens of Kingdomville objected on religious grounds, but, like, who cares — no one was forcing them to marry a Poor of the same gender.
Princess Poot showed her tooth plates to Agnes, who displayed her own collection of toe jam, which was splendid, as one might expect. “I enjoy hot beef, too,” said Agnes. “Maybe we can have a platonic friend-marriage. We’ll still get to pursue sausage on the side, yet we can hang out together in our leisure to watch The Golden Girls while we drink my beer.”
“But fulfilling female friendships that don’t revolve around men are forbidden in my line of work,” said Princess Poot.
“It’s okay. You’re the shittiest princess — you’re bound to get some of it wrong.”
And so the friends hugged, but not in that way, for they enjoyed man meat and not lady tacos, except in slash fiction. The shittiest princess still had no prince, her entire reason for living; for now, beer would do just as well.
Beer and the royal vibrator, anyhow.
This is the very first installment of my series, The Shittiest Princess! Feel free to share these because Poot’s social numbers are, frankly, abysmal.
