The Shittiest Princess Presents: Friend-Wife Agnes and the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party
Geesh, all these dudes looked alike. Inbred, no doubt.
There once was a friend-wife named Agnes, who hated Limericks. Agnes had friend-married Princess Poot of Kingdomville in exchange for the title of Prince and the fifteen-kegs-of-beer-a-month salary, even though Poot was a very shitty princess. Well, by conventional standards, and according to the UN.
Agnes, however, glowed with fondness for her wife, who had interesting hobbies — and smells. They did not get it on, however, as they were both straight, and of romantically incompatible astrological signs: Poot was a Crapicorn and Agnes, a Libral. Everyone knows that sparks fly (the dangerous kind that burn your arm hair off) when Librals and Crapicorns turn on the Barry White. Friendship was okay, though.
One day soon after their marriage, Agnes and Poot were lounging upon their royal sun deck and sipping on royal margaritas when the royal mail came. Royally. “I have a letter — addressed to Prince Agnes!” said Prince Agnes.
“Oooh, open it,” Poot said. “Maybe it’s a low-introductory-rate credit card offer.”
But it wasn’t, unfortunately. Fortunately, it was something almost as wonderful — Agnes’ official invitation to the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party, an annual summit for princes to meet and discuss the very serious topics affecting their soon-to-be kingdoms. This year’s theme was Plague Victims: Annoying Menace or Interesting New Taco Ingredient?
“You should go!” Poot urged as she spilled her margarita down her lopsided cleavage. “My brother, Prince Athletic the Butt Patter, goes every year, but never returns with any intelligent ideas for improving the kingdom. Usually he just brings back a new venereal disease, or a new secret butt-patting code.”
Agnes had no idea what the hell a “butt-patting code” was, secret or no. However, she determined that she would travel to nearby Brotopia to check out the summit. She was a prince, now, dammit — and would contribute to her adopted kingdom’s prosperity. Although she did miss the rolling hills and tuba concerts of Respectica, her homeland.
And so Agnes packed her best manly, princely clothing (puffy shirts and tights) and set off to Brotopia to attend the esteemed Princely Palooza Pleasure Party. When she arrived, the Carrying Important People Minions set her off their shoulders, and she handed them the customary Big Macs of appreciation. She straightened her hot pink puffy shirt and matching boots, and started for the entrance of the convention center.
“Hey, baby!” called the man with a clipboard blocking her path. “The dancing girls go through the back.”
Agnes pulled herself to her full height and replied, “I am Prince Agnes of Kingdomville. I dance for no man!” She straightened her crown. “I dance for ladies, though, when the DJ turns on some Megan Thee Stallion.”
The man made a note of that in his clipboard. “I beg your pardon, Prince…Agnes. Here is the secret code for gaining entrance to events.” As she walked past, he patted her on the bottom: pat-pat-patpatpat pattity-pat.
Agnes turned, grabbed his arm, and flipped him over her head until he landed splat! on the gravel.
“Thank you, Your Highness!” he groaned.
“Well, I never!” huffed Agnes as she grabbed her welcome gift bag and ran inside. How dare he just touch her butt without her permission? Was she a crocodile at the petting zoo? Disgusting!
Agnes sucked in a breath to behold many more disgusting things before her. Firstly, she was shocked to see that Love Knockers wasn’t a convention center at all, but a club for ladies to strip in! All around her, princes in puffy shirts groped and grabbed at women trying to dance to Megan Thee Stallion in peace. In that corner, two princes were bare-knuckle boxing while simultaneously huffing bath salts. In that other corner, two princes were playing Extreme Candy Land while a woman in a bikini took bets on the outcome, the onlookers slobbering upon her exposed love knockers.
“Where is the Addressing Gender Pay Gaps in Private Corporations meeting?” she asked a passing prince with no pants on.
“In my lap!” he replied. Although this answer made no sense to Agnes, several of his prince brethren high-fived him. “Here, let’s share the secret pat.” The giant, blond prince yanked her, face down, across his lap on a nearby throne and began touching her bottom: pat-pat-patpatpat pattity-pat.
Her protestations of, “Stop! Unhand me, thou freak!” went unheeded.
That’s it. Agnes had had enough of these assholes who clearly had not gathered in order to address the inherent injustice of monarchy-based governance systems, or the need for greater access to fresh fruits and vegetables for inner-kingdom children. She grabbed the emergency mini-tuba she always wore around her neck and blatted a great blat! The blond jackass fell off his throne, taking her to the floor with him. The entire rest of the room, including the dancing women, stopped and gaped at her.
Butterflies pooled in Agnes’ stomach, even though she hadn’t eaten any. She stood, smoothed her prince tunic, and said, “It’s wrong to pat unsuspecting butts!”
The group stared at her, gaping in confusion. Except for one dancer, who clapped enthusiastically before stopping to rub her sore bottom.
A stocky, blonde prince pushed his way through the throng to sway drunkenly in front of Agnes. She recognized him as Poot’s asshole brother, the one who routinely set flaming bags of poop in front of their palace suite.
Prince Athletic the Butt Patter slurred, “Your Poosh’s wife, right?” Athletic was such an idiot, he used the wrong “you’re” even when speaking aloud. “Shush up and show us your chocolate boobiesh, Exotica lady!”
It really ground Agnes’ gears to be compared to food, especially by such a mayonnaise-faced fool. She climbed onto one of the round stages and gripped the steadying pole. “Princes! Your people have sent you here to this venerable Palooza so that you can improve your kingdoms and, by extension, your subjects’ lives! The first thing you can do is abolish this butt-patting culture! You sir — how would you like it if male minions or peasants just walked up to you and grabbed your junk?”
The yellow-haired man recoiled in horror, exclaiming, “But Junk-Touching Minions have been banished!”
“And so they should be!” Agnes replied, although that was probably unfair, as minions didn’t get a choice of how they minioned. She made a mental note to bring that up later when these idiots sobered up. “And you, um, other blond prince — “ Geesh, all these dudes looked alike. Inbred, no doubt. “How would you like it if just anyone was allowed to stick things down your pants, as you are now doing to that dancer?”
His forehead crinkled with consternation, and he ceased shoving cotton candy into the frowning dancer’s shorts. “What are you, some kinda Libral?”
“How did you know?”
Another fellow twirled his golden mustache and said, “You mean, some Poor could stick anything down my pants?”
“Like… piranhas? Or water balloons? Or stuffed koalas? Wait… I might like that last one.”
“Shut up, Larry!” someone called out.
“Um, yes,” Agnes said. “It would be terrible if random Poors were allowed to stick piranhas down your pants, wouldn’t it?”
Everyone agreed on that, except for Prince Humperpink Salmon from Ice Town, who abstained.
Agnes continued, “So… mightn’t it be disrespectful for you to do that? For you to grab random ladies’ behinds and stuff things into their panties that will surely give them yeast infections, and also PTSD?”
Several of the men nodded. One of them said, “When they have yeast infections, they can’t have sex.” All of the men nodded, for they at last understood body autonomy, at least in terms of butt-patting and underwear-stuffing. And lack of sex.
It was a good start, thought Agnes, smiling. Her face fell. Well, a start.
Ninety-five percent of the Princely Palooza Pleasure Party that year still consisted of a disgusting waste of public funds, drunkenness, and overall vile behavior, but Agnes managed to hold several meetings of actual importance, which three or four princes attended — and stayed awake for. All the princes signed a pact to never again butt-pat without permission, and it made Agnes’ heart soar to see one prince say to another, “That was a wicked punch, dude — may I pat your princely backside in admiration?”
The women of Brotopia erected a statue in Agnes’ honor. It consisted of a giant, bronze butt featuring a red circle with a line drawn through. Agnes couldn’t decide if it was racist, sexist, or just plain artistically ugly. In the end (pun intended), she took it for the small step in the right direction it seemed to be. Except for artistically — there was no redemption to be found there.
The other princes at the Palooza treated her with new-found respect, and voted Athletic to be the King Loser of the conference, which greatly amused Poot when Agnes told her upon their reunion. She’d bought them both souvenir beer hats, which they drank from as the sun set over Kingdomville. Agnes knew that the next butt pat she’d receive would be entirely consensual, and that’s a great feeling. Not as great a feeling as a nice, consensual ass-spank, but darn close.