• Anouk Jouffret and Becky Miller

Would a Princess Do That?

Affirmative

By Becky Miller


Yes, a princess would absolutely smack a pigeon between the thighs to assert her dominance over her sidewalk domain. She would then continue on her merry way and you, a mere peasant, wouldn’t care to complain because (despite your pea-sized brain), you know a princess can do that. I can't believe you’d even ask such a stupid question. But, considering you did, let me go ahead and explain why a princess can literally do anything with absolutely zero consequences.


Open your eyes. It’s the 21st century, and the big-name princesses are being slandered in headlines around the globe. Majesty Magazine recently called Grace Kelly “antiquated and heteronormative.” Meghan is hiding from the paparazzi in Canada, and no one has talked about Kate in years. With the spotlight averted, the rest of us princesses can act out. We can stay out til the crack of dawn, wear the same socks for a week straight, open beer bottles with just our teeth. If anyone decides to be a freaking cop and says, “You’re acting clinically insane… Would a princess do that?” we can slap them and respond, “Yes, she would, and she will.” We must persist!


No matter what action I choose to perform, one flash of my heirloom tiara (a Burger King crown bedazzled with pink gemstones) and everyone in my close circle of six best friends (and extended friend group of 20 that I only see out on the weekends) will still kiss the ground I walk on, cheer me on as I make TikToks of myself dancing, and tell me I look gorgeous doing it. A princess would eat pasta with ketchup; she would wear Ilana’s “Latina” hoop earrings from Broad City; she would cover her entire laptop and water bottle with Redbubble stickers.


Illustration by Aeja Rosette

Now that the establishment princesses have dragged the rest of us down with them, I am free to act a fool—and it’s been heavenly. Just the other day, while Citi-biking the wrong way down Central Park West, I noticed a white stretch limo loitering in front of a self-important apartment building. I immediately screeched to a halt, dropped my e-bike in front of a crawling M4, and decided to hijack the limousine and drive to Hoboken. I was supposed to be meeting my grandparents for brunch in the Village, but this seemed both more worthwhile and more true to myself at that exact moment. My confidence was through the roof (I was wearing biker shorts in the same neon green as the flag of my mom’s grandma’s cousin’s country to which I owe my status of princessa), so I marched right up to the car, leaned through the window and told the driver I’d been waiting for 35 minutes and this was unacceptable, and to please absolutely book it to the original Carlo’s Bakery. It was all incredibly Selena Gomez in Monte Carlo, except I’m the real princess and the poor loser whose limo I co-opted is probably much uglier than me. My behavior was ludicrous, but since cannolis were on the line, frankly, my dear, I didn’t give a damn!


As long as everything continues this way, the princess cohort might end up being the scariest part of summer 2022. With no more constricting rules, rebellion has become too easy and deodorant sales for my demographic have plummeted. I get high off of walking around like Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes mid-pandemic—you know, unapologetically wearing open-toed shoes. Some may say we’re regressing, but would a child ding-dong-ditch their professor or dine-and-dash from Serafina? That’s the life of a princess, honey. The pigeons are yours for the kicking.


Negative

By Anouk Jouffret


Oh, yes, I did see Becky Miller kick that pigeon just now. Abominable, if you ask me. A princess would most definitely not do that. By “that” I mean “absolutely anything.” The claim that a princess, privileged by all conventional standards, is forbidden from taking part in life’s many wonders, such as kicking a pigeon upon need of emotional outlet, is a bold claim— I know. But let’s be real: Princesses are told what to do, what to wear, what to think, hell, I bet they’re even told when to take a dump. These days, princesses are as shackled as concubines.


Who is behind the puppeteering of the princesses, you might wonder. Let me tell you, it’s not just the right hand men of the patriarchy this time but a roided-out industry of PR representatives and ruthless royal family members. Today, I take it upon myself to shed some light on the tragic predicament forced upon princesses in our current climate—the first stop on my princess liberation campaign.


Now, before you write my cause off as frivolous, let me assure you that my motivation is genuine and impregnated with meaning. Please, do not fret; I did not wake up this morning and think to myself “Huh, with a war in Ukraine, a planet in peril, and America being America, the status of princesshood is the most pressing issue on the international agenda.” No, my drive is raw and all-consuming: to drag that darned Becky Miller down from her royal tower of delusions and give her a taste of bitter reality. To shake some sense into her, depending on what imagery you prefer.


Becky dear, let me give you a more holistic representation of princesshood in its current iteration. Despite what you might think, a princess would be strictly prohibited from wearing Ilana’s Latina hoop earrings because it would be deemed against dress code. Only brand names of the likes found in Saks would be approved by your stylist and PR manager. Consequently, no carbs would be permitted—you can forget the sugary delight that is the pastry rack in Carlo’s Bakery. Your diet would loosely consist of rabbit food and an occasional oversauced piece of meat at a mandatory function. Were you a princess, I highly doubt you would know how to ride a bike, let alone an e-bike, given your malnutrition and parental neglect. And on the off chance that your parents caught a break from figure heading and providing tabloids with content and did, in fact, teach you how to ride a bike, I can promise you that they would not give you the right to exert your talent—the straddling of a rogue saddle would be considered most unladylike. (Notice that these points suggest that Becky Miller is a princess imposter, a liar, and a Neanderthal.)


Becky, I am prepared to guess that my arguments have not resonated with you thus far. The reason for this lies in a difference of opinions on one crucial point; you believe princesses to be out while I, most certainly, do not. Darling, there is a reason that Spencer was made less than three years after season three of The Crown aired and managed to find a viewing as the dozenth movie made about Lady Di. Princesses are watched and their moves—the fewer the better—must be measured. So please, no pigeon kicking. No stealing white stretch limos for yourself; those are handed to princesses for a reason. No character building for princesses, not today.




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