Politically-Correct Snow White

POLITICALLY CORRECT FAIRY TALES

Once upon a time, there lived a cosmetically gifted Princess called Multiracial Melting Pot. Her mother, the Queen, who was Queen through title alone and worked politically, and at an equal wage as her colleagues, was comparably inferior in the attractiveness stakes, but only marginally so, and only a foolish woman would worry about such an irrelevance. Instead, the Queen and Multiracial Melting Pot argued relentlessly about Feminist theory, and the Queen always had confidence that she was the most intellectually gifted in this particular area.

She was concerned, however, that one day Multiracial Melting Pot would master a firm understanding of ‘Gender Equality and the Pickled Onion Jar Manufacturers,’ a vital issue to Feminism, so she purchased a magic mirror, which happened to be discovered, quite reasonably priced, at a car boot sale. This mirror was amazing, and could have answered every question possible, such as ‘why are we here,’ ‘what does the future hold,’ questions beyond our comprehension. However, every morning, the complex woman, who was probably suffering from some kind of inferiority issues and had little foresight, would query, in an astonishing display of intellectual questionability:

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who’s the greatest Feminist of them all?”

And every morning, the mirror would reply,

“Why, you are, my Queen.”

And so this went on, for many years, with the Queen confident that she was the undisputed master (actually that should be mistress) of Feminist Theory.

On this particular day, however, the mirror had some concerning words for this politically important woman, not that it should be a surprise that a woman is politically important, or even notable:

“Why, my Queen, today you are number two, for Multiracial Melting Pot, the Princess, is more pissed off than you…”

The Queen threw a tantrum, screaming and crying for hours upon hearing this devastating news. You must understand this in regards to the Queen’s fragile mental state, her inability to be anything but number one in such an important field as Feminism, and her overt dominance by Multiracial Melting Pot in every aspect: “not only is the bitch prettier, but she knows her fucking De Beauvoir.” She bawled for days and days, sobbing into her cakes at the bakery and shouting fornication synonyms at her magic mirror.

The Queen had little interest in Humanitarianism, and quickly decided to kill Multiracial Melting Pot. She asked one of her huntsmen politely if they wouldn’t mind taking her off into the woods and ending her life, and he agreed.

When he discussed ‘Modern Feminist Theory and the Haircut’ on the walk with her, however, he was overwhelmed by her insight into Gender and the Fringe, and felt compelled to let her go. “Don’t come back to the city though,” he warned, “or the Queen will have all those radical Feminist ideas of yours on a spike overlooking the Red Light District. And I know how you Feminists loathe those women who choose to make a legitimate income from the selling of sexual services.”

Her world crumbling, Multiracial Melting Pot calmly walked through the forest, knowing she could intellectually disarm any male attacker in four seconds and eventually stumbled across a rather cosy-looking cottage. Upon entering, she discovered that it was in a rather cluttered state, and felt inclined to tidy it up, by means of a good-will gesture.

She was awoken, and soon befriended by, a tribe of vertically challenged people, suffering specifically from Dwarfism. She asked them for their perspectives on social issues regarding Dwarfism, but they weren’t interested, besides telling her that they preferred to be called ‘little people’. They lived a very humble life, mining for coal, not that they couldn’t afford to live somewhat better in this egalitarian society, but that they had little interest in modernity.

The little people had no interest in tidiness, and Multiracial Melting Pot gave them a stern lecture about how she couldn’t live in this mess, but she didn’t want to be the one tidying up, because that would be enforcing negative gender stereotypes, but the little people weren’t interested. They had no suitable brooms; evil multinationals like B+Q didn’t make any in appropriate sizes for them, and they couldn’t reach the saws on aisle four to cut through the handle either. Multiracial Melting Pot initially refused to give in to such a patriarchal system, but the peer pressure was too great, and she soon found herself forced into labour by some bloody shrimps that she could probably kick the shit out of.

The Queen assumed she was dead; Multiracial Melting Pot’s new lack of Feminist identity now made the Queen the most Feminist of them all, and she barely had the capabilities to consider asking anything else. It was a few weeks before she inquired into the whereabouts of her who gave her such stress, Multiracial Melting Pot.

Outraged to discover she was still alive, she vowed to “hunt that bitch down like the dog she is and kick her bitch-ass.” It didn’t take long for her to formulate a plan; she would poison an apple, and give it to the cognitively impaired young Feminist, and dispatch of her cleanly. She knew the Princess was a sucker for taking fruit from aged women, gifted with wrinkles and sinister eye-glints and strikingly similar in appearance to witches, and so dressed up as one and set off to the little people’s house.

Multiracial Melting Pot arrived at the door, wearing an apron and holding a mop. “Can I help you?” she asked to the unexpected visitor, staring into the coals of those antisocial personality disorder / paranoid personality disorder eyes.

“I’ve brought you this lovely red apple,” the Queen hissed in a voice that would be considered smokily sexy to any men who haven’t yet been castrated.

“Oh, thank you,” Multiracial Melting Pot responded, taking the apple in her hand and biting into it. The Queen stole away into the darkness as Multiracial Melting Pot fell first to her knees and then curled in pain on the floor.

The little people had quickly developed a fondness for that quirky bird who believed in women’s rights, ho ho ho, and took it upon themselves to organise a funeral. They took her to the top of a mountain, in a glass coffin, and left her there, perfectly preserved in the white snow.

It wasn’t long before a blameless sexual deviant wanted to give the cold lips of the dead princess a passionate kiss. He had attempted to romanticise it to all of his acquaintances down in the pub, but they had viewed him with contempt, which is a shame on them, the deviant thought, because necrophilia wasn’t a conscious choice. It was unfortunate, he thought, that people with such fantasies were ostracised by wider society.

He looked down at the purple face of Multiracial Melting Pot, still as fair as it was when she died, and kissed her yellow lips. She immediately awoke, and pushed the man off her.

“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m your future prince,” the man replied.

“Don’t fool yourself, you filthy bastard, suffering from a paraphelia, namely necrophilia – you’ve not got a chance with me – I’ve had it with all this bloody Feminism, all this politically correct garbage, all this fake respect and bogus Victorian values, damn it all…” She threw the rotting core of the apple at him and tottered down the mountain, screaming.

She was shrieking with the alarm of someone who has come to some form of drastic realisation, a near-death experience, some revelation in her coma, something that would alter her entire worldview – the man had little opportunity to ask any further questions or to probe deeper for information, as soon Multiracial Melting Pot was out of sight and in the little peoples’ home.

6 months later, the Magic Mirror showed the Witch a website containing graphic depictions of a formerly important Feminist engaging in morally questionable, indeed eye-watering, acts with 7 little people.

And they all lived happily ever after.