Keeping with the theme of dinner time epiphanies, here lies another brilliantly misplaced (and just weird) idea: Crankerella. As if the original tale wasn't Grimm enough (oh, puns). Disclaimer: this wasn't only my idea. I owe some credit to a boy with whom I was having dinner.
In this version, dear reader, there is no magic, only the cold and unwelcoming facts of daily life. Well, not really. At least not for me as I'm not a young crack whore attempting to make her mark on the drug scene like our protagonist. Anywho and anyway, Crankerella (we'll call her Cranky for short) still managed to hold on to some semblance of beauty, which, as a crack whore, is pretty gosh-darn impressive. She lives with her evil pimp daddy and two ugly crack whores in downtown Newark. Now, Crankerella is no princess; she's hardly what one would imagine as the answer to Walt Disney. Needless to say, she's pretty miserable. Life sucks, she has nothing to look forward to but the next high, etc, etc.
Cue Prince's Ball. By which I of course mean a dance held in the basement of an abandoned factory hosted by the city's drug king and his ever so available bachelor son (also the heir to his drug kingdom). See some connections here, reader?
Cranky desperately wants to attend this ball. Naturally, it's the greatest event her young, tragic life has ever seen. Problem: she is a crack whore completely dependent on her pimp, and since Ms. Cranky hasn't been making bank recently, he's none too happy. He takes his other two... um, courtesans?... to the dance but leaves poor Cranky behind to wallow in her misery.
Oh no! How shall this story come to a happy resolution? Why, don't fret, reader, there is always a miracle in the form of a Sugar Daddy just waiting to sweep in and save the day. And so he does. He tricks out his car with big wheels and the ability to do the raising up and falling down bouncy motion that all cool cars can do, gets her the sluttiest of slut dresses (think red with slits... lots of slits... and geometrically cut out squares... and mad short, brothaa), and sings her the "Bippity, boppity, boo" song to top it all off.
At the dance: ghetto dancing. I don't know, reader, if you have ever seen such a thing, but if you grew up in an inner city public school, you know what I'm talking about: sex on the dance floor. Literally. So literal, in fact, that when the young drug prince spies Cranky on the dance floor and is immediately seized by passion and forced to follow his... amorous desires?... towards her and ghetto dances the hell out of her, she is actually impregnated. And, what's that? The sugar daddy only lent Cranky his stuff until midnight because he had an early morning in the morrow and wanted some sugar of his own. Egads! She had to run out right after her "dance" with the prince in order to be back in time. As she left, she drops her monogramed coke straw, which the prince conveniently finds.
The prince had an amazing time with Cranky and wants to find her again, if only for another one night stand because, damn, that girl was goooooood. He searches low, he searches high, he searches sober, and he eventually finds the house with the pimp, Cranky, and her fellow mistresses of the night. Cranky, meanwhile, has discovered her pregnancy and is freaking the flip out. When the prince arrives, all, of course, claim to be his love, but since he was pretty much blackout, he can't really discern. Luckily, he has the coke straw! He places it ever so gently into the first prostitute's nose.
"No," he says, "Far too oblong."
He continues to the next girl, "No, too tight."
Finally, he gets to Crankerella. "Yes," he smiles, "Just right."
So he takes her home, finds out she's pregnant, and marries her. Hey, just because he's a drug dealer doesn't mean he has no morals. Cranky doesn't see the need to inform him of any of her other trysts; hey, who can blame her? Girl's got it made.
And this is how an everyday crack whore can become a queen. A regional drug queen, but still.
