Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore Because She’s Too Busy Being Baller.

Fuck yes.

Short, sweet, medieval. Two out of those three are things I like.

Question: who makes great fucking  scandals? The British Royal Family, that’s fucking who.

In 1340 there was born a ladybaby named Alice Perrers to no great family or wealth. Though info on the lady herself is spotty, we know for certain that she was one of the most brazen hussies to dickhunt the Most Dangerous Game. Having been married at least twice before our scandal takes shape, she had little qualms about either releasing men back into the wilderness of heartache and shucking their own corn when she was done using their bodies and bankaccounts, or snagging some other poor bitch’s main squeeze. Even if that main squeeze happened to be Edward III, King of England.

Now Edward was popular. The only thing he fucked up were his kids (who started the War of the Roses), but it wasn’t his fault, because some progeny will never learn, even if they’re tutored under the mighty auspices of a king so tight he turned the tide of the 100 Years War with only his set of brass and generations of breeding that told him he was a god among kings. He won at existence before he even started playing. He founded the Order of the Garter so English men didn’t always have to be boys, and could pretend they were worthy to walk in his Hell-defying shadow. He pounded ale at night till the sun waited for his permission to rise, then sicced his wolfhounds on mother nature till he deigned to let the masses know it was okay to breathe that day. Every step he took was more important than most mens’ entire lives, and his eyes shot bolts of pants-shitting terror through any motherlover who even looked sideways at his lady, Queen Philippa. Until Alice came along.

Philippa. Life ain't fair sweetheart. Even with your sparklyass wimple, you were bested by some darkhorse with legs a mile long and boobies that just itched to be nuzzled.

She beamed her fierce diva gaze in his direction at court and he was done. She’s a notably scandalous mantrap, not just because of her affair, but because she securely held Edward, the Hammer of Medieval Manhood, by the pork and beans for the rest of his living days. She bore three children by him, and they were imbued with the mythic strength of royal bastards: they married richer than Rockefellers and spent the rest of their days shoving their parent’s illegal boning in everybody’s face.

Alice made a name, a fucking name for herself. She paraded around in Edward’s court dressed in gold, and dripping jewels and pheromones. She was declared “the Lady of the Sun,” and was a suitably thundering honey to match her king’s voracious bee. By the time she died she owned more of England than God, not just through gifts from Edward but because she had a mind like a diamond and eyes that burned like cigarettes. She worked politics better than she worked Edward’s one-eyed trouser snake. Her mastery of mistressing has gone down in the annals of history, handed to us unworthy prudes through a medium we can handle: literature.

Now I see you’re all scratching your heads. What does she mean? I’d have most definitely remembered such a baller biddy before. Well unless you’ve never had to take an English class in your life, then you do know this fox with a mouth insured by Lloyd’s of London. She’s the inspiration for Chaucer’s Wife of Bath.

Ridin' Dirty.

Just a refresher for those who don’t loll themselves to sleep at night with the classics of medieval epic poetry, the Wife of Bath is one of the best known and best developed women in English literature. Alyson, or simply Alys, she was a rebel without a pause, a figurehead for feminist and antifeminist views of the Middle Ages, and a quadruple-married SBW who knew what she wanted and used her poon and business accumen to snag it. Her whore talons grabbed onto the rich, the old, the poor and the facemeltingly hot, but she come out on top every time she was down, and each husband’s head eventually exploded with her awesome. Read it for your goddamn selves, and raise a glass to Alice Perrers, forever immortalized as the greatest bitch this side of the Renaissance.


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