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Ask Evil Princess Sara |
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 It appears a good many people were intrigued by my reply to Sephiroth's not-so-modest proposal in my first column: about half of the letters I've gotten since then have been either similar offers (who knew the dating scene for Final Fantasy villains was so desperate?) or other related queries. While I can't say that the attention hasn't been flattering, all these mash notes from the searching single hell-lord are really starting to pile up. And believe me, I need all the room I can spare in my inbox for the torrential masses of laughably inept cries for my undeserved help. So, boys, today's your lucky day: the fiend of your dreams will finally crown you with the honor of her crushing rejection. Please, no more flowers. No more drugged chocolates. No more stuffed moogles with time bombs inside. No more cursed jewelry. And especially no more obscene late night phone calls. I know that was you, Seifer Almasy, and even if I could do that thing with my elbows and a peeled mango, what makes you think I'd do it with you? The nerve of some people.
As usual, the same rules apply:
- My mind is as a scintillatingly flawless diamond in a world full of plastic fun beads, it's true, and the prophets themselves weep for envy of my deathless intellect, but nonetheless, I'm practicing Adviceopathy without a license here. I still get to use the red-hot acupuncture needles and the tooth-pulling pliers, though. Neat.
- I accept no responsibility for what you do one way or the other with the advice I give you. It's hard to find adequate legal representation when you're 108 pixels tall and two-dimensional.
- Letters are edited for length, clarity, and sanity-warping non-Euclidean Lovecraft-esque abortions of the English language.
- If you wrote to me expecting compassion, warmth, empathy, and the kind-hearted tact of a doting mother, well...you haven't been paying much attention to the non-swordchucks parts of the comic, have you.
On to Bachelor #1, whose interests include maximum hold styling gel, designer overcoats, and mais oui, yours truly.
"Dearest Sara, Evil Princess,
Sephiroth is correct. Why the hell are you wasting your precious evil time on Garland?!
You should spend it on a real man. A rich man. A powerful man. A fearsome man. An evil man.
A certain man who destroyed both Diamond Weapon and the barrier surrounding that weakling Sephiroth, in one shot.
I'm one of the most advanced things they could make for PlayStation and I still think you're the hottest chick on any console. I rest my case.
I have weaponry powerful enough to take down Cloud when a newcomer plays.
I go from 0 to horny in 3 beers. Again, I rest my case.
Yours forever and truly,
Rufus"
"0 to horny in 3 beers"? My name is Evil Princess Sara, not Bimbo Sorority Pledge. And "one of the most advanced things they could make for the PlayStation"? Sure, but so was the Spice Girls game, and I don't see myself really really really wanting to zig-a-zig-ah with either of you.
And talk about compensation: if Sephiroth's Masamune is a hint of a certain under-endowment in the undershorts, your Sister Ray is a Surgeon's Warning Label. They have medication for that sort of thing now, Rufus darling. If I were you, I'd set Hojo to work mixing me up a batch before I went looking for a First Lady of Shinra Inc.
"Dear Sara,
My name is Madame Guyo, a fortune teller of sorts. I'm writing this in anticipation of your visit this spring, but since I already knew you would be stopping by I thought to save you some time by answering your questions ahead of schedule.
Any fool with three eyes in her head can tell that you have man problems. No, dearie, don't be shy; it happens to the best of us. I, myself, have even been known to have some problems in that arena...but that, as they say,is another story entirely. No, your problem stems not from a lack of willing...er, shall we say, applicants?...but from a serious imbalance in the quality of the parties involved. You're simply too good for them, dearie. You have the right to be picky.
However, you still seem to be looking at the wrong things when trying to judge a man. Rather than trying to find one who could match your insidiously evil and subtly cunning mind - which is clearly impossible,
dearie, I freely admit that - you should be looking instead for someone more...tractable. Submissive, dearie. A mighty warrior without a thought in his head, a token husband whom you can manipulate whenever you need to have something done that's less than pleasant and would rather not have your name attached. Someone tall, strong, and handsome, so as to compliment your
own lovely figure, whose naïveté will endear him to the masses while at the same time leaving him vulnerable to your ploys.
I have used my formiddable powers to search the world over, dearie, for just such a man for you. After several days of frantic tea-searching and more than one busted leaf-bone, I have located you your perfect match. He goes by the name of Fighter, and he's closer than you might think.
That's all for now, dearie. I hope these old bones have been of some help.
Madame G.
P.S.: I seem to be having some troubles with this infernal warden who keeps throwing me back into jail. Any professional advice you can offer on escaping would be greatly appreciated. The traditional method was working well, until they replaced the cell guard with someone much more homely..."
MYAAAAAAH HAH HAH HAH HAH! HAH! HAH! HAH! HA -- ahem. You'll have to forgive me for that un-princessly outburst there. I don't know what I can have been thinking of. Actually, I'm afraid I do: the soul-chillingly terrifying spectacle of Fighter on the throne of Corneria. Contrary to popular belief, not every girl wants to marry a man just like Daddy, Madame G.
For someone with claims to clairvoyancy, Mme. Guyo (love those infomercials on late-night Cornerian public access, by the way...that fake Pravokan accent is a scream, mon), there's a flaw in your suggestion that you'd have to be blinder than Matoya to have missed. Economically, Corneria is at a high disadvantage in the market of nations. Our exports are middling at best, and our junkie-like dependence on the rich mana fields of Elfland is a drain on our national resources second only to King Steve (soon may he drop dead of something untraceable) and his, shall we say, slightly lavish public works projects. Our peasants can only bear so much more taxation. If we give them a future king who's likely to spend our entire GNP on Dr. Pepper and shiny swords, we'll have an uprising on our hands that will make the French Revolution look like a White Mages' Sunday School Picnic. I've got too much to do as it is without having to mercilessly grind a peasant insurrection like ants under my iron heel of monarchical oppression, thanks.
I'll allow that your general idea is not without a certain interest, however. Yes, someone easily led and lured with empty promises could be useful. Unquestioning in his belief of my every word, willing to enter the very jaws of the underworld itself at my merest whim. Someone powerful and with great prowess as a warrior, yes, you've a point there, but bent like wet cardboard to my will and feminine wiles. Someone strong as an ox and dumber than paint, and perhaps a sucker for long hair, low-cut necklines, and sword skills that just won't quit. Like Fighter, he'd have to have a wardrobe color scheme compatible with my own, and he'd have to be naive enough to fall for the idea that he could turn me from my diabolical ways with the power of his love.
Yes, Madame Guyo, I see now the delphic light of your sorcerous wisdom. I need a man, and that man is Dante Sparda. Get me his phone number, we'll talk. The mullet will have to go, but red body armor never goes out of style on a figure like that.
...Which would be my answer if he didn't have an Oedipus complex to rival Sephiroth's. Maybe we should hook the two of them up instead, although I shudder to my very marrow to think what might result from such a meeting. Let's just pray that neither of them throws down the "your mom!" gauntlet.
P.S.: hey, you're the psychic. You work something out. Best of luck with that toll-free Tarot reading hotline gig.
"Dear malicious, ruthless, cunning, malevolent Princess Sara,
I noticed the previous letter to Sephiroth where you not only pointed out his pros but also his cons. You have obviously given a great deal of thought to this matter! I was wondering what you thought of other characters,
living or dead, good or evil, in the Final Fantasy universe.
For instance, Kuja. It has ben previously stated in your biography (the amount of truth can be clarified by you) that you hate the typical fantasy paradigm of women having to be the mere possessions of their male counterparts,unable to exist by themselves. Now, I don't see how anyone could fail to notice that Kuja obviously respects women. I mean, he dresses like one! The thong is a dead giveaway. I realize he may be a bit too feminine for you, but watch how he treats Garnet -- with poetry and courtesy, and she was his enemy! Plus, you
can't say the utter destruction of a planet (Terra) was not masculine and really cool. Your thoughts?
Secondly, Seymour Guado ( I realize I'm just using new-school villians, but please bear with me). Now this guy obviously has either total or no control over his
hair. He could be doing that on purpose by applying some super strong hair gel, or he could have just slept on it funny. Plus there's the fact that this guy simply WON'T DIE. I know that has to be reassuring to anyone on his side. Also, he's real good with the ladies -- I mean, you saw how he treated Yuna. The guy is smooth. However, he is a little pot-bellied...plus he dreams of destroying the world with a mutant guppy with wings. Again, your thoughts?
Sincerely,
Lazalo Panaflex"
Well, Mr. Cameraman, although it's true that most transvestites are heterosexual (according to un transvestite executif of my acquaintance, at any rate) and therefore Kuja is not entirely out of the question in that regard at least, I'm afraid I can't say that I'd be entirely comfortable sharing my exclusively tailored wardrobe with a potential consort to my throne of terror, particularly one whose hips appear to be wider than my own. Imagine if you will the irritation one feels upon loaning out a kicky little sweater to someone who returns it stretched-out and covered in makeup stains; now imagine how incrementally that irritation increases when the culprit is bound to you by the rusty dungeon chain of unholy matrimony.
True, he might be a useful Evita to my Juan Peron - I could get away with literal and large-scale murder while the peasants, hypnotized by his ultra-super-mega-hyper-giga-low cut panties, discuss whether Prince Consort Kuja waxes or shaves - but it would come at the cost of cutting the budget for my killing machine military force to pay off his credit card bills, and those frou-frou boutiques in Melmond aren't exactly charging Salvation Army prices. Tres chic, sure, but also trop cher.
Seymour Guado, on the other hand, is a whole other kettle of mutant guppies. Quasi-necrophilia is all well and good for the kinky types like Buffy the Vampire Layer, but Evil Princess Sara isn't interested in sleeping with the evil (un-)dead, fascinating chest tattoos or no. He's also an entirely different species, which would bring the fetish count up to necro-bestiality, or possibly necro-dendrophilia if the Guado are indeed the dryads they appear to be. Or would that be necro-mythophilia, or even necro-demideiphilia? The suffixes and prefixes here are breeding like moogles and frankly giving your friend EPS a mother of a headache.
His rich ancestral heritage aside, we must now face the fact of Mr. Guado's voice. Possibly the most crucial element of my nefarious scheme to seize the globe in my mailed fist is the maintenance of my cover as the sweet, innocent, oft-kidnapped princess of the singing-to-the-bluebirds-and-little-creatures-of-the-forest variety. What it lacks in dignity it more than makes up for as a weapon of surprise. Yet if I were to take Mr. Guado as my lawfully wedded archfiend and sub-generalissimo, the jig would be blown sky-high the minute he opened his mouth to say "I do". He's the David Spade of Final Fantasy: everything sounds evil and sarcastic coming from him. Captain Smarmy McHairdo would be the ruin of all my dreams of empire. Besides which, Evil Princess Sara doesn't take sloppy seconds from wimpy little White Mage wannabes.
Now if that charming Auron fellow could be turned to the dark side, on the other hand...why, with his brute strength and my supernal genius...I'm getting all flushed just thinking about it.
"Dear Evil Princess Sara,
Perhaps you have run across this problem yourself, and
perhaps not. What I am writing to you about is my
incessant ability to attract the affections of complete weirdos. Some of them are blithering, slobbering idiots, some are infatuated with my interests, which happen to be slightly unusual for the female sex (baseball, computers, RPG's, juggling..yeah..), and almost all of them talk way more than should ever be allowed.
What I would like to know is, how can I keep myself
from being a weirdo magnet? Any evilly wonderful advice would be well appreciated.
-- Annoyed and ready for evil"
Mlle. Annoyed, I assure you that the minute I find out I'll let you know, but it should be obvious from this week's column that this is one question to which your friend and cunning strategist Evil Princess Sara has no answer. Ever since I ran that column with Mr. Jenova's love letter, I've been inundated with proposals, most of them indecent. A certain Mr. Kefka has been the most represented and persistent, with over 50 of his agents mailing me on his behalf (sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I can definitely do better than a man who looks like a freakish genetic cocktail of the worst of Gene Simmons and Bozo the Clown and dresses like a Cirque du Soliel reject), but propositions have come from sources as varied as a Mr. Ghaleon from some hick town called Pantagulia, some kind of killer robot called Dussao, countless individual "dark overlord" poseurs, and even - pardon my shudder - a halfling bard (as if one or the other wasn't wretched enough).
While on a certain level Evil Princess Sara is flattered by the attention, she must not-so-gently grab her many suitors by their chins and direct their gaze away from her spectacular cleavage and towards the part of her Cast bio that reads "Dislikes: The Stereotypical Role of Women as Property That Cannot Exist Independently of Male Attention/Want as Found in Feudal Style Fantasy Worlds Such as Her Own". The simple facts are these: in the first place, I'm much too busy organizing my inevitable, meteoric rise to global dominance to have any kind of relationship right now, and secondly, while having one would certainly have the potential to be interesting, I certainly don't need one. Evil Princessing is quite a satisfying enterprise and is quite possibly more fulfilling than any mere relationship could ever be. I'll take indomitable power and dizzying intellect over chocolates and flowers any day, thanks.
Evil Princess Sara is also very disappointed in those readers who dare presume that she is working for Garland or - pardon yet another shudder, please - dating him, and in those who assume Brian writes this column for her. I don't need a man in my life, and I certainly don't need one to speak for me. Especially one who'd rather use his minions for fame and fortune instead of building an empire of mindlessly loyal soldiers willing to die at his command. Some people just don't have their priorities straight.
Anyway, Annoyed, while I can't give you any suggestions as to what to do to discourage the hideous creatures who trail lustfully after you, I can certainly suggest that you avoid wearing revealing villainess armor in public at all costs. It seems to really bring them out of the woodwork.
Your sister in suffering,
Evil Princess Sara
(P.S.: seriously, Mr. Kefka, learn a little restraint. No more letters from your minions, please.)
Do you have a question for Evil Princess Sara? Drop her a line at
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