The tale of a Sundance

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to Sundance us fraught with danger and excitement.

Last week as I was lying on the couch eating a freshly caught plate of Twinkies, I felt a deeply primal urge. Lest you have unclean thoughts as to the nature of my primordial needs, let me assure you my deepest desires are exactly the same as all little princesses the world over. To grow up to be beautiful, fabulous, rich and famous.

So, while choking on a particularly uncooperative Twinkie, I came to the realization that to accomplish my dreams, as any queen worth her sequins is wont to do, I needed to rub shoulder pads with the rich and famous. Where better to accomplish this than at the Sundance Film Festival?

Feeling the need to have some partners in crime, I called an emergency assembly of the Matrons of Mayhem to inquire if they wished to accompany me to Park City and attempt to photo-bomb some Hollywood stars. Due to the extreme gravity of the question, I escorted them all into the basement of Chateau Pap Smear, and locked them in that most Holy of Holy’s, my glitter and sequin draped dressing room, to conduct this important conclave.

I excused myself and stepped outside to the patio where the temperature was much cooler, so as to prevent me from perspiring (true queens of quality do not sweat, we glisten) and causing my glitter mustache to depart from my face, while I waited as the Matrons treated this question with all the gravitas that it so richly deserved. Not five seconds after I parked my buttockus rotundus in a chair, white smoke began to emanate from the dryer vent signaling their desire to become paparazzi, so off we went to Park City.

We were all ecstatic that we would be climbing above the temperature inversion and would be in direct sunlight for the first time in days. Alas, by the time we got to Main Street, it was already in early evening shadow and becoming colder than a brass toilet seat in Evanston.

As soon as we arrived on the street, we quickly became the center of attention, and were mobbed for photo requests. A mob soon formed and began to block the street. A stunningly handsome security guard wearing an ever-so-flattering, tight-fitting uniform asked us to please move so that we did not clog the thoroughfare.

Thusly, we positioned ourselves by The Bear Bench which was a little bit out of the way and the paparazzi continued. Due to my advancing age, I was mostly seated on the bench. I was having a gay-ole-time as the multitude (peppered with many swoon-worthy beefcake types) swarmed around us.

As groups advanced to pose for a photo, I sought every opportunity to discretely grab onto the hunky men and guide them to my side, (within bun groping distance) or better yet, get them to sit with their firm buttocks and muscular thighs on my lap for the snapshots. Of course, it was necessary for me to put my arms around them to steady their precarious perch. Wink wink!

All was going splendidly according to my nefarious plan until Sparkles Del Tassel and Moesha Montana realized what I was doing and started complaining. Luckily for me, at that very moment, Melissa McCarthy drove by in a stretch limo yelling and waving at us, thereby diverting their attention away from me. A few minutes later Aqua Man provided a similar decoy.

The coup de grace was when my favorite security guard from the TV show Scream Queens, Niecy Nash sashayed over and asked to pose with us. She took one look at my beehive hair and said, “If I had known it was going to be a wig day, I would have worn mine.”

Finally, it was time to shuttle back down to Kimball Junction where Queertanic was parked. I was amazed to note that the bus was totally electric, just like my flashing breasticles. I sat just inside the door and to my delight, a most handsome dude wearing eye-catching, well-packed tight jeans was standing in the aisle, and his Grabthar’s Hammer was staring me directly in the face.

Suddenly, the bus lights went out, and the vehicle lurched to a sudden stop. Oh Dear! In all the commotion, the hunk and I both lost our balance. As I was thrown forward, my left breasticle poked him right in his bulging Beastus Maximus. To my amazement, he didn’t immediately pull away but rather continued to grind against my boob for a few extra seconds. Hmmmm?

The light shining from my breasticles was the only illumination in the bus, casting a heavenly glow upon his Pompadoodle. The driver then handed me a set of jumper cables and asked me to give the bus a jump. My sense of civic duty overpowered my lust and I pried myself away from the hunk to save us all from certain destruction in the frozen night.

Upon safely arriving in the parking lot, and walking to Queertanic, I needed to make a methane contribution to global warming, so I let one rip. Unbeknownst to me, Sparkles was following closely behind me and passed out from oxygen deprivation. My scout training kicked in and I immediately used the jumper cables as a defibrillator to restart Sparkles’ heart.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Did my natural gas eruption counteract all the environmental benefits of the electric bus?

2. Was the hunk impressed with my technical prowess and civic duty?

3. Will the hunk ever call me?

4. Does the bus’s battery pack experience size envy against my breasticle battery packs?

5. Do my breasticles need a medical or a mechanics license?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear. Q

7pm, Jan. 18, Feb. 15, Mar. 15 First Baptist Church, 777 S 1300 E fb.me/matronsofmayhem