A tale of the Queen of Lagoon

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to Lagoon is fraught with danger and excitement.

Every year I anxiously await the QSalt- Lake day at Lagoon amusement park. I totally enjoy seeing all our “extended family” enjoying themselves on all the attractions and barely escaping death when they ride Cannibal. For the past 10 or so years it has been my humble duty to help host the activities in the picnic pavilion.

I drive to Lagoon wearing my muggle clothing, due primarily to my great fear of having a flat tire or some other automobile difficulty with Queertanic that might cause me to become a damsel in distress stranded in the middle of the median of Interstate 15, which I’m sure would cause an epic traffic jam. Or worse yet, that I should somehow get pulled over by the Highway Patrol for some minor traffic infraction. I have no doubt that they would quickly haul me away to Shady Pines, the joint where Golden Girls and old drag queens go when their girdles lose their structural integrity.

Upon arriving at Lagoon, since the pavilion does not have a private changing room, I try to discreetly step behind the picnic pavilion and get dressed. Unfortunately, this process necessitates that I mostly disrobe, and often it would frighten passing children and greatly distress their mothers.

All these years, the first Sunday in August has been dreadfully hot, and my breasticles have been prone to wilt. Last year, I finally wised up and brought an electric box fan to give me a much-needed blow job up my skirt. I set up my chair with its requisite cup holder right in front of the gushing wind and I felt just like my cousin, Queen Elizabeth II.

Gene Gieber, the owner of Club Try-Angles, always makes a huge cauldron of “punch” that contains enough alcohol that if need be could disinfect all the cars on Colossus. He promptly gave me one of those red drink cups filled with the exceedingly delicious, yet pungent, punch. I placed the cup of royal nectar in my regal cup holder and reached for it from time to time to refresh my palate while holding audience with my loyal subjects.

Unbeknownst to me, every time I left my cup unattended and ventured away from my throne, that sneaky bastard Gene refilled my cup. I was holding court there for a solid six hours, and I only refilled the cup myself one time. I thought to myself, “Self, you are being incredibly responsible, only drinking two glasses. You are modeling the epitome of restraint and decorum, fit for a queen.” Little did I realize that I was becoming more and more animated with every sip. I should have become suspicious when I noticed that after about three hours in the intense heat of the pavilion, my drink was still cold. Apparently, my deductive reasoning was significantly impaired, because I had no clue.

After about three hours of sipping my drink, the “Royal We” needed to wee. I thought how could this be? I’ve only drunk half a cup. Oh, how inconvenient! So, in desperation, I left the safety of our communal pavilion and ventured forth into the Lagoon Midway in search of a commodious commode, lest my panties become unnecessarily moist.

I had trekked no more than 30 feet when I became aware that a couple of children were following me, while dragging their mother’s along, begging to follow the “pretty lady.” Oh, how sweet. They called me pretty. Then I overheard one of the mothers telling her kid that I was no lady, I must be a clown. Indeed! My breasticles began to well up with righteous indignation at the slight. I’ll show them. Not wanting the powdering of my nose to become a public event, I quickened my pace in hopes of leaving behind the precious little rug rats. Unfortunately, this had the exact opposite effect. With my increased pace, it must have appeared to the muggles that I was instigating my own little princess parade and the following gaggle had now become an actual procession.

I quickly called upon the training I received from my formal education in princess finishing school concerning emergency extrication from a riot situation without seeming rude. I deftly switched into “Crouching-Tiger, Hidden-Drag- Queen” mode and ducked behind a food stand containing a huge rack of cotton candy. My beehive hair blended right in with the candy and it became as if I had donned my own invisibility cloak. The parade passed me by. I stealthily slinked back to the safety of the pavilion.

Though safely back in the pavilion, I was left with my bulging bladder, squirming in my throne. In desperation, I even contemplated finding an empty drink bottle and discreetly maneuver it up my skirt to receive the emergency torrent. That is the one thing however, that my princess finishing school failed to teach me how to accomplish without appearing like I was pleasuring myself in public. I packed up and hurriedly left after bingo and went Wee, Wee, Wee, all the way home.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should Shady Pines be renamed Bridges, a place for has-been trolls?

2. If I had required a bedazzled challis for my drink, could I have avoided Gene’s sabotage?

3. Should I ask to be crowned Queen of Lagoon?

4. If so, would I be forced to ride Cannibal?

5. How much Aqua Net would be needed for my beehive hair to withstand the ride?

6. Should I market my own brand of bedazzled catheters?

7. Should I design a special set of breasticles that could incorporate a hospital style urinal for these types of special occasions?

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