A tale of someday my prince will come

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to the happiest place on Earth is fraught with danger and excitement.

Let me continue the triumphs and travails of my recent trip to Disneyland with the Salt Lake Men’s Choir.

Bright and early on a Sunday morning, I packed my purse with extra glitter-eye shadow, donned in some opera-length driving gloves and mounted my scooter like a witch mounts her broomstick, and off I went.

As I approached the many entrance lines to The Magic Kingdom, I quickly scanned them, not searching for the shortest line, but naturally looking for the line with the cutest security guards. This lecherous old queen can spot a “prime side of beefcake” more efficiently than a turkey vulture can zero in on a fresh piece of roadkill, from a half-mile away, through a crowd. In fact, I have modified the postal carrier’s motto to be my own: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this queen from the swift selection of her appointed victims (I mean hunks)”.

Quicker than you can say “pink feather boa”, I spotted the security man of my dreams. Tall, perfectly quaffed jet-black hair, square jaw with a brilliantly gleaming smile, and broad shoulders with bulging biceps straining the structural integrity of his short-sleeved shirt. I made a beeline directly at him, accidentally running over the toes of three other choir members in my haste.

As I got ever closer to “my future next husband”, from my seated position on the scooter, his “package” was at my eye level and not two feet away. I noticed that his snugly fitting pants left very little to the imagination, and a discriminating (lecherous) queen, such as myself, could discern his considerably large “religion,” if you know what I mean. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, drool, drool…

Of course, when riding a scooter, I tend to set off the security metal detectors, and need a more thorough inspection. Mr. Marvelous asked me to dismount my transport. I stood with arms spread wide to welcome the virile, strapping object of my lustrations to my licentious bosom. He used his “big throbbing wand” to further inspect me, but darn if the metal in my underwire bra didn’t light up his rod. He explained that he needed to pat me down. OH, DARN!

Mr. Marvelous then began to “feel me up.” When his wandering hands reached my heaving breasticles, our eyes locked, and I told him that I usually made a guy buy me dinner before I let them get this far. (A total lie, but how would he know?) I could tell by the gleam in his eye, that I had found my Disney Prince, and I was soon to be the next Disney Princess.

After I (in my mind) had chosen our wedding colors and arranged for the U-Haul to move us into our new house together, he stated that I was all clear and motioned me to move ahead. Crestfallen, I proceeded in a daze towards The Country Bear Jamboree, but vowed that I shall return and reclaim my rightful place as his Disney Princess.

So, as always when I face disappointment, I turned to food. The closest available happened to be at Tortilla Jo’s. A quick enchilada and some refried beans and I was good to go.

I wanted to ride Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I experienced a bit of consternation when the very cute young man helping me load my considerable gravitas maximus into the train, was worried that my beehive hair would be too tall for the ride. I emerged unscathed, except for being slightly windswept.

I next rode Splash Mountain. I expected to get just a little bit moist from the log ride, but at the bottom of the final drop, a veritable tidal wave washed all the way over me, and I was wringing wet from head to toe. My beehive hair was plastered flat against my face. You might think this to be the ultimate tragedy, however looking for a bright side to the situation, it luckily covered up my mascara that was running down my cheeks.

By now, the refried beans were beginning to build up some considerable pressure, but Disneyland, being such a magical place, I didn’t want to kill or emotionally scar any children with a toxic release in public, so I retired into a restroom.

I must have looked like a soaking wet pervert as I loitered in the restroom, waiting for everyone to leave, so that I might have a private moment for flatulence. After waiting for several impatient minutes, I carefully looked around; it appeared I was all alone and I could cheek squeak in private. I stepped up to a urinal and let the heinous-anus-hiccup rip. The thunderfrom-down-under was indeed deafening. I felt immediate relief. Then to my horror, a voice called out from one of the stalls, “GAWD, THAT WAS EPIC!”

I was mortified when out from the farthest stall emerged the object of my obsessions, my Disney Prince Guard. There I stood, with my eyes looking like a raccoon from the running mascara, wet hair plastered against my face, water dripping from my breasticles into a puddle on the floor, and a visible cloud of panty burp dissipating into the atmosphere. Unable to overpower my natural reflex to flirt with a handsome man, I fluttered my eyelashes and said, “Well, fancy meeting you here. Do you believe in destiny?” At which point he called on his radio for back-up security.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Does a security pat down count as going to second base?

2. Does a full strip search count as third base?

3. Could I have mistaken the gleam in the hunky guard’s eye for a display of abject terror?

4. Should I begin teaching classes on how to flirt?

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