A tale of indecent eruptions

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road home from Yellowstone National Park is fraught with danger and excitement.

Let me continue the story I began last month about my summer vacation to Yellowstone, the world’s oldest national park.

Now remember it was August and we were in the middle of that gawd-awful breasticle-wilting heatwave. Driving my beloved Queertanic hundreds of miles in the extreme conditions of 100-degree heat, up precipitous mountain passes to reach the Yellowstone plateau, made me just a touch nervous because, just like me, Queertanic is no spring chicken. She is 14-years old with 171,000 miles on her odometer. But to my delight, she sailed up the highway with ease, pausing briefly only for gas and to refill my travel mug with diet Mt. Dew — the nectar of the gods.

After touring the park, and on the last day, the grand finale was a visit to Old Faithful. I was ever-so-excited to witness something that could still splooge with force, distance, and volume after lo these many years, unlike a certain aging queen.

I watched in jealous awe the eruption of the famous geyser. Then, what comes naturally to any queen feeling inadequate, I did some shopping therapy in the gift shop. A short time later, I left with bags full of trinkets, only to witness another eruption of the infamous hot spring fountain. Envious, that is unlike me, of the recovery time between eruptions was a short ninety minutes, I suddenly decided the trip was over, and time to head home.

In a spiteful huff, I turned on the GPS and cruise control, cranked the air to full blast (as it was 100 degrees outside), and began speeding toward home.

Just outside the park, I noticed the smoke drifting from the California fires and wondered if the world was burning. It was then that I observed that the AC in Queertanic was putting out warm air. Perplexed, I looked at the engine temperature gauge, that pegged the top of the red zone. Oh no! I pulled over, only 150 miles from home and approximately 10 miles from the nearest town in the middle of nowhere.

Anxiously, I exited the car and popped the hood. Wafts of steam erupted from the engine. I remembered the scene from the movie Red Dawn where, in a similar circumstance, Patrick Swayze peed into the radiator. Unfortunately, having “gone” just before setting out, I was as dry as a shriveled up old queen with an enlarged prostate.

Looking about desperately, I noticed an irrigation ditch beside the road. So, I snatched my travel mug, poured out my precious, but empty, diet Mt. Dew, dipped it with water and poured the cool liquid over the top of the radiator.

More steam!

I repeated several times until I thought things cooled down enough that I dared to remove the radiator cap. I removed my bra to use as a hot pad to open the radiator cap. Then I poured several mug fulls of water into the radiator.

In the many trips to the ditch, I happened to step in a fresh cow pie. As I scraped the noxious manure from my shoe, dragging it over sagebrush, the heel broke.

Damn!

Now, to not contaminate the interior of Queertanic, I threw the broken stinky shoe into the adjacent field before getting back in the car.

Gingerly, I started the engine and drove ever-so-slowly to the nearest town, which was just a village. I came across an auto junkyard, Bubba’s Auto Repair. Desperate for assistance, I pulled int, and an incredibly tanned, hunky Bubba shirtless, in overalls, came bounding from the building.

After bending his body over the engine and moving his firm, delectable round buns in a “come hither” fashion, he stated, “Yeah, it’s broke and I don’t have the tools to fix it.” With the nearest tow truck at least 75 miles away, I decided to journey on as far as possible.

Remember, it was over 100 degrees, and to take the strain off the engine cooling system, I turned off the AC and rolled down the windows. I then turned the heater to full blast, hopefully dissipating heat from the engine. Doing this, the temperature gauge remained within an acceptable operating range.

I was sweating profusely and my eyeliner began to run down my cheeks more than Tammy Fae Baker on her best day. My makeup liquidized into a river of glitter, running down my cleavage and off the end of my breasticles. My wig lost its structural integrity by hanging in my eyes. And there was a faint hint of manure wafting. Surely I was in HELL if it exists.

Finally, after torturous hours, I arrived safely at home. The next day I took Queertanic to the shop. Diagnosis: blown head gasket.

Queertanic VI is dead. Long live the Queertanic VII!

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Was Queertanic jealous of the steaming geyser?

2. Was discarding the broken shoe considered a form of glitter pollution?

3. Possibly, was Bubba going commando under those overalls?

4. Should I had given up the journey, remained in Idaho, and moved in with Bubba?

5. Would water-filled breasticles be engineered for such emergencies?

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