The tale of studs

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to summer driving is fraught with danger and excitement.

Finally, it looks like the never-ending winter of 2023 might be just about finished. So, I decided to take Queertanic, my beloved land yacht, to the tire store to get her snow tires removed. A girl always likes a new pair of shoes, even Queertanic! Being a responsible queen, I dutifully called and made an appointment.

I arose early on the appointed day, went to the garage, and wrestled Queertanic’s summer tires out from under the mountain of discarded old girdles that had finally given up the fight of trying to contain my bodus rotundus and lost their structural integrity.

I should have eaten breakfast before this activity, because I began to hallucinate from hunger, and the tires began to look like giant donuts. I was wrenched back into reality after I tried to take a bite, and all I could taste was rubber and disappointment. After finishing grappling the tires into the car, I went back into the house and quickly consumed mass quantities of Pop-Tarts, lest I damage the tires any further. Then I rummaged through my closet and chose my most sultry come-hither caftan and my most roadworthy beehive wig and drove to the tire store.

I entered the lobby and spotted a rather handsome man wearing a uniform standing behind the desk. Oh my god, I love a man in uniform. I sashayed up to the appointment desk and shamelessly batted my eyelashes at him so fast that his baseball cap was blown off by the resulting breeze. He was very busy, answering two telephones and giving assignments to three co-workers. So, much to my chagrin, he didn’t even notice my desperate amorous flirtations. He told me that, even though I had a reservation, there would be at least an hour’s wait before they could get my car in. Drats!

Just like a hungry lion having been unsuccessful in bringing down a zebra, trailing behind a herd of gazelles on the African savannah, I quickly scanned the lobby for any other potential prey, I mean beefy studs (not the snow tire kind of studs you silly goose) to whom I could cozy up to while I waited. And there, sitting unaccompanied in the corner beside the one and only empty chair in the room, I saw him. He was gorgeous! He wore a tight form fitting t-shirt that showed some excellently formed bicep muscles bulging from his sleeves, and a chest that took my breath away. And his thighs… Oh… My… Gawd…, his thighs, obviously capable of crushing cars, were stretching the seams of his tightly packed jeans almost to the breaking point. His baby blue eyes glinted in the sunlight, with an innocent doe-eyed look, like a helpless baby antelope just waiting to be eaten.

In stalking mode now, so as not to alarm him, lest he bolt for freedom and safety, I surreptitiously pretended to admire a display of chrome wheel rims located near him, while still offering me an unobstructed view of my handsome, yet unaware, quarry. After a few moments of this cautious reconnaissance, I quickly pounced on the empty chair within easy striking distance of the attractive stud. I took just a few seconds to strategize my flirtatious banter, and just then the busy desk guy called out to the object of my affections that his car was ready and held out his keys. I thought to myself that David Attenborough always explains that ninety percent of lion chases end in defeat, so I should not be discouraged.

I scanned about the room again, looking for more potential prey. In walked what I could only describe as Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame, and he promptly sat beside me. I had my sights set on a beautiful, scrumptious gazelle, but alas, I was relegated to a room full of unappealing wart hogs and wildebeests. I decided that since the object of my affections had left, I would watch the mechanics in action to pass the time. After a while, Queertanic was pulled into the shop bay and lifted up on the hoist. They began to remove her studded snow tires.

This reminded me of a time several winters ago when I had the occasion to drive to extreme southern California, within about two miles of the Mexican border, to deliver a package to a mine. Since it was snowing in Utah when I left, the pickup truck I was driving had studded snow tires. I was driving on a lonely desert road, I had not seen another vehicle for over an hour, deep in the Sonoran Desert, with the temperature in the high 90s. Suddenly, I got a flat tire. Luckily, my phone had one bar of signal. Not wanting to ruin my manicure, I phoned for a tow truck. Forlornly, I sat sweating in the heat by the truck for several hours. I screamed and jumped up on top of the truck when I saw a gila monster chase down and kill a rat. Oh, my god, I’m gonna die in the desert! Finally, the tow truck driver arrived and looked at my flat tire, he exclaimed, “Well, there’s your problem. Look at all these metal spikes in your tire. He had never seen studded snow tires before. Oh, Lordy!

…Suddenly, I was brought back to present reality. The tire guy was telling me Queertanic was ready, and I could leave. This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Where can I recycle old girdles?

2. Should I encourage the tire shop to start serving donuts?

3. Should I install a lasso into my breasticles to help capture “prey”?

4. What kind of flirtatious banter best attracts studs of the human variety?

5. Should I get a caftan with a car theme to attract a hapless mechanic?

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