petunia pap smear The tale of fat-bottomed girls

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR, 4 MINUTE READ

I’m so excited about the upcoming Gay Day at Lagoon, officially named “QSaltLake Day at Lagoon,” on August 13th. This is one event where I can squeal and shriek all day long and not be called a sissy.

I think that it’s a great idea that we are all encouraged to wear red, so as to be able to help identify each other and feel the strength in our numbers. I remember on one of the former Gay Days how exhilarating it was for me to look down from the Sky Ride and view the veritable ocean of red shirts frolicking along the midway.

The red-shirt concept is a great idea, especially for me, since I have noticed that as I get older, the accuracy of my Gaydar has measurably decreased. It was explained to me that as a queen ages, their Gaydar accuracy is a function of their naturally increasing Troll Quotient juxtaposed against the inevitable decreasing cuteness threshold of any stud in question. Said more simply, my “You must be this cute to ride this ride” threshold gets lower and lower with each passing year and each additional pound.

Most of my friends love wild and woolly roller coasters and thrill rides, whereas Puff the Little Fire Dragon is more my speed. You just can’t imagine the carnage done to beehive hair from a ride on Wicked and the roller coaster. It resembles the Florida coast after a category five hurricane — desolate, smashed flat, lifeless, and hanging only by a scrunchie. There is not enough Aqua Net in the universe to adequately secure the structural integrity of the beehive against such forces. Not to mention the damage done to my Lee Press on Nails while gripping the safety bar for dear life.

One time on Gay Day, my friend “Dave” talked me into riding together on the Wild Mouse. As you may know, I am no “Slenderella.” In fact, I am what they refer to in polite society as “Circumferentially Gifted” or having an “Aisle Blocker Physique.” My friend is likewise “Heroically Proportioned.”

While waiting in line, we both observed all the other people fit two in each car. When it became our turn, the adorably cute twink in his tight-fitting ride operator uniform (I’m a sucker for a guy in uniform, any uniform), timidly asked if we wanted separate cars. Anxious about the upcoming thrill of the ride, we excitedly rushed past him, and both jumped into the same car. With both of us being “Bodus Rotundus,” together we could not fit our “Voluptuous Bottoms” onto the seat. Dave’s left cheek was halfway up the side, and my right cheek was similarly skiwompus. Embarrassedly, Dave whispered, “We shall never speak of this again, to anyone!”

The car had already begun to move before we came to the realization that not only would we be uncomfortable, this might be a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad idea. We could not fasten the seat belt around us both. In desperation, we put it around Dave, and I instructed Dave to grab onto me if I started to fly out. Thank goodness I was not wearing my pinwheel boobs, which would have added to my aero dynamicity.

As the car left the gate and began the agonizingly slow, torturous climb to the top, we could hear the creaks and groans of metal being stressed to its near-breaking point. I swear that in the distance, I could hear Freddie Mercury and Queen singing “Fat Bottomed Girls.” Oh, the indignity! As our faces were pointed heavenward during the ascent, all I could think about was me showing up at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter questioning me. “You are here early. What happened?” And I would have to admit that I was too “Rubenesque” for the Wild Mouse and flew out of the car on the third turn from the top. Since I was not a Catholic Nun, I could not fly like Sally

Field, and thus plummeted 100 feet to the ground, crushing a churro kiosk. The coroner would have to go to great lengths to explain to the investigators why the deceased had received a churro enema.

As we reached the top and began the descent, the fully loaded car became a speeding “Blubbernaught” of death, careening along the track at supernatural velocity. I gripped the crash bar on the car more tightly than if I had a hold of Jeff Stryker’s “Manhood.” With each bone-jarring hairpin turn, certain that our massive “Hippoglottamus” inertia would rip us from the track and send us shooting into space, I screamed so high only bats and dogs could hear. Fortunately, we were wedged into the car tighter than my muffin top in a girdle, and no movement within the car was possible. The “Juggalo” packing had the effect of being even more restrictive than a seat belt. Likewise, the structural integrity of the track and car survived against our combined “Gravity-Enhanced” momentum. Miraculously, we lived to tell the tale, and a severely traumatized Dave and I pried ourselves loose from the car, swearing never to ride together again. Like always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:

1. Does the Grinder App contain a Troll-to-Twink translator?

2. Should I investigate the financial feasibility of a churro enema franchise?

3. Should Dave and I change our names to “Buffet Queen” and “Sumo Boy”?

4. In addition to the minimum height requirement, should a maximum Butt Size limit exist?

5. Should I adopt “Fat Bottomed Girls” as my theme song?

6. Is packing the bodies tightly where the idea for car airbags originated?

7. Should Dave and I have received the patent for airbags?

These and other important questions are to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear