the perils of petunia pap smear A tale of a flight of fancy

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

Theroad to Washington, DC, is fraught with danger and excitement.

Last month, while I was watching a 4th of July fireworks show, my breasticles were filled to overflowing with patriotism and love for this great country. So, I decided that I needed to go to Washington, DC, and hobnob with the founding fathers.

I was excited because this would be my first time going to the new Salt Lake City Airport. However, since I have difficulty walking very far, I was very apprehensive about my journey after hearing many horror stories of walking the very long distances through the airport. I pictured being on the forced Batan Death March. But since we are in Utah, and I’m descended from Mormon Pioneers who crossed the plains with hand carts, I envisioned myself trudging through the never-ending concourse pushing my very sizable luggage while singing, “Pioneer drag queens sang as they walked and walked and walked…” and then, when I could go no further, I lay down beside the moving sidewalk, and die with arms outstretched towards the Burger King outlet, with a couple of well-meaning returning missionaries attempting to revive me by feeding me a french fry. Just as I learned in drag queen finishing school, if you’re going to perish, any queen of good quality and breeding may as well go out with DRAMA!

Despite my fears, I was extremely pleased to learn that if you tell the airline you need assistance, a strapping young man will come and give you a ride in a wheelchair thru the never-ending concourse to your departure gate. A very cute, buff young man in a snug-fitting uniform approached me and asked ever so politely, “May I push you in your chair?” Now, I may have been blinded by his beauty and not able to hear him clearly, or perhaps I was distracted by my imagination running wild, but what I heard was, “May I push in your stool?” Well, what self-respecting queen could ever reject an approach like that? As he pushed me along, I felt like

Cleopatra being carried into Rome. Thank goodness I chose to wear opera-length gloves, so I could wave in proper queenly style to the other less fortunate travelers trudging along. And the best part is that when you’re in a wheelchair, they let you board the airplane first. Woo hoo!

I was sad to bid farewell to my studly chair sherpa. However, my momentary sadness abated as I was welcomed onto the plane by an extremely tall, dark, and handsome flight attendant named Trenton. Of course, my natural reflexes kicked in, and I shamelessly flirted with my bladder couldn’t hold it for more than two hours. One hour later in the flight, despite my valiant efforts to hold it in, it became apparent that I needed to pee, and no amount of crossing my legs was going to hold back the inevitable. the beautiful gentleman. Instantly, I dreamed about him sweeping me away to the airplane restroom and welcoming me into the Mile High Club.

So, when I was sure that Trenton’s back was turned and he wouldn’t see me, I discreetly made my way to the lavatory, only to discover to my great dismay, that my breasticles were poking out too much to be able to comfortably fit within the confines of the tiny space. After several champion-level gymnastic gyrations and finally pressing my right breasticle up above the sink and my left breasticle down, I was able to squeeze into the space.

All this effort took quite a bit of time, and I was beginning to perspire copiously. Beads of sweat began to drip from my breasticles onto the seat, making it extra slippery. Being a “lady,” I turned to do a sit-down maneuver and immediately slipped off the now sweat-lubricated toilet seat with my knees crashing into the door. I realized that there was a line forming, waiting to use the facility. Well, my pee shyness chose to step into high gear, and I couldn’t start. Eventually, I heard a knock on the door and the voice of Trenton asking if I needed assistance.

Feeling very pleased with myself, as I took my seat on the plane, I was horrified to discover, to my great shame, that the seat belt could not encompass the vast circumference of my potbellied portliness. Thus, I was forced to shamefully request a seat belt extender from the gorgeous flight attendant, thereby dashing any hopes I had for a “mile-high” encounter.

As the plane reached cruising altitude and people began to move about in the aisle, in order to hide my shame and avoid eye contact with Trenton, I focused my attention on the television screen in my seat. When Trenton came by serving drinks, in a foolish effort to show him that I was not a total glutton, I requested a Diet Coke, thereby demonstrating to him that I was trying to reduce my circumference. Foolishly, I forgot that it was going to be a four-hour flight, and

When it came time to de-plane, Trenton was there by the door, bidding everyone farewell. I rushed past him averting his eyes, lest he acknowledge my shame. This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. If I had died in the airport, would my headstone read, “She died for lack of a Whopper”?

2. Would the spot where I died be included on the register of national historic places?

3. Should I install a secret chamber in my breasticle in which to carry a private seat belt extender, so no one need know I don’t fit?

4. Should I install a catheter in my breasticles for such sweaty events?

5. Should I develop a series of retractable breasticles for “mile-high” opportunities?

6. Should I name them Mini-B’s?

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