The tale of Mrs. Pap Smear goes to Washington

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to our nation’s capital is fraught with danger and excitement.

I recently had the opportunity to go on a vacation to Washington DC. After weeks of pestering and begging, my good friend David the Tour Guide agreed to show me around the sights of the city. Being an excellent tour guide, David graciously took me on a whirlwind tour of many museums, government buildings, and monuments. To help set the stage, keep in mind that it was mid-July. The weather was very hot and extremely humid. And yours truly, being a bodus rotundus queen of considerable thickness, does not do well with that deadly combination.

On the third day, David decided to send me to visit Arlington National Cemetery. Picture the scene. It was a searingly hot and sunny day. The unbearably high humidity was sufficient to steam a hot dog wiener. I took a taxi to Arlington National Cemetery. Bystanders ran for their lives as I emerged from the cab much like a blackhead being squeezed from a tortured skin pore, oozing onto the pavement and immediately engulfing everything in the vicinity, just like the blob from the 1950s sci-fi horror movie. I was grateful that all the bystanders had fled the scene because, in my efforts to squeeze out of the taxi, my wig had fallen off, my left breasticle had been bent into a very unnatural position, and my caftan had ridden up and become firmly wedged into the crack of my ass. I didn’t want any witnesses to observe my re-assembly routine.

After a momentary pause, where I was able to quickly reconstruct my somewhat questionable visage, I proceeded to the loading zone for the tram tour. As the tram pulled up to load, I was disappointed to see that it was an open-air trolley with no air-conditioning. Cue the vigorous waving of my clack fan, fast enough to move more air than the whirling blades of a Sikorsky Skycrane twin-blade helicopter in an effort to not dissolve into a puddle of melted hairspray and glitter.

The cemetery was indeed a beautiful and inspiring place.

The tram arrived at the tomb of the unknown soldier, and I was privileged to witness the very moving and inspirational changing of the guard ceremony. Just as they were laying a beautiful wreath of flowers on the tomb, a girl standing next to me passed out from the heat and landed at my feet. Sensing a disturbance in the force, I looked down to see that my feet were trapped by her. So, in an effort to help, I directed the wind from my fan toward this damsel in distress. Apparently, this was not an uncommon occurrence, because a couple of marines quickly swooped in and carried her away with great dispatch as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

The tram then took me to Robert E. Lee’s house on top of the highest hill. I was astounded that from the front porch of the house, I could see all of Washington laid out before me. The Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Capitol Building, etc. So beautiful! So inspiring! So damned hot and sweaty! I sought some shade and a place to sit and recover. There were some benches provided in the trolley loading zone, but sadly, they were all occupied by what appeared to be a delegation of older Chinese women.

There was an incredibly handsome park ranger herding people in the tram loading area. I thought to myself, self, how can I get the attention of the stud in uniform, but he was very busy and ignored my best “come hither” gaze. I noticed across the way a bollard and chain fence beneath the shade of a lovely oak tree. The bollards happened to have pleasantly rounded tops and my mind immediately thought how they resembled an army of butt plugs all lined up for service. I pondered, what the heck, I’ve sat on many more uncomfortable things in my life, and they appeared to be the only opportunity to rest my weary feet. So, I went to the middle of the row, and carefully lowered my immense bulkitude down onto the butt plug so generously provided by the government.

As my colossal weight began to be applied to this “butt plug of destiny”, I discovered to my dismay that the posts were only decorative. It suddenly gave way, tipping over and taking me and several of the other connecting posts to the ground. My feet flew up into the air just as if I were preparing for a totally different kind of “adult amusement.” The pole disappeared from view and became wedged along with my caftan into my ass crack. Oh, the horror! Oh, the embarrassment!! Oh, the disgrace!!! I looked to the handsome ranger to come to my rescue but alas, who should be the only person to come to my aid but a tiny hunchbacked ninety-year-old Chinese grandmother who reached down to help me up. After getting back up, I decided to hide behind the tree trunk until the tram arrived, whereupon I discretely slunk to the very back of the train so as to be out of the view of the witnesses of my disgrace.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should I install some fans in my breasticles to give me a blow job on hot days?

2. How difficult would it be to install a water-cooled air-conditioning unit in my beehive wig?

3. Are moments like when feet fly into the air, where the term Helium Heels comes from?

4. Could I create a folding stool to resemble a fashionable bustle on the back of my caftans, that I could sit on in emergencies?

5. Could I call them Butt Plug Bustle Boosters?

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