A tale of where the boys are

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to Palm Springs is fraught with danger and excitement.

I woke up on January 2nd with the sudden realization that the holidays were over. So I rolled my buttockus maximus out of bed, oozed ever so sluggishly onto the floor, and slowly took down the Christmas tree. When I finished, I had nothing to look forward to except the coldest, darkest, and most depressing month of the year. With a great sigh of sadness, I opened the front door and looked outside only to be accosted by a blizzard blowing by my breasticles. I began shivering with the cold. A sudden gust of wind slammed the door shut, right on my left breasticle, leaving an unsightly dent in the door jam and badly misshapen breasticle. Now, just what is a self-respecting, image-conscious drag queen supposed to do with one horribly misshapen breasticle?

I phoned Ask-A-Nurse for advice on how to deal with a severely bent breasticle, and they referred me for a mammogram. Well, obviously, the only thing a mammogram was going to reveal would be the battery pack for my blinking breasticle lights, so, in desperation, I turned to drastic measures for relief. After much trial and error with different breasticle straightening strategies, such as a winch and a crowbar, I finally ended up using a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil to straighten things out. It still didn’t look quite right, so I finished the fine details with my Hamilton Beach steam iron. Viola! Good as new!

After all this wintery, blustery turmoil, I decided that I needed to get the Hell out of town, so I loaded up my beloved land yacht Queertanic, pointed her south towards warmer climes, and hit the road. I’ve always heard people raving about going to Palm Springs, so that’s where I headed.

Upon arriving in Palm Springs, I checked myself into one of those clothing-optional gay resorts that I had seen advertised online. I’ve always heard about these wild pool parties in Palm Springs, so I thought I might be in for an adventure… If I have learned anything from my 15 years of watching Sir David Attenborough in the Planet Earth nature video series, it is that I must take careful precautions, lest I frighten and disturb the native fauna. Over time, I have sadly come to realize that nothing in this world terrifies and traumatizes a gaggle of gays more quickly than a gander at my exceedingly voluminous blubbernaught belly and protuberant posterior.

Luckily, prior to taking this trip and for just such eventualities, I had visited AAA Jumbo Tent & Awning Company, and they fashioned a lovely gargantuan queen-sized camouflage caftan, perfect for making discrete observations of the North American gay male in his natural habitat. I excitedly headed for the swimming pool, which was filled with beautiful boys. I made one fatal error in that I failed to take into account the water displacement equal to that of the Q.E.II oceanliner that occurred when I entered the pool. The resulting tidal wave swept the entire gaggle of gays up out of the water and onto the pool deck, squealing with terror and fleeing for their lives.

As it happened, as I was waiting for the boys to return to the pool, my tummy began rumbling, and I realized that the buffet I had eaten the previous night had now finished its journey through my digestive tract and was ready to make its exit. Thus, I retired to my hotel room and entered the bathroom. I was intrigued to discover that the toilet was equipped with one of those fancy Japanese bidet attachments. I’ve always wanted to try one of these, but never had the chance. I got down on my knees so that I could closely inspect the device and see how it worked. I twisted the knob, and it shot a torrent of water right in my face. I fell back, trying to dodge the stream, hitting my head on the vanity and knocking my beehive wig all askew. The jet of water was now spraying all over the ceiling, thus it began raining inside the bathroom. Oh, My, Hell! With mascara running down my cheeks so that my face resembled that of a zebra, and my wig now nothing more than a wet mop on top of my head, I twisted the knob to off. CLEAN UP ON AISLE NINE!

I grabbed all the towels and mopped up the mess. After the worst of the mess was cleaned up, I still had to take care of the distasteful butt business. So, I spun around and assumed a regal posture on the throne like the queen that I am should. When finished, and the buffet remnants were deposited safely in the toilet bowl, it was time to reactivate the bidet. So, I twisted the knob to what I thought was the lowest setting. I chose wrongly! My bottom did not experience a gentle and comforting cleansing sensation, but in fact my ass received an enema with the force and volume of Niagara Falls, obviously preparing my butt for a cavity search and nearly pinning me to the opposite wall. Later, I returned to the pool, but sadly, the boys were nowhere to be seen.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Because I wanted my breasticle to be straight, does that mean I have to turn in my gay membership card?

2. Could the mammogram possibly have shown battery cancer?

3. Would the cure for battery cancer be a new battery recharger?

4. Should they rename Queen Elizabeth II to the Queen Pap Smear I?

5. Is a bidet enema how drug mules prepare for a smuggling job?

6. Now that I have experience, should I become a drug mule to supplement my retirement income?

7. Is Doris Bidet a good drag name?

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