A tale of shake your groove thang

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to judging people is fraught with danger and excitement.

Last month, I had the extreme pleasure of being invited to come out of retirement for an evening to be a judge for the Cancer’s a Drag fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. When I first received the invitation, I immediately went into a frenzy trying to decide which pair of breasticles to strap on and what color beehive wig and caftan might be appropriate for such an important gala.

I like to arrive early to events. My personal motto is “If I’m not at least fifteen minutes early to an event, I’m late.” I observe this practice of arriving early, not so much to be the first person in attendance but mostly to be able to secure a good parking space for Queertanic, my beloved land yacht. She does require extra acreage, you know. On the appointed evening, as per my usual routine, I arrived about one hour early, and YES, I was able to moor Queertanic in a most excellent parking pier.

I was ever-so-excited when I entered the building. The venue was festively decorated, and there were many fabulous people dressed to the nines milling about. The person checking me in said I was just in time for cocktail hour. With a name like “cocktail hour,” I was expecting studly men dueling with “magic wands,” or at the very least a photo exhibition of “wieners,” without buns, of course, and “joysticks” and “cucumbers.” I thought, how fortunate, it’s been a very long time since I’ve interacted with “joysticks.” I was ever-so-disappointed when, after much observation and searching, I discovered that the term “cocktail hour” meant a gathering for festive drinks and delicious snacks. Bye Phallus-shia!

Managing my disappointment at not finding “weenie world,” I put what I learned in drag queen finishing school into practice. Always look for the bright side of every situation. Therefore, I endeavored to make the best of the circumstances by loading up a very large plate with little cocktail wieners skewered with toothpicks to comfort me in my disappointment. They were a poor substitute, but what’s a queen supposed to do?

I was then ushered to the judge’s platform, a raised rostrum in the center of the room. As I climbed into my chair, I was feeling a little bit on display. But again, looking for the bright side, from this vantage point, I was able to get a great view of all the pretty boys milling about. Waiting for the contest to begin, Marrlo Suzzanne & The Galaxy Band took the stage. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, scoping out all the pretty boys, gorging out on my heaping plate of appetizers, and rocking out to the Galaxy Band.

The music was incredible, and I could feel the deep and sensuous vibrations of the bass notes in the very core of my soul. I thought I might be having a religious experience, or at the very least, there might be a small earthquake happening. After about 15 minutes, I began to feel the need to pee, not at all an unusual occurrence in someone of my advanced years. So, I laboriously transferred my significant bodus rotundus off the platform and waddled to the “little queen’s throne room,” aka restroom, just in the nick of time before my panties would become moist beyond all socially acceptable limits.

Now please realize that relieving oneself at a urinal while wearing a floor-length caftan and breasticles is not the happygo-lucky task we might imagine. First of all, the presence of breasticles make it necessary to “shoot from a distance,” as it were. Not to mention that hiking up a skirt creates a visual barrier, so much so that it becomes a total matter of faith as to whether or not you are actually tinkling in the toity or inadvertently creating a splash pad of golden showers.

After completing a successful wiz, I returned to festivities and with great effort, arduously hoisted my bottomus gigantus back up onto the judges’ platform. The show was fantastic, and the contestants were beautiful and talented. I was really enjoying the show, but after another fifteen minutes, I realized that I needed to wiz again! Once again, I made the gargantuan effort of going to the restroom again. To make a long story short, rinse and repeat this action three more times, and like the little pig, I went, “Wee, wee, wee, all the way home.”

Oh no, I worried! I’m beginning to lose control. My mind began to be flooded with nightmarish memories of me wetting my pants in kindergarten because I was too afraid to ask the teacher if I could be excused to go to the restroom. Dreadfully, I began to fear that surely a move to Shady Pines would soon be in my immediate future.

I mentioned my fears to Michael Aaron, one of my fellow judges, and he casually pointed out that the extremely large sub-woofer for the sound system was located beneath the judge’s platform, and our bladders were receiving direct blasts from the bass guitar on the level of a 6.3 quake on the Richter Scale. Thus, the pee parade. Whew! Relief!

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Is strapping on a couple of breasticles what people refer to when they say, “Grow a pair”?

2. Could unused breasticles function as traffic cones to help with parking Queertanic?

3. Should I begin to wear adult diapers to such events?

4. Do adult diapers come in sequins?

5. How voluminous must a dress be to be able to conceal an accidental tinkle sprinkle?

6. Was the musical The Wiz all about golden showers?

7 Do they market splash-resistant sequin shoes?

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