A tale of 'Mp bears are pit tonight, Petunia scared them all last night

by Petunia Pap Smear

The road to Bear Jambear-ee is fraught with danger and excitement.

It was July and time for the annual trip to Idaho for the Utah Bears’ Jam-bear-ee camp on the banks of the Portneuf River. I squealed with glee, “Oh boy, a road trip!”

Excitedly, I began loading up Queertanic, my beloved land yacht with all the necessities that any self-respecting queen might need for an afternoon of frolicking with the Utah Bears: Six beehive wigs with matching color-coordinated breasticles – check. Seventeen assorted caftans, lest I spill some BBQ sauce while eating – check. Opera-length driving gloves in both black and white – check. Fifteen footlong sub sandwiches and ten 2-liter bottles of Diet Mountain Dew, to tide me over until dinner – check. And a pillow for Mr. Pap Smear to snooze on while I’m driving.

After working up a glisten loading the car (a true queen doesn’t sweat, she glistens), it was time to hit the road. I got into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key, and the engine roared to life. After I carefully made sure that the AC was working properly, (ABSOLUTLY THE MOST CRITICAL DETAIL) I sat impatiently waiting for Mr. Pap Smear to get in the car so we could get going. He just stood there to the side of Queertanic. After a few minutes, I finally grew impatient with him and honked the horn. He helplessly threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed that all of my stuff had left no room for him to sit in the car. We had arrived at the age-old quandary. Style or husband? Reluctantly, I removed one wig and the pillow, carving out a small pocket into which Mr. Pap Smear was barely able to squeeze. Off we went.

My dear longsuffering husband is not much comfort as a co-pilot in these situations. He is very much like Hyacinth Bucket telling me to “mind the pedestrian,” etc. while tensing up and trying to step on the imaginary brake he foolishly believes is located on his side of Queertanic. I find it safer for all involved to encourage him to close his eyes, lay back, and pretend to be asleep, especially while passing through the potato fields of Idaho.

When driving on these long stretches of secluded roads, in order to pass the time, I try and keep a constant vigil to view prime specimens of the North American Homosexual Male in his natural habitat. For scientific research, of course. Barring any actual Homos to view, I succumb to the universal pastime of scoping out any and all hunky drivers of passing cars or farmer boys in the fields. The unwitting straight farm boys caught up in this dragnet have no idea. I classify them into three categories: 1) roadkill, 2) Do-able, and 3) I’m your new fiancé if you’ll just slow down long enough to slip on this ring.

I noticed while driving through the Idaho farm country, or the “Potato Parade of Ida-Homos” as it were, that most of the farm boys appeared to be classically handsome BUT covered in dirt and sheep manure from the fields. Any self-respecting queen couldn’t throw a decent hissy fit without running into a fashion-challenged rodeo champion-wanna-be driving a tractor. Quite a rough-looking yet promising crowd, if I say so myself.

Garnering inspiration from “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” in an effort to beautify America I thought that perhaps I should form a roving pack of queens in a fabulous motor home to stop along the wayside and perform roadside Gang-Makeovers. We could call it “Petunia Pap-Smear’s Poofter Powered Pictures of Perfection” or “The Sextuple P.” All we would need is a Winnebago, several tons of lipstick, eyeliner, and glitter. Oh, and lots and lots of industrial-strength girdles. What better way to get the economy back on track?

The highway miles flew by, and we saw some very promising farm boys along the way. And it came to pass as we neared the Jam-bear-ee camp that I found myself swearing up a storm of foul words enough to make any longshoreman blush. We had just traversed over a rather rough railroad crossing and due to all the bouncing around, I had broken a nail.

HELL HATH NO FURY! It was emotionally critical moments like these that any queen not worth her tiara would surrender to a life of abject squalor, complete with tears and melting mascara running down her cheeks, and begin searching for the inevitable pimp to take care of her. I, however, being a former boy scout and Idaho-Mo of sterner stuff, calmly pulled to the side of the road, got out my emergency manicure kit (a must-have in any 72-hour emergency kit), and began repairing the tortured talon. A true queen cannot, must not, now or ever, appear in public, even in a farmer’s field or, worse yet, a corral full of sheep, in anything less than perfection. AND JUST LIKE THAT, we arrived perfectly in time for dinner, followed by a rousing game of bingo.

No bears were harmed in this story.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should I begin to store some Valium in the glove compartment so Mr. Pap Smear can enjoy the ride?

2. Is there stimulus grant money available to fund farm boy makeovers?

3. Does the handsomeness of the Idaho farm boys determine the tastiness of the potatoes they grow?

4. If I were able to tease one of the Idaho farm boys to leave the potato field and come “play,” would I need fry sauce for lube?

5. Would performing gang makeovers on farm boys qualify me for a Nobel Peace Prize?

6. Should I construct a secret compartment in the Winnebago to hide a farm boy or two?

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