The road to camping in luxury is fraught with danger and excitement.
“June is busting out all over,” which brings to my mind visions of camping in the forest, and hunky lumberjack wanna-bes wearing well-packed wranglers and chopping firewood. Oh, la la! Ever since I was a little princess I have enjoyed camping and getting close to nature (but not so close as to get soiled). However, being a high-maintenance queen, I need at least two large Buick-loads of stuff to go camping in comfort.
My loving and long-suffering husband decided to save me from myself and, with our friend Neil’s help, purchased a 40-year-old, 25-foot-long motor home from the car auction in Ogden. I was as giddy as the proverbial school girl at the prospect of carrying my own bathroom with me into the wilderness, not to mention having a mobile motel room with which to pick up the hunky “lumberjacks” and “chop some wood.”
With this grand chariot, I would truly be able to make an entrance more spectacular than that wanna-be strumpet, Elizabeth Windsor, in her precious little golden carriage.
I climbed into this magnificent motor coach with much trepidation. I hadn’t driven anything that large since I had left the farm unless of course, you count the Jeff Stryker latex appliance that I acquired at the adult “educational” store.
I donned my small traveling tiara and matching sequined driving gloves and prepared to hit the road back to Logan, ala “Pricilla Queen of the Desert.”
By putting the gas pedal all the way to the floor, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to maintain 55 miles per hour climbing Sardine Canyon. While descending the Cache Valley side of the canyon, the RV was picking up considerable speed and I was feeling very grand, waving like every queen is wont to do in a parade. As I approached the “Curve of Death” (one of the deadliest curves of highway in Utah) just north of Sherwood Hills, I thought I could smell a campfire. I looked around to see if there were weenies being roasted over a fire, but sadly there were no weenies of either the roasting or sucking kind to be seen. I then looked into the rearview mirror and noticed with great horror that smoke was billowing out of the cabinets filling the inside of the motor home.
By this time I was traveling nearly 70 miles per hour. My heart was pounding hard enough to be able to reach escape velocity from my 44 double-D bra. I was quickly trying to determine whether I would be able to climb out of the driver’s seat and make it to the only door to jump out to “safety” before the driverless motor home crashed, or be able to stop the damned thing before it exploded, thus rendering me to becoming a “Flame-broiled Queen.”
My choices were “Death By Fire” or “Death By Broken Bones.” I chose the former and slammed on the brakes. Sure, jumping from a moving vehicle looks easy in the movies, but I never learned to drop and roll in PE class, and being fresh out of Lee Press-on-Nails — the thought of breaking a nail while jumping was just more than I could bear.
It took nearly 200 yards to bring the “speeding inferno” to a stop. Fearing a dramatic explosion, I promptly jumped out and ran away as fast as my heels would allow.
When a mushroom cloud failed to materialize, with much trepidation I slowly approached to investigate further. Just then Neil and my husband arrived on the scene. Come to find out, the thing had never been driven faster than 40 MPH in its life and so my romping on it had caused the exhaust to ignite the wood between the aluminum siding. We took a knife and stabbed some holes into the aluminum siding and poured water into the holes thus extinguishing the fire.
I got back in and drove very slowly the rest of the way home to Logan. Now I wanted to get rid of the motor home A.S.A.P. However, before I could dispose of the beast, the very next day while I was on my regular hunting/gathering expedition to DI, I found a small crystal (tacky plastic) chandelier, suitable for installing above the dining table. Perfect for a queen’s carriage. It was a sign from the gods, or at least Quentin Crisp, that I was to keep the motor home and make it fabulous.
So after a gallon of Febreeze to eliminate the smoke smell, a few throw pillows and rugs, and of course installing the chandelier, I decided to keep it. I fastened a flag holder for a rainbow flag, installed the requisite porn magazines in the bathroom, and loaded up a flock of plastic pink flamingos with which to decorate campsites. Since I’m too cheap to use an expensive bottle of liquor, I used a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke (nectar of the gods) to christen her. Of course, the plastic bottle wouldn’t break very well over the radiator so we resorted to dumping a pack of Mentos mints into the soda, and with the resulting eruption, (worthy of Jeff Stryker himself) we christened her “THE FLAMING QUEEN.” God Save the Queen! Long may she flame (in the good way)!
This story leaves us with many important questions:
- Do I lose Princess Points for not using champagne to christen the Flaming Queen?
- If I were to become a “Flame-broiled Queen” could I marry The Burger King?
- Would the Jeff Stryker appliance be the whopper or whopper junior?
- Could I roast weenies over the mushroom cloud?
- If I sang the “Lumberjack Song,” would the “Well-packed Wranglers” help me “Chop Wood?”
- Since the Flaming Queen had no airbags, could my well-stuffed 44 double-D bra fulfill that function?
These and other eternal questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.