The road to a good rimming is fraught with danger and excitement.
The other day I was quietly sitting in the living room, minding my own business, watching my daily overdose of MSNBC while giving myself a very well-earned pedicure. I was just applying some faaabulous golden glitter nail polish to my toenails while listening to Rachel Maddow expound upon the global warming issue when my husband passed through the room, leaving in his wake a noxious, choking, toxic cloud of his own personal greenhouse gasses. He has the tendency to emit the most silent but deadly farts known to humankind. Trying to survive, I quickly covered my mouth and nose with my hands, only to paint them with golden glitter nail polish.
I actually sent him to Auto World for an emissions test, and upon analysis, his farts ranked among the chemical compounds that could not only peel wall paper, but indeed dissolve steel-reinforced concrete. Unfortunately, it was necessary for Homeland Security to issue a blanket prohibition for him not to be able to drive across the top of Hoover Dam, lest he dissolve it. Such tremendous powers should be reserved for a latest super villain in the next X-Men movie.
Now, as a queen of fine breeding, I try to maintain the highest levels of dignity in all my conversations. And the word fart is just too crude to be used by the likes of myself. So, I did some research on a site called “Facts on Farts” and discovered that there are at lease 330 nouns and 140 verbs that are used euphemistically for anal gaseous emissions, and the act thereof, with my personal favorite being “wind beneath my cheeks.” But lest I begin to sound like a totally innocent victim here, I must also confess to having emissions of my own. Mine tend to be the more benign, less smelly but of the greatly more audible variety that we shall heretofore in polite company refer to as “anal acoustics.” While this variety tends to be less toxic, it is also more difficult to disguise the perpetrator and thus the comedic and entertainment factor can grow exponentially. When I was a child, in my family we called it “fluffing,” and “Fluffy” became my childhood nickname because of my “proclivity to produce.”
For a comedic case in point, a few years ago during a move, I was storing some boxes of porno video tapes at my friend Wayne’s house lest the common riffraff movers help themselves to the “educational materials.” When I went to retrieve the heavy boxes, I had assumed the position of a sumo wrestler, so as to be able to lift with my legs not my back. And me having a well exercised “garage door” and squatting and straining like that … well, you do the math. There was an immediate, though unintentional, and loudly audible “thunder in the buns.” It could not be ignored; Wayne was standing directly behind me. It could not be disguised; no other noise was in the room. It could not be blamed on anyone else; it was in fact the metaphorical “fart left floating in the air,” and it was just too late to ask Wayne to pull my finger. Out of nervous release, I began to giggle. To my added dismay with each giggle, came an additional “sphincturbulence” that could only be described as lengthy series of “machine gun sound effects” sprinkled with increasing laughter gaining in velocity and volume. When, finally, the “Fartvergnugen” had subsided, I gathered up my courage, stood tall and walked proudly from the room carrying the heavy box of porn like a Sherpa climbing Mount Everest.
Many years ago, before the earth’s crust had fully cooled and when sex was new to me, I had an even worse experience.
I had the occasion to rendezvous with a young stud we shall refer to as Captain Kirk. Our starships had been in standard orbit, circling First Dam in Logan, and he decided to mount a boarding party over to my ship “Queer-Tanic,” a Buick land yacht in any other dimension. He immediately took charge and maneuvered me into the cavernous rear seat where he began going “where no man had gone before.” His tongue explored my body like a class four probe, circling Uranus obviously scanning for a port in which to park his shuttlecraft. Of course, this sent me into warp drive.
I was nearing critical velocity and my dilithium crystals were about to “eject the core” when I began to feel pressure building up in the interior of my “shuttle bay.” I tensed up, in a desperate bid to abort the eruption of gaseous anomalies into his beautiful face. I gently tried to pull his head up to kiss him on the lips so as to remove him from the line of fire. But he was so intent on what he was doing that he immediately returned to the “shuttle bay door.” I made two more attempts to transport him from danger, but to no avail. Finally, the structural integrity of the shuttle bay door failed and there was a small “queef “of the “anterior nebula” and … well … the magic was gone and so was he! Alas, I don’t know of a good way for a queen to recover from such a breach of etiquette. The moral of this story: “Butt yodeling” a social faux pas to be avoided at all costs.
Like always, these events leave us with many eternal questions:
1. Will nail polish remover also remove blackheads from my nose?
2. How many Kegel exercises does it take to become a virgin again?
3. What would the farting super villain be called, Kaboom?
4. If I stuffed a car air freshener into the shuttle bay, would it help?
5. Is lifting with your legs worth it?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of “The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.”