Summer is here and I need to get into swimsuit condition post-haste! As you may or may not know, Petunia is a substantively “gravity enhanced” blossom of nature. Alas, I have genetics working against me because I have big bones — no, really, I do! However, people who wish to continue living should ignore the obvious and just call me voluptuous, rubenesque or horizontally gifted.
All that notwithstanding, I’m still just a little bit bitter about the harpooning incident in the swimming pool at last year’s Gay Day at Lagoon. I knew I should have worn my tiara in the pool so people would realize that they were swimming with royalty.
To add insult to injury, a high school geology teacher also asked me and a couple of the other “full-figured girls” to demonstrate the theory of continental drift for his class. As a queen who feels that the education of youth is of paramount concern, I felt obligated to participate. Consequently, I successfully played the part of continent of Africa, with my ass crack being the perfect rendition of the Great Rift Valley. (I knew all those acting classes would come in handy some day. Imagine, me, The African Queen. Katherine Hepburn, eat your heart out.) The most pleasurable part of this educational experiment was in the beginning, when we were all bunched together bumping and grinding our tectonic plates into each other, to form the supercontinent, Pangaea. But the novelty soon wore off. After a couple of minutes it was more like too many frenzied hippos trying to squeeze into the same mud hole. A bystander caught it on video, and even the Animal Planet channel refused to show it, stating that it was just too unbelievable to be real.
Therefore, to my great dismay, and to mitigate my shame and avoid future harpooning, IT IS DIET TIME. I sit here at the computer, literally starving. How is anyone expected to survive on less than 15,000 calories a day? I can barely move for lack of energy and my mind is wandering from low blood sugar.
Consequently, I am having obsessive thoughts of all things edible. I wistfully daydream of days gone by and semi-regular outings to that great Utah cultural Mecca, Chuck-a-Rama. It was a longstanding tradition that when my royal land yacht, Queer-Tanic, would voyage to Salt Lake carrying my “cortege of royal strumpets,” a visit to “Sir Chuck’s” would be one of the highest priorities. When our plates were piled high with copious amounts of delicious comfort food, all was well and peaceful, love and goodwill filled the whole world. No other place on Earth comes as close to being Nirvana.
And so, Petunia’s periodic pilgrimage to the perfect provisions of Chuck-a-Rama continued for many years until a few new sisters who imagined themselves to be more evolved than us poor old Utah queens moved into the state. They expressed a great disdain for something so pedestrian as Chuck-a-Rama. They would rather die than be seen at the “feeding trough.” After many protestations, and whining by the new girls, I decided to let them introduce me to their cuisine of choice. They took me to a trendy restaurant (which shall remain nameless) that was all the rage.
Upon studying the menu, with many, many fancy schmancy, unidentifiable and even more unpronounceable items, I asked for one printed in English, and was scornfully told that the menu was in English. After ordering what I thought were the safest items on the menu, I sat in stunned silence as the waiter brought out our food.
True, the plates were beautiful artistic creations, worthy of any new age art show. However, I was unable to identify any edible parts. My pretentious friends were acting all high and mighty, zealously fawning over all the unusual foods, much like all the people exclaiming how beautiful “The Emperor’s New Clothes” were (The ladies doth protest too much, methinks.).
Despite not liking the taste — which, by the way, was like dirty alfalfa — I was a good little girl and ate everything on my plate … that, incidentally, cost $75. Upon leaving the restaurant, I was still as famished as when I had entered. A hungry drag queen is a scary and dangerous thing, much like Godzilla stomping on Tokyo. So in order to save Salt Lake City from sure destruction, I quickly maneuvered Queer-Tanic directly to the nearest “greasy spoon” diner I could find and ordered a F9 chicken fried steak dinner, complete with mashed potatoes and scone, and dripping with gravy. This delightful meal left me perfectly satisfied, thus saving Salt Lake. Ahhhh, Now that’s good livin’. Happy at last, I drove home while singing my anthem, “I Am The Queen Of My Double Wide Trailer, with the Polyester Curtains and the Red Wood Deck.”
After this unpleasant dining debacle, I have become wary of being forced to eat “pretentious food.” I put my foot down and make others accompany me to Chuck-a-Rama or another such delectable destination. I quietly smile as I notice that the pretentious queens pile their plates just as high as the rest of us, all the while exclaiming what swill it is, and claiming that they never come to such places. All the while negotiating the ins and outs of the buffet line like pros. Hmmm …
Like always, these events leave us with many eternal questions:
- What part of my anatomy could possibly portray Mount Kilimanjaro?
- Could the continental drift video be used on the education channel?
- Does chlorine swimming pool water discolor tiara jewels?
- Should I open a restaurant called Trailer Trash?
- Should Chuck-a-Rama change its name to Nirvana?
- Should I install polyester curtains in Queer-Tanic?
- Is Tokyo in danger until I finish my diet?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of “The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.”