The road to The Trapp is fraught with danger and excitement.
To paraphrase Auntie Mame, “Life is a road trip, and most poor suckers are left standing at the rest area.” When you live in Cache Valley, it requires a “road trip” just to procure the necessities of life; Lee press-on nails, fuchsia nail polish, Aqua Net, and the four basic food groups of Twinkies (to preserve the aging body), Diet Mountain Dew (to help keep that girlish figure), M&M’s (to leave a trail home with) and chocolate pudding (just because).
In the days of my youth, it was no hassle to go out into the pasture and hitch the dinosaur up to the wagon and travel into town for a shopping spree. From personal experience, a brontosaurus would provide a much smoother journey, but a stegosaurus was a much flashier ride. So it was as true way back then as it is now, it really does come down to the age-old question of style verses substance. So you can imagine my quandary as gasoline prices steadily rise, it has become an immense challenge to fill the gas tank and keep Queer-Tanic, my 1975 Buick Electra land-yacht on the road.
Rather than succumb to the indignity of a smart car (seriously, I’ve measured and the beehive hair will not fit!), I have sincerely considered selling a kidney in order to continue traveling in the style to which I have become accustomed.
So, as I longingly pass the service station with my gas gauge reading near empty, I’m reminded of a gasoline-challenged road trip from the annals of history.
One cold wintry day, a gaggle of us Logan queens loaded into Queer-Tanic and headed for the City of Salt to attend a strip show at The Trapp. We were giddy as schoolgirls in anticipation of nearly naked men, thrusting and releasing their bulbous parts in our general direction. As we entered Sardine Canyon, the gas gauge was nearing empty, but Tim, who was riding shotgun, and I concluded that we probably had enough gas to reach Brigham City. Alas, shortly after cresting Sardine Summit, the engine sputtered then died a most desperate death. Suddenly, a Buick full of Queens loudly began shrieking about being stranded in the snowy mountains and being forced to eat each other (and not in the good way). I reassured everyone not to worry, as I had a gallon of gas in the trunk which I had purchased in order to remove the Aqua Net overspray from my bathroom counter. Helpful hint; queens with serious hair should never be smokers. With all those chemicals and lacquer, we tend to go up in flames easily.
At Tim’s urging, I shifted the transmission into neutral and we began to coast down the mountain. Queer-Tanic was fully loaded with a bunch of “gravity-enhanced” queens approached approximately 6,000 pounds. The forces of gravity took charge and the legendary Buick began to gain speed. As we achieved what felt like warp factor nine, we prayed that we would have enough forward inertia to carry us all the way across the Mantua flats. We sped around the corner and entered Mantua at 85 mph. A squeamish sister in the back seat squealed, in a voice so high pitched that nearly only a bat could hear, that we would be arrested for speeding and taken to jail. Luckily, the ever vigilant speed trap cop must have been having a donut break, letting us pass unmolested, however disappointing a couple of us who secretly harbored some romantic fantasies of prison love.
By the time we traversed the flat lands, our forward momentum had been reduced to about 35 mph. Undauntedly, Tim reassured us that he thought we could coast all the way to the Walker Gas station in Brigham City, provided that the traffic light at the bottom of the canyon was green and we would not have to stop. Again, as the downward slope increased again, we gained more and more speed. One “Doubting Debbie” in the back seat cried that we would never be able to climb up over the gravel pit hill at the canyon’s base. Silly Queen! We cleared the top of the gravel pit hill at 40 mph.
As we raced to the traffic light at the bottom of the hill, we were all horrified as the light turned red and we were forced to stop. We screeched as we envisioned how it would ruin our heels not to mention nails as we all were ready to get out and push Queer-Tanic across the intersection. However, Tim, acting like a general, started barking out commands. “Push the button to open the trunk as we come to a stop and stay in the car!” He jumped out, sped to the rear of the car, got the gas can out, assembled the spout, removed the gas cap, poured in the contents of the gas can, replaced the gas cap, threw the can back in the trunk, slammed down the trunk lid, and dived back into the seat. We all held our breath as I turned the key, and then gave a great sigh of relief as Queer-Tanic’s engine roared to life. I put it in gear just as the light turned green and were able to reach the gas station to finish fueling – with nary a hair out of place. Blessed be Tim, protector of manicures and beehive hair.
Like always these events leave us with many important questions:
1. Should I consider renting Tim out to other queens?
2. Instead of selling a kidney, should I donate to a sperm bank?
3. Was selling sperm what mom meant when she said, “Waste not, want not?”
4. Because queens can burst into flames, is that where they get the term “Flaming Queen?”
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of:
The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear