The road to Third Friday Bingo is fraught with danger and excitement.
The majority of people believe that a queen’s life is nothing but glitz, glamor, and luxuriousness. Actually, we put our lives at great risk every time we put on heels. To quote the immortal words of Bilbo Baggins, “It’s a dangerous business, going out of your door. You step into the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no telling where you might be swept off to.”
Many people ask me just how long it takes to get dressed to go out. Once I have worked out the electrical and structural engineering aspects of the ensemble, taking into account the tensile strength of the spandex girdle restraining my gifted circumferential self, the final assembly usually takes less than one hour. There are many factors to consider.
First I have to check the weather report very carefully and take into account the wind velocity of the day. In a stiffer wind, I must choose smaller propellers for my breasticles, lest I take flight unexpectedly.
I certainly don’t want a recurrence of that damned Roswell, New Mexico incident. There I was, minding my own business, window shopping for jewelry at the hardware store when a sudden gust of wind arose, and “whoosh” before I knew it my propellers spun out of control, my cape caught the breeze like a sail and I was airborne. Well of course my sequins and glitter caused interference with the radar, and since I had not filed a flight plan with the FFA, I was declared a UFO. When I finally came back down to Earth, they locked me away in Area 51. J. Edgar Hoover kept me prisoner there for years, mercilessly pumping me for fashion tips until he finally passed away. I understand that they based the stealth bomber’s invisible-to-radar design on my outfit.
But back to the story, just attending Third Friday Bingo with Ruby Ridge and the Matrons of Mayhem is dangerous. For instance, last month, I neglected to take into account the altitude of the beehive hairdo and forgot to duck when passing through a doorway. The resulting collision left the beehive ‘do askew, thereby resembling a Leaning Tower of Aqua Net. It was so off balance that the whole wig finally fell off my head while I was in front of the audience. Oh, the shame of it all, for the audience to see up close and personal, that it is not my natural hair. The magic is gone! I had to retreat to the dressing room, and give the stuffing of the wig a rigorous fisting to get it to retain its shape. Some skills are universally handy!
Most of the time my crinoline skirts are so puffy that I cannot even begin to see my feet, and moving in and around objects can be challenging in the best of circumstances. I feel that I need to wear one of those warning beepers when I am moving. On one particular incident, I could not see the stairs as usual, and while attempting to negotiate a graceful decent worthy of Scarlet O’Hara, my high-heel ruby slipper missed the top step and, “Thar she blows!” With all my might, and what little balance I could muster, I wracked to-and-fro trying not to fall down and let the first row discover whether I wear panties or go commando under the crinolines (a true lady never tells). The table full of hunky bears sitting nearby, watched the unfolding catastrophe in frozen horror, while just barely missing being crushed to death.
At this point in the story, let me pause and issue an invitation for one or more scantily clad hunky studs to volunteer to be our “Stair Master.” He could help us up and down the stairs, and then just sit and look pretty the rest of the time. Any interested hunks please send a message accompanied by a photo, to my Facebook page.
You can tell who in the audience was deprived of breastfeeding as a child. They are mesmerized by my blinking and spinning breasts. Mostly adult women are very aggressive in wanting to touch my breasticles and give me a cheap and easy twirl. Many rush right in and take a nose dive deep into my cleavage before I can even shout a warning of, “You’ll poke your eyes out” on the propeller blades.
In August, it was so hot during Bingo that I perspired so much as to short out the electrical lights on my left breasticle. For an instant, the resulting shock to my nipple caused me to think that I was back at BYU having electroshock therapy again. (Oh, you always remember the good times…) I felt as though I could have jump-started a car. Now that’s a special talent!
An outdoor public event such as Pride Day brings its own special complications. I don’t allow myself to drink anything, because there is no way in hell that I can fit my two-foot tall hair, twin-rotor breasticles, and a five-foot diameter crinoline skirt into a port-a-potty and not emerge without pee and poop in places that are best left unmentioned unless you are into yellow and brown hankies.
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Is fisting a wig something that should be taught to all hairdressers?
2. Until the wig fell off, was it really true that only my hairdresser knew for sure?
3. Had the bears been crushed to death, would their tombstones read “crushed by a Petunia?”
4. Will they ever design a drag queen-sized port-a-potty?
5. Is being able to jump-start a car from my boobs a marketable skill?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear