The road to Wyoming is fraught with danger and excitement.
In the dressing room before Third Friday Bingo recently, the other Matrons of Mayhem and I were waxing philosophically about the celestial properties of that most versatile and indispensable of fabrics, polyester. Naturally, I prefer 100 percent polyester clothing, as I do not wish to be declared an abomination to God by wearing more than one fabric at a time. My motto is: Only one abomination at a time. A proper queen must ration her sacrileges.
I thought for my own personal edification, a pilgrimage to the veritable “Fountain Head” of polyester, the J.C. Penney mother store in Kemmerer, Wyoming would be in order. Since I would be heading to the “Outback” country as it were, I needed to dress properly for the occasion.
I donned my opera-length, studded leather driving gloves, hot glued some rhinestone studded spurs onto my five inch platform heels, squeezed my ample “muffin top” into a poofy hot pink square dancing skirt, plopped my sparkly pink rodeo queen hat on top of the beehive and saddled up in Queertanic, my powder blue 1975 Buick Electra “land yacht.” Proudly, at 19.5 feet long and weighing in at 2.15 tons, it was the largest sedan General Motors ever built. Only the biggest is fit for a queen!
Helpful wardrobe hint: After Labor Day a queen should never wear a hoop skirt to the country, given that rodents are actively seeking shelter for the winter. Since the average hoop skirt can shelter seventy-three squirrels, four porcupines (ouch) or two beavers (yuck), an inevitable and very painful fight for bedding material and “nuts” will surely ensue.
After a very pleasant, and tiring day of fondling polyester pantsuits at the museum-like mother store, originally named “The Golden Rule Store,” it was time to begin the long drive home.
“It was a dark and stormy night” (OK, it wasn’t stormy but I always like saying that) as Queertanic approached the top of the hill overlooking beautiful downtown Kemmerer. I was in the process of cuing up The Best of ABBA on the car stereo when all of a sudden, out of the darkness sprang a very large antelope which raced directly into the path of Queertanic. I was unable to conduct evasive maneuvers quickly enough to avoid the beast, thus it and Queertanic had a close encounter of the “full frontal” kind. After the initial “thunk,” the furry creature flew high enough to cause me to continue believing in Santa’s reindeer.
I stopped under a nearby street light to see if there was any damage to my beloved chariot. To my abject horror, the grill was cracked and warm viscous fluid was spurting voluminously from a hose in the lower frontal region. Queertanic had apparently “deep throated” an antler and her gag reflex had kicked in. Luckily, I was still at the edge of town, so I turned around and drove back down the hill to the closest building, a liquor store with a drive up window, imagine the convenience. Nearby a magnificent hunk of a man wearing a tight, well-filled police uniform was just finishing his donut break. He saw Queertanic’s pulsing, throbbing bursts, and sensing a damsel in need, he came to insert himself into this social intercourse. After fondling Queertanic’s frontal hose and inspecting some adjacent nuts, it became obvious that the transmission cooler had been pierced and that the car was spewing transmission fluid more forcefully than a porn star blasts a money shot. Officer Studly informed me that the only repair shop in town was about two blocks further downhill.
He followed Queertanic slowly down the hill, just like when a John trolls for a hustler. Just as I pulled the wounded road warrior into the repair shop lot, Queertanic gave a loud moan, convulsed and ceased to move forward under her own power. Of course the leak had now slowed to the level of a post orgasmic dribble. Queertanic obviously needed a cigarette and a nap.
It was now near midnight. The repair shop and everything else was closed. Officer Gorgeous offered to take me to a motel. I suddenly had visions of Kemmerer’s finest checking my “dip stick,” inspecting “my trunk” and “pumping” me for information. Sadly, it became readily apparent that he was all about proper business and we would not be playing “cavity search the drug smuggler” tonight. He called around and there was not a single motel room vacancy in the entire town. So he took me to the Best Western and asked the night clerk if I could sit in the lobby until morning when I could get a ride back home. Not a perfect solution, but better than spending the night in a forlorn post-orgasmic Buick. So I sat there, alone, bored out of my mind, watching a Law & Order marathon and eating a burrito from a vending machine. At the crack of dawn, a throng of buff oil-field workers in skin tight T-shirts and well-packed jeans descended into the lobby for their breakfast. Suddenly for some strange reason I was no longer bored, and this trip to Wyoming became the stuff of wet dreams.
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Is the size of my car the reason people call me a size queen?
2. By hitting the car, was the antelope tenderized suitably for cooking?
3. How many steaks can you get from an antelope?
4. Is it bad manners to serve road kill to guests?
5. Since there was no room for me at the inn, could I have been a candidate for a virgin birth?
6. How serious of a crime must I commit to get Officer Studly to conduct a cavity search?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear