The road to Southfork is fraught with danger and excitement.
My panties haven’t been twisted into such an excited knot since March 21, 1980, when the whole country was left to wonder who shot J.R.? Dallas, the TV show will soon be returning to prime time TV and I’m all aquiver with eager anticipation!
Back in the day, a group of us Logan queens would gather religiously every Friday evening for our “Oil Baroness Club.” We would share a pot-luck dinner and watch J. R. Ewing twist his evil plots of big money, big oil, betrayal and conquest. One particular Friday stands out in my memory.
The dinner that night was exceptionally spicy Tex-Mex. As a general rule, since I’m just a “Plain Jane, Idaho-Mo,” any food more zesty than ketchup can send my system into crisis mode. The other queens laughed at me when I broke into a sweat eating the fire-breathing fajitas, refried beans and Mexi-corn. My makeup began to melt, and I was experiencing hot flashes strong enough to suggest I was entering menopause. I stayed and endured their ridicule because it was the very important episode where Barbara Bel Geddes was returning to reclaim the roll of Miss Ellie from that usurping upstart, Donna Reed.
During the show, my innards began performing a quivering flip-flop. I couldn’t tell if dinner was having an adverse reaction or if I was just extra horny and needed to get laid. After the show was over, I excused myself and ventured forth to Lady Bird Park, to find a companion to help “satisfy my itch” as it was. While I was “holding court” on the throne in the rest room, a stunningly handsome stud entered, and upon undoing his pants began to present the “proper credentials for an audience with the queen,” which were very impressive I must say. Upon closer examination of our “qualifications,” we decided to find a private location to properly conduct a confidential “consultation.”
Since I had Dallas on my mind, I thought that he could be J.R. to my Sue Ellen, especially since J.R. screwed everybody anyway. I led him to my personal “Southfork Ranch,” a single-wide trailer with polyester curtains and a redwood deck that I had affectionately named, “The Boy George Memorial Sex Change and Abortion Clinic, Laura Ingles West Branch.”
As we entered the trailer, we left a trail of clothing frantically torn off of each other all the way down the hallway to the bedroom.
“J.R.” took charge and performed some “exploratory drilling for oil.” The intensity of the occasion increased incrementally with each repositioning of his “drilling rig.” As J.R. began to reach my “Deep Water Horizon,” I suddenly felt the urge to yell “Drill, baby, drill!”
All of a sudden, without warning, during an exceptionally deep and frenzied thrust of J.R.’s drill, our ecstasy was interrupted when my body decided that “it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature” with spicy food, and propelled the whole dinner forcefully outbound on the “Orient Express.” Sadly, my “blowout prevention” failed to contain the forthcoming gusher of “Montezuma’s Revenge.”
I quickly tied up all the “liquid doo”-soiled articles into the bedding. I covered the “brown mound of rebound” on the carpet with a towel, so that I could carefully escort the freshly showered and “Hershey Squirt” free J.R. to the living room where he could safely get dressed. Thank goodness that in our initial haste, his clothing had been left in the hallway, undamaged outside the “Tijuana Two-Step” blast zone. He hurriedly left, without saying a single word. Fortunately, I had not yet told J.R. my name. It was bad enough that he knew where I lived.
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Was the Rug Doctor tested for the removal of “Rectal Soup?”
2. Was I responsible to pay for J.R.’s psychotherapy?
4. Do you think J.R. will ever want another drilling session?
5. What does Miss Manners say about “Serving up a poo-poo platter?”
6. If I had filmed this, could I have made money in the German Scheisse video market?
7. Could I title the video “Shittsburg?”
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.