Listen to this articleThe road to Lagoon is fraught with danger and excitement.
I’m so excited about the upcoming Gay Day at Lagoon, officially named “QSaltLake Day,” on Aug. 5. This is one event where I can squeal and shriek all day long and not be called a sissy.
I think it’s a great idea that we are encouraged to wear red, so as to help identify each other and feel the strength in our numbers. I remember, on one of the former Gay Days, how exhilarating it was to look down from the Sky Ride and view the veritable ocean of red shirts frolicking along the midway.
The red-shirt concept is a great idea, especially for me, since I have noticed that as I get older, the accuracy of my gaydar has measurably decreased. It was explained to me that as a queen ages, the gaydar accuracy is a function of my naturally increasing troll quotient juxtaposed to the inevitable decreasing cuteness threshold of any stud in question. Said more simply, my, “you must be this cute to ride this ride,” threshold gets lower and lower with each passing year and each additional pound.
Most of my friends love wild and woolly roller coasters and thrill rides, whereas Puff The Fire Dragon is more my speed. You just can’t imagine the carnage done to beehive hair from a ride on Wicked. It resembles the Florida coast after a Category 5 hurricane – desolate, smashed flat, lifeless, and hanging only by a scrunchie. There is not enough Aqua Net in the universe to adequately secure the structural integrity of the beehive against such forces. Not to mention the damage done to my Lee Press-On Nails while gripping the safety bar for dear life.
One time at Gay Day my friend Dave talked me into riding the Wild Mouse. As you may know, I am no “Slenderella.” In fact, I am what they refer to in polite society as “circumferentially gifted” or that I have an “aisle-blocker physique.” My friend is likewise “heroically proportioned.” While waiting in line, we both had observed that the other people fit two in each car. When it was our turn, the adorably cute twink in his tight-fit, ride-operator uniform, (I’m a sucker for a guy in uniform – any uniform) timidly asked us if we wanted separate cars. Anxious about the upcoming thrill of the ride, we excitedly rushed passed him and jumped into the same car. With both of us being “bodus rotundus,” we together could not fit our “voluptuous bottoms” into the seat. Dave’s left cheek was halfway up the side and my right cheek was similarly skiwampus. Embarrassed, Dave whispered, “We shall never speak of this again, to anyone!”
The car had already begun to move before we realized that not only would we be uncomfortable, but also it might be a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad idea. We could not fasten the seat belt around us both. In desperation, we put it around Dave, and I instructed Dave to grab onto me if I started to fly out. Thank goodness, I was not wearing my pinwheel boobs, which would have added to my aerodynamic design.
As the car left the gate and began the agonizingly slow torturous climb to the top, we could hear the creaks and groans of metal being stressed to its near breaking point. I swear that in the distance, I could hear Freddie Mercury singing “Fat Bottomed Girls.” Oh, the indignity! As our faces were pointed heavenward during the ascent, all I could think about was my showing up at the pearly gates and Saint Peter questioning me, “You are here early, what happened?” And I would have to admit that I was too Rubenesque for the Wild Mouse and flew out of the car on the third turn from the top. Since I was not a nun, I could not fly like Sally Field, and thus plummeted 100 feet to the ground, crushing a churro kiosk. The coroner would have to go to great lengths to explain to the investigators why the deceased had received a churro enema.
As we reached the top and began the descent, the fully loaded car became a speeding blubbernaught of death, careening along the track at a supernatural velocity. I gripped the crash bar more tightly than if I had a hold of Jeff Stryker’s manhood. With each bone-jarring, hairpin turn, certain that our massive hippopotamus-like inertia would rip us from the track and send us shooting into space, I screamed until only bats and dogs could hear. Fortunately, we were wedged into the car tighter than my muffin top in a girdle, and no movement within the car was possible. The packing had the effect of being even more restrictive than a seat belt. Likewise, the structural integrity of the track and car survived our combined gravity-enhanced momentum. Miraculously, we lived to tell the tale, and a severely traumatized Dave and I pried ourselves loose from the car swearing to never ride together again.
Like always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Does Grindr contain a troll-to-twink translator?
2. Should I investigate the financial feasibility of a churro enema franchise?
3. Should Dave and I change our names to Buffet Queen and Sumo Boy?
4. In addition to the minimum height requirement, should there also be a maximum butt size limit?
5. Should I adopt “Fat Bottomed Girls” as my theme song?
6. Is packing bodies in tightly where the idea for car airbags originated?
7. Should Dave and I have received the patent for airbags?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
