The road to Elko is fraught with danger and excitement.
When I’m not playing with my Bingo Balls at Third Friday Bingo, I drive a delivery truck for a living. Whenever I drive, I have a personal checklist: Opera-length, rhinestone-studded driving gloves; a pink satin scarf to keep the beehive hair in place; a small 24-pound emergency makeup kit; and, a large mug of Diet Mountain Dew to sip along the way to keep my lipstick moist.
On one recent trip to Nevada, just after I passed the exit to Knolls, the point of no return before entering the vast desolation that is the Bonneville Salt Flats, my personal check system gave me an early warning that I needed to “drain my radiator” soon. I calculated that the next rest area was 30 miles ahead and figured it wouldn’t be a problem. For some reason, this particular nature call became more forceful than usual. With nary a tree or bush in sight, I looked to see if I could just pull off the highway and flush my buffers, but there was way too much traffic to ensure any modicum of privacy while changing the water on the goldfish.
I increased my speed by a couple of miles per hour. After five more mile markers had passed, the urge to purge had increased in intensity to the point that I was forced to start wiggling and squirming around in my seat to keep from breaking the seal and draining the dragon. I sped up even more, desperately wishing I had a clothespin with me. I turned on the cruise control and crossed my legs to prevent my paying the water bill. As I sped past the concrete tree sculpture that is located smack in the middle of the salt flats, in desperation, I thought about stopping to water the tree, but I realized that my salvation in the form of the urination station was only 10 miles farther. My eyes began to cross. I turned off the MP3 player, so as to concentrate more fully on controlling the siphon python. I had been listening to the soundtrack to Urinetown, which was inspirational in absolutely the wrong way.
To much relief, I reached the rest-area exit and careened into the closest parking space available, startling those nearby. The place was unusually crowded as there was a convoy of national guardsmen also making a pit stop. I have a great fondness for a man in uniform. I was in such distress though, that I could not even slow down to appreciate the sheer beauty of the neighbors. My bladder must have sensed imminent relief coming because as I stepped out of the truck, I felt a teeny tiny leak in the lizard and I was forced to cross my legs to hold it in. As I posed awkwardly beside my truck, I pretended to slowly lock the door and adjust the side view mirror, waiting for a pause in the pressure so I could make it that last 20 yards to the restroom.
Gratefully, I noticed the door to the men’s room was propped open, one less obstacle to make my bladder gladder. With sweat now dripping into my eyes, almost causing blindness, I made the final desperate dash to point Percy at the porcelain and began to sprinkle my tinkle. Niagara Falls gushed forth, and I felt great sweeping waves of relief as the pressure began to lessen. While the rest of my body began to relax, I was surprised when out of nowhere, my ass “Let Slip the Dog of War” and a loud clap of anal thunder echoed through the empty restroom. I was so relieved about not wetting my pants that I was willing to risk a few booty burps. After all, there is no better place to float an air biscuit than in an empty restroom. Quite happy that I had made it, I began to hum along with the sounds of the steady stream raining on the bowl and the continuing music of barking spiders coming from my rear. It was a veritable Buttocks Symphony.
I was shocked into disbelief when suddenly I heard a very husky voice say, “Hey buddy, you’re playing to a full house.” Mortified that I was no longer alone, I glanced behind me and there were four stunningly handsome guardsmen in tight-fitting uniforms lining the back wall waiting for their turn to tap a kidney. I had been taught in finishing school that a real lady never conducts an odor opera in public, so I was greatly distressed. Natural processes had gone beyond the point of no return, and all chance at maintaining any dignity was moot. I just looked down, let one last firing of the auxiliary rockets, finished draining the dragon quickly, shook hands with the president, zipped up, and determinedly did not make eye contact with any of the studs as I almost ran out of the room. As quickly as possible, I dashed to my truck and sped out of the parking lot before my audience emerged to give me an ovation.
Like always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Should I include a clothespin with my makeup kit?
2. Are most speeders just trying to prevent peeing their pants?
3. Do they sell glitter catheters with rhinestone-studded collection bags?
4. Are there any musical compositions written for the bum?
5. Would an encore performance be appropriate after receiving a standing ovation?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.