The road to Los Angeles is fraught with danger and excitement.
On Thanksgiving night, after my already circumferential tummy was near bursting from massive quantities of turkey, dressing and yams, I was ecstatic to escape the confines of the Zion Curtain and go on a little road trip to the City of Angels.
I was merrily tooling along I-15 in Queertanic, my luxurious land yacht, singing along to the radio and trying to think up some queenly choreography to “Call Me Maybe” when Mother Nature made her presence known. I suddenly felt an irrepressible need to release some gaseous intestinal byproducts. Now, in my advancing years of troll-itude, I have come to believe it’s my personal destiny to rebuild the ozone layer one poof at a time. I have acquired a new motto that I believe all queens with elevated social aspirations should adopt: “Never trust a fart!”
Accordingly, it was with utmost care that I gently raised my bodacious bottom from the leather seat so there would be ample room to float an air biscuit and not damage the upholstery. I was shocked at the volume and ferocity of the trouser tornado that erupted from my tenacious tushie.
Queertanic violently swerved to the side of the highway, crossing the rumble strip, and thereby adding to the caboose cacophony and panic induced by the earsplitting anal announcement. I swear if the voluminous vapors had been ignited, it would have been enough to propel a shuttle into space. Fortunately, on that score, I was the only openly flaming object around, so consequently no explosion.
I was greatly relieved to have the gaseous pressure released. Conversely, I began to have the uneasy sensation that the posterior profanisaurus had been accompanied by some upside-down hot fudge sundae. I tried not to move a muscle, in hopes that any panty contamination would not spread and grind through the fabric, thereby soiling the upholstery. In full panic mode, I looked for the next exit. I was horrified to find the next exit was Beaver. Oh the shame of it all, to have to parade my pudgy panties in the land of “snatch,” of which gay men dare not speak its name.
With great haste, I drove Queertanic to the nearest convenience store. With buttocks clenching tight enough to create diamonds, I tried to act casual as I slowly and carefully climbed out of the car and awkwardly waddled like a demented duck passed the incredibly handsome cashier into the restroom. Once safely in a stall, I pulled my pants down and proceeded to scrutinize any possible fecal infestation. I was wracked with panic and revulsion as I inspected the inside of my underwear where I noticed there was a substantial amount of agent brown clinging to the fabric. Suspecting an accompanying smearing of smarm on my bottom, I carefully began wiping with tissue and came to understand that the contamination of liquid bummer was much more extensive than I had heretofore hoped. With wad after wad of tissue, I attacked the bum gravy with ever increasing ferocity. So much so that my finger pierced through the tissue, thus becoming contaminated too. This had now officially become a literal, “Oh shit” moment.
I waited until no one else was in the restroom, then I carefully took off my shoes, pants and soiled underwear. Hoping that no one would enter the room, I nervously opened the stall door, and while half naked, I quickly streaked to the sink to get some wet paper towels. Oh, for hell’s sake! There were no paper towels, only one of those blasted air dryers. “For your sanitation and convenience,” my ass! I retreated back to the stall, wondering what to do? Someone else came into the room. I quickly sat down on the toilet and raised my stocking feet up off the floor so that he would only be able to see my shoes. After what seemed like an eternity and the cramping up of my airborne legs, he left. Relieved to be alone again, I finally got one of those paper toilet seat liners and re-emerged from the stall, and wet that down in the sink. Success! I thought about just throwing the drippy doo-doo contaminated underwear into the garbage and leaving them, but they were one of my newest and nicest, costing about $20. And I am nothing if not a frugal queen, so I determined that I would smuggle them out to the car.
I couldn’t let that cute cashier see me carrying the underwear so I carefully wadded them up and stuffed them into my pants pocket. The resulting bulge made it look like I was “very happy” to see the stud, and wouldn’t you know, he gave me a flirty wink as I passed by him. Normally a queen of my advanced years and tonnage would never let a flirty wink go to waste. However, like a guilty thief in the night, I skulked to the car and deposited my filthy undies. To avoid further scrutiny from the cute cashier, I drove to a different store before retrieving a clean pair of undies from my baggage and went into that bathroom to put them on before continuing my journey.
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Should I apply at NASA as a launch specialist?
2. Are colonic calliopes the source of spontaneous human combustion?
3. Could trouser music be harvested as an alternative energy source?
4. Should I carry spare underwear in my purse?
5. Will the dictionary begin to reference this story for the meaning of an “Oh, shit moment”?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.