The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A Fun Bus of Big Gays

The road beneath the Big Gay Fun Bus is fraught with danger and excitement.

Since my dear sister, Ruby Ridge, decided to move to Australia and commune with the wallabies
and kangaroos (honestly it’s like herding cats), it has fallen upon yours truly to substitute as a
bingo host on the Big Gay Fun Bus to Wendover.

Excited by the possibilities of this new adventure, I donned my best pink frock and pink beehive
hair, put on my pink fuzzy dice earrings, and packed my purse with my Testicle Tester and extra
batteries. I gathered up my make-up kit and a spare muumuu (I’ve always thought that when I
wear them, they should be spelled MooMoo. The bovine reference would be a much better fit
with my “perky” breasticles.) and threw it all into Queertanic, my luxurious royal limousine, and
drove to Club Try-Angles where we could board the Big Gay Fun Bus.

I was overjoyed to see that a group of suitably cute twinks and stunningly massive hunks were
assembled, preparing to board the bus. I thought to myself that this would be more like a
pleasure cruise for me than actually working a bingo hall. As we mingled in the parking lot, I
overheard many excited conversations. “Oh the prospects of such a trip. Will I win fabulous
bingo prizes on the bus? Will I win big money at the casino? Will I get drunk from the Jello
shots? Will I score a hottie in the restroom?”

There arose many squeals of excitement, as we boarded the bus and pulled away from the curb to
begin our escapade.

As a bingo host on a bus, I am required to make many trips to the rear of the bus, to help serve
the Jello shots, pass out bingo cards and collect garbage. I made my inaugural foray down the
aisle to greet the assembled masses and to scout out the cutest boys upon whose laps I could fall
as I pretended to lose my balance.

Sadly, I found that topped with my beehive hair, I was “too statuesque a personality” to be
contained comfortably within the vertical space of the bus. If I stood upright, my hair would
sweep the ceiling of the bus and get caught in the lighting fixtures. I was forced to bend over
and let my prodigious posterior pound from side to side like ping pong from person to person,
producing a passel of patootie pummeled people. Upon the subsequent trips down the aisle, I
found that if I announced that a “prime rump” was passing, many fewer injuries occurred. The
bus suddenly hit a large bump in the road, which sent me nearly “Buns over Boobs” bobbing
down the stairs to stammer a shaky “hello” to a very startled bus driver.

I have discovered the hard way that it is best that I not drink beverages when I’m “working.”
After I have squeezed my ample bodus rotundus into a crinoline and strapped on my breasticles,
the resulting combined mass and girth are much too large to be able to squeeze into a bus restroom, or port-a-potty for that matter. In desperation, I did a little research seeking an exemption
from the laws of physics concerning this delicate matter. I wrote to the famous scientist Neil
Degrasse Tyson and gave him a detailed description of my wardrobe dimensions and body mass
index. He calculated that the combined mass of my booty and breasticles were enough to create
their own gravitational field, strong enough to be able to drag the smaller planets from their
orbits. Oh, the indignity!

As our happy bus approached the desolation of the salt flats, I kept expecting Ronald Reagan to
appear on the television and welcome us to Death Valley Days. On the contrary though, Bingo
was played, prizes were won, Jello shots were consumed, and I was honored when everyone on
the bus observed a moment of silence in respect of all the “work” that had been done at my
unofficial office, the rest area in the middle of the Salt Flats.

After a lovely afternoon of hard drinking and gambling in Wendover, the bus deposited our tired
and drunken butts back at Club Try-Angles. There was much confusion as everyone
disembarked and gathered their belongings. I began to look through my purse for my car keys. I
couldn’t find them. I dumped the contents of the purse out onto the hood of the Queertanic.
Still no keys. I next emptied my two other bags onto the asphalt. Again no keys. I began
to pace around the car, what was I going to do, stuck here at the bar, in drag with no car keys?
On my third trip around Queertanic, which I might add is quite a long distance, I noticed that in
my haste to board the bus, I had left the keys hanging from the keyhole in the trunk for the entire
time we were gone.

I didn’t know whether to count myself lucky that no one had stolen the car,
or disappointed that no one thought it was worth stealing.

As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:

  1. Is Ruby Ridge secretly a koala coddler in a petting zoo?
  2. In order for a car to be considered a limousine, must I have a driver?
  3. Would a Speedo and a sun tan be considered a sufficient limo driver uniform?
  4. Should the bus company hire me to clean the ceilings of their buses?
  5. Should I wear a catheter when I’m “working”?
  6. Is it possible to be-dazzle a catheter?
  7. Could I get rich selling “Fashion Catheters”?
  8. If I ran around Queertanic several times while wearing full my breasticle augmentation,
    would that qualify me for the Iron Man/Queen competition?

These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia
Pap Smear.

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear was born a boy in a Mormon family in a small Idaho town in the year of the cock. No, really, look it up. As is LDS tradition, at a month old her father blessed the little Petunia in the ward house on the first Sunday in June. The very next day, they tore the church house down. Probably for good reason. Little did parents Jack and Orthea know that their little boy would grow up to be a full-fledged, rainbow flag-waving, high heel-wearing, sheep-tending “Ida-Homo.” The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear follows her life from the sheep-tending Boy Scout of her youth to the full-figured and brash queen she is today. Her adventures in the many Queer-Tanic trips, the Salt Lake Men's Choir, the Matrons of Mayhem, and Utah Prides and Lagoon Days have been canonized the past 15 years in a monthly column in QSaltLake Magazine, Utah's publication for the LGBTQ+ community. These tales and her words of wisdom were corralled into a 355-page book that will become the Quint to the Mormon Quad. See it at

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