The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

The tale of a wig over troubled waters

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The road to Club Try-Angles Underwear Night is fraught with danger and excitement.

The third Saturday of each month is the highlight of my social calendar. I spend days and weeks carefully planning what to wear to such an auspicious event. Many logistical and technical difficulties must be taken into consideration. For instance, in order for me to be able to perform beefcake-quality inspections, my sleeves and jewelry must not impede the smooth and efficient withdrawal and usage of the testicle tester.  And I have discovered that it’s important to have sufficient full-frontal wattage in my breasticles so as to give this lecherous old queen good illumination on the studly packages being inspected.

One Saturday morning, I was excitedly puttering around the house, testing batteries and lining up glitter in anxious anticipation when my work suddenly called and assigned me to make a delivery to far-flung Beowawee. Nevada. I hurriedly calculated that if I coordinated everything perfectly, and did not make any unnecessary stops along the way, I could stash my club-wear ensemble at work, fulfill the requirements to retain my employment, get dressed for success in the restroom at work, and still make it in time for my monthly quota of debauchery.

My plan was working like clockwork. I had successfully made my delivery and I was speeding back across the Salt Flats toward my glittery plan. Just as I was passing a rest area in the middle of the Salt Flats, I was beginning to feel the need to “Drop A Biscuit In The Basket,” as it were, but in my haste to make it to the party on time, I decided to hold it until I got to work. With each advancing mile, the urgency of “Backing The Big Brown Motorhome Out Of The Garage” became more and more pronounced. Still confident in my ability to resist the pressure to “Clear Out Some Inventory,” I sped onward.  As I passed the Grantsville exit, I increased my speed when I experienced a nauseating urge to “Pave The Hershey Highway.” Perspiration began to bead on my forehead. With a little wiggling in my seat, I was able to keep going. Finally, I arrived at work. I was relieved to find myself alone and that I could get dressed for the party in peace and solitude.  With the speed of a BYU coed chasing an engagement ring hidden in a twinkie, I grabbed my makeup, breasticles and crinoline and raced into the restroom.

Greatly relieved after “Committing Myself To The Dumpatorium,” but still pressed for time, I distractedly flushed and quickly proceeded to apply a pound of glitter to my upper lip.  As I was placing a battery pack inside my left boob, I distractedly glanced over at the toilet, and to my dismay “My Poop Was Playing Peek-A-Boo” with me out of the “Porcelain Throne.” Annoyed, I reached over and flushed again while continuing to strap batteries to my bra. I glanced over at the toilet to check the progression of the flush and to say “A Final Goodbye to Mr. Brown” when to my horror, several things happened in quick succession. The apparently larger than normal “Lincoln Log” had lodged itself firmly in the drain, not allowing the water to flow, the water had reached the top of the bowl and had begun to overflow onto the floor and was quickly nearing my best beehive wig. Panic-stricken that I would get my stocking feet wet, thus exposing me to the very distinct possibility of electrocution from my now electrified Breasticle, I grabbed my hair and retreated to the hallway.

I contemplated just walking away and leaving “The Sewer Pickle” and resulting flood for someone else to deal with, but then I realized that a quick glance at the work schedule anyone could easily identify who had been in the building and caused the mess. So there I was, with sweat beginning to run into my glitter mustache, in my panties and bra, with one blinking Breasticle, and wearing one shoe, running around work searching for a plunger to say “A Final Goodbye to Mr. Brown.” After much searching and many swear words, I determined that there was no plunger to be had. I determined I needed to find some tool with which I could break up the “Big Brown Submarine” and send it to join the rest of the “Pioneer Poop,” lying at the bottom of the Great Salt Lake. While running around the garage at work, still in my panties and bra, in rapid succession I contemplated using a broom handle, a windshield scraper, a ruler, and a squeegee but then I recoiled at the thought of anyone using them ever again.

Finally I came upon a plastic picnic knife, while less than perfect, at least it could be disposed of. Holding the very tip of the handle with one hand and my blinking boob in the other, I reached into the water and after several adept slicing motions, waged a successful  “Battle with Turdzilla,” dissecting it down to size. After scouring my hands like a surgeon, I finished getting dressed and made it to the party.

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

1.              Is “Officer, I had to, I had to go Boom Boom” a sufficient excuse to avoid a speeding ticket?
2.              If I sanitized the tool, would I need to feel guilty when someone else used it later?
3.              Should I develop a “Sani-Flush” scented perfume?
4.              Does this mean that I am truly a size-queen of all things?
5.              Does Lee Press On Nails sell a poop resistant fingernail?

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

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear is a Matron of Mayhem who was born and raised in Cache Valley, Utah. She hosts Third Friday Bingo and the Big Gay Fun Bus.

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