The road to choir practice is fraught with danger and excitement.
I will let you in on a little secret. I am a size queen. Now before your imaginations run rampantly into the gutter, let me clarify, I am primarily a size queen about cars. Queertanic I, was a 1975 powder blue Buick Electra 225, the largest production vehicle General Motors ever produced. Oh the luxury. Queertanic II was a 1990 Buick Roadmaster—oh the mechanical difficulties. Queertanic III was a 1992 Cadillac Sedan Deville. And Queertanic IV was a 1996 Cadillac Sedan Deville, gold package. I love living large.
Now keep in mind the sheer mass of Queertanic is sufficient enough to affect the tides. When you add my Buttocks Abundass, Circumferencially Gifted Tummy, Size O-75 Breasticles and Beehive Hair, the combined gravitational mass is enough to pull Uranus out of orbit. The only real drawback driving Queertanic’s mobile luxury is that it’s nearly impossible to park within a quarter mile of any intended destination—oh and the price of gas. I practically have to take out a new mortgage every time I fill her up.
Two weeks ago, I was on my way to the Salt Lake Men’s Choir dress rehearsal, at which I was to put in a short guest appearance as Glinda, the Good Witch. (I know, this was a real casting stretch, but just deal with it!) So my best princess dress, beehive hair and ruby slippers were all safely ensconced in Queertanic’s capacious trunk. I was all a quiver with anticipation. I had just negotiated Queertanic across State Street, and I thought to myself, that most likely this will be the busiest and most dangerous intersection I will undergo. So, as I picked up speed to about 15 mph, I let down my guard just a little and reached to change the radio station from that abominable wind bag, Rush Limbaugh. I successfully changed the station and the song “Sex Bomb” boomed through all eight stereophonic speakers.
Queertanic must have noticed her biological clock ticking, feeling the need to produce a Corvette or something, because as my eyes raised up from the radio, I was just in time to notice that Queertanic was going to try, in the finest farm animal fashion, to mount a Dodge Dakota that was standing stock still directly in front of us, in the left turn lane, seductively winking an eye at us. I had failed in my education of Queertanic because she obviously didn’t understand that an interspecies union of a Cadillac and a Dodge could produce nothing better than a broke-down Gremlin.
There was not enough time to apply the brakes to slow down the inertia of the “planetary mass” of the impending penetration, let alone spread enough lube to ease the entrance. Queertanic must have built up 18 years worth of sexual frustration, because I could swear there was a “Premature Airbag Deployment” at the first sniff of his tailpipe. It was as if I were watching a massive orgy in slow motion as I viewed Queertanic’s windshield being blown outward by the airbags, the Dakota lurching forward, thereby entering a Chevy truck, which in turn made a successful bump and grind with a Toyota 4 Runner.
In true post coital tradition, Queertanic went to sleep, but not before ejaculating copious amounts of battery acid all over the street, and announcing to the world her triumphant conquest as the four-part harmony of her quad horns rang out for over an hour.
Dazed and confused, I climbed out of the car and quickly checked the three other drivers to see if they were injured. Thank the Queen Mother Above, there was no blood, otherwise I’m pretty sure I would have passed out. My only injury was a burn and bruise from the airbag hitting the arm that was reaching for the radio. I called 911, and then I directed the rush-hour traffic around the hulking, steaming, honking mass in the middle of the road. The traditional “Queen’s Parade Wave” was surprisingly effective for this.
I called Mr. Pap Smear and told him to leave work and come immediately. I have always had a recurring nightmare that I would be involved in an accident, where the police were involved, while in full costume and regalia. This was coming very close to such a nightmare. As I was directing traffic, I nervously pondered how I was going to get the princess gown and hair out of the trunk before the police arrived and still make it to dress rehearsal. Fortunately, Mr. Pap Smear arrived, and we were able to surreptitiously transfer my precious cargo to his car before the police arrived.
As the very handsome police officer (I have a thing for a man in uniform) approached me, before he could say anything, or I could even swoon into his arms, I called out, “It was all my fault!” Well, of course I got a ticket. I was on the rear end of a four-car pileup.
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
1. If I keep drawing Uranus toward me, does that mean I’m a top?
2. The guy driving the Chevy was cute. Should this become my new tactic to meet guys?
3. Could I sue Rush Limbaugh for being the cause of the accident?
4. The officer only cited me for “faulty lookout.” Do you think he let me off easy?
5. Should I teach courses in “The Queen’s Parade Wave” to the police academy’s traffic-control classes?
6. Since I was on the back end of four, does that make me a Power Bottom … or Top?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.