The road to Downton Abbey is fraught with danger and excitement.
I am totally enamored with the character of Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham. I feel as if I am watching my twin sister in every little nod of her snobbish chin, and each deft and deadly utterance from her critical tongue. She totally had me eating out of the palm of her hand when she said, “I do think a woman’s place is eventually in the home, but I see no harm in her having some fun before she gets there.”
With her name being Violet, there is the very remote off-chance that she is genealogically linked to me through the Bloom family from which I descend. I must write to my sisters Hyacinth, Violet, Rose and Daisy to confirm if there is indeed a connection. I see no reason whatsoever why I should not have a royal title, and convert my humble Chateau Pap Smear, into a Stately Manor House worthy of my lofty ambitions.
Last month I took some time off from my never-ending quest to categorize and sort all the gay porn on the internet to help host The Big Gay Fun Bus to Wendover. I was killing time at the bar of the Rainbow Casino with fellow queen Cherri Bombb, as we are wont to do. She and I were trying on different royal and noble titles to see how they rolled off the tongue. I thought of the wisdom of the Dowager Duchess when she said, “Nothing succeeds like excess.” Well, I thought, excess is my middle name and I should have any damn title that sounds good. I expressed a desire to be known as “Her Royal Highness Petunia Pap Smear Queen of Utah.”
Cherri seemed to think that the members of the Royal Court of the Golden Spike Empire might take offense of my usurping such a lofty title. I countered with the argument that Queen is not an imperial title, thus it should be okay. Cherri went on to pontificate that no matter what title I should ever choose, there would be countless minions of jealous detractors who would scoff at such lofty aspirations. I straightaway quoted the Dowager Duchess, “All life is a series of problems which we must try and solve.”
Cherri didn’t think I should be quite so full of myself and I should lower my ambitions somewhat. Then I suggested “The Most Noble Petunia Pap Smear, Dowager Duchess of Deseret.” Cherri then pointed out that in order to be a dowager, I needed to be a widow. So, I quoted to her the famous words from Delores Clayborne: “Husbands die every day, Dolores. Why… one is probably dying right now while you’re sitting here weeping. They die… and leave their wives their money. I should know, shouldn’t I? Sometimes they’re driving home from their mistress’s apartment and their brakes suddenly fail. An accident, Dolores, can be an unhappy woman’s best friend.”
But then I thought about the long 24 years that Mr. Pap Smear and I had waited before we could be the 153rd couple in line at the Salt Lake County Court House to get that legal marriage license and decided that I probably ought not to bump him off just for a title. Besides, he’s a pretty good cook.
I then parleyed the title of “The Right Honorable Petunia Pap Smear, Countess of Wasatch” for her consideration. “No good!” She exclaimed. “Before long little children and bitchy queens jealous of your beehive hair would undoubtedly change it to ‘The Wrong Deplorable Cunt Ass of Sasquatch.’” With that distasteful moniker dangling in the air like a fart in church, I delved into the mind of the Dowager Countess of Grantham for further inspiration. Her words “Are you here to help or irritate?” immediately came to mind and I addressed Cherri thusly. At that point I proposed “The Right Honorable Baroness of Bridgerland” as a possible replacement; to which Cherri countered “Her Heftiness, The Barnacle of Bulkitude” and I was just about ready to surrender.
As a final straw, I summoned up the Dowager’s words again, “In my experience, second thoughts are vastly over rated.” Come hell or high water, I was going to get a title befitting my immense presence. How about “The Most Honorable Petunia Pap Smear, Marquesa’ de Mayhem?” My blinking breasticles almost burst with joy and happiness. That mellifluous title sounded almost musical as it flowed effortlessly from my lips. A difference of opinion gushed speedily and forcefully form Cherri’s lips, “The Most Hippoglottamus Mayonnaise of Magna.” Oh how horrible, especially because Chateau Pap Smear is exclusively a Miracle Whip household. I just could never tolerate that. Just then I remembered a final glimmer of inspiration from the Dowager, “Don’t be defeatist dear, it’s very middle class.”
I looked up the ranks of hereditary peerage at the bottom of the line of succession. As a last ditch effort I proposed, “Her Ladyship of the Privy Chamber”; to which Cherri countered, “Slopper of the Chamber Pot.” Alas, I shall have to be content to be addressed as “Her Bloated-ness Buffet Queen.”
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions.
- If I possessed my own personal set of Royal Dalton china with hand-painted periwinkles, would I be so envious of royal titles?
- Will a collection of FTD florist rainbow mugs from the ’70s count just as much as Royal Dalton?
- Does the ownership of 24 sets of electrified breasticles make me eligible to qualify as part of the landed gentry?
- If my title was Dowager Dutchess of Deseret, would detractors change it to Doddering Bitch Ass of the Desert?
- Is Cherri Bombb just a heartless bitch?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.