The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

The tale of the chicken of the sea

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The road to a pain-free back is fraught with danger and excitement.

Those of you who know me, have probably noticed that these last few years I haven’t been walking well due to a bad back. I went to my doctor for the pain, and he dared to tell me that the vertebrae in my lumbar region were strained to the breaking point from the immense pressure exerted from supporting my heroically proportioned “Tuba Luba” tummy.

Oh, the indignity! I guess I should have had a clue that I’m no “Slenderella” because the last time I went shopping for clothing, the clerk sent me to the tent and awning department to find something to fit. How humiliating!

Then the doctor told me that my spinal cord is pinched in at least three places by the density of my sumo-like butterball belly. Oh the mortification! He barely escaped from his life snuffed out by my mammoth matronly mound smothering him when he told me I might need to lose a few pounds. After dodging my pudgy, portly potbelly, he meekly suggested that I might try water-walking in a swimming pool as a less painful exercise.

So, I went to the closest swimming pool and bought a monthly pass from a frightened (the shadow of my colossally corpulent fallen chest cast over her desk, blotted out the sun) attendant. With much trepidation, I entered the locker room remembering horrific days of freshman high school P.E. where the jocks would terrorize all the “regular kids” with snapping towels or worse.

To my great relief, the locker room was empty. I hurriedly put on my swimsuit and crept quickly to the pool. To my dismay, I realized that I wasn’t alone. At first glance, I thought there were a bunch of mermaids in the pool. Upon closer observation, I realized that circling the pool like sharks in a feeding frenzy was a school of sea cows or more politely, manatees of the mountains.” I really don’t have room to talk as I am no “chicken of the sea” either.

In my haste, I nearly slipped and fell into the pool. I might’ve been an unmitigated disaster, as there wasn’t a heavy-lifting gantry crane anywhere to rescue a hapless beached whale. I rushed into the water creating a tidal wave rivaling the surge that took out the nuclear reactor at Fukushima.

Entering the water, I immediately felt relief as my gravitationally gifted Juggalo became buoyant in the marine environment. I discreetly joined in the procession of water walkers traveling in a circle around the island in the pool. All of the bobbing of us various buxom buffet queens circling the pool created a perfect vortex of voluptuous blubber-naughts resulting in a whirlpool of death. I thought we all were acting out a human version of plate tectonics.

It wasn’t until my third trip around the pool that I noticed the lifeguard perched and peering at the swimmers like a vulture stalking its dinner. On my fourth revolution, I observed that said lifeguard was handsome, about 25-ish with spiky blonde hair. On the fifth pass, I saw him parading his rippling thigh muscles, extending from his square-cut Speedo (a glorious garment). I realized I was unconsciously attempting to suck in my “walking cheese wheel.”

During the sixth lap, I tried to further discreetly scrutinize the lifeguard. I happily noticed that his snugly fitting tank-top revealed some washboards worthy of a Chinese laundry. His perfectly tanned and toned arms were perfect for rescuing a floundering chub scout.  I nearly passed out from holding my breath as I passed him to lessen the expansive circumference of my rotundity. I seriously felt tempted to pretend to drown so he would save me with those bulging biceps. Then lay me ever-so-gently on the deck and perform mouth-to-mouth. But I realized he might catch on that it wasn’t an emergency since I was in three feet of water. With each pass, I felt rewarded with another vision of loveliness as I passed the lifeguard tower. I finally lost count of how many laps I traveled around the island.

Finally, it was time to leave. As I exited the water, it was like a tenfold force of gravity swallowed my blubbery breadbasket. I hurried out so that the dreamboat lifeguard would not behold the full extent of my immensitude. In my haste, I nearly slipped and fell on the wet deck, thus almost instigating my rescue fantasy for real.

I shall return!

This story leaves us with several important questions:

  1. Should the doctor give a discount on the copayment when he delivers bad news?
  2. Might my back problems be quickly solved by wearing a titanium reinforced girdle?
  3. Should I engineer some breasticles that float?
  4. If I demonstrated the floating capacity of my breasticles, might the lifeguard ask me to stand in as a dummy in water-rescue training?
  5. If I wore a large caftan cover up to the pool, could I avoid frightening the children?

These and other eternal questions 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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