The road to Disneyland is fraught with danger and excitement.
Please allow me to continue telling you about my trip to Disneyland with the Salt Lake Men’s Choir which I began last month.
For those of you who know me, you know that I have very bad back pain and cannot stand long or walk far when I’m not wearing a titanium-reinforced corset. Now, since I’m a significantly “gravity enhanced” queen, the corset, while accentuating my breasticles nicely, tends to make it so I can’t breathe, so I pass out.
Consequently, wearing it while riding the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad might be problematic. Foreseeing that all the Disney Princes plus the Seven Dwarfs together would not be able to lift an unconscious sumo-sized buffet queen out of the train, I rented a mobility scooter for the weekend so I could get around and keep up with the rest of the choir boys. I was cautioned by the scooter people not to overload the machine, therefore since I am taller lying down than standing up, it was necessary for me to order a “heavy-duty” scooter. Oh, the shame!
When we arrived at the hotel, a scooter was waiting for me. I hopped on and quickly sped around the hotel parking lot three times to get a feel for how to drive the thing. Then I headed back into the lobby and to the elevator to go up to my room so as to change from my traveling frock into a princess dress fit to meet Cinderella. Unthinkingly, I left the scooter in high gear and crashed into the back of the elevator. I tried to make a three-point turn, and after several more crashes I ended up wedging myself ever so tightly between the scooter and the door, leaving a massive lipstick smear on the door as it slid open.
Once I pried myself from the lift, I signed into my GPS and learned that the Disney entrance was in reality, 1.3 miles from the hotel. Good thing I had planned on the scooter. Because the scooter was a “heavy-duty” model, it looked ever so much like a tow-truck, very practical and functional, but it totally failed the style vs. substance test. Miss Vida Boheme would be ever so displeased.
Therefore, I set to work with some duct tape (every queen worth her tiara should always carry a roll of the magical stuff in her purse) and affixed my brightest pair of flashing breasticles to the front of the scooter, and draped a stylish feather boa around the handlebars. I quickly put on my opera length driving gloves, made sure my beehive hair was sufficiently cemented down with Aqua-Net, and we were off.
In the hotel lobby, as I was trying to catch up to fellow Matron of Mayhem Liberty Belle, I accidentally ran her over. She ended up with her face wedged firmly between the breasticles on the front of the scooter as if she were “motorboating” them. The rest of the choir boys, seeing disaster in the making, quickly jumped into action to rescue Ms. Belle. Fortuitously, I had my purse with me. I withdrew a crowbar and Vaseline (that I use to wedge myself into the corset and remove myself from elevators) from my bag. We used them to grease Liberty up and safely pry her from between my nipples.
This situation certainly would not do. I decided to make some modifications to my ride. I removed one breasticle, therefore the remaining single breasticle could function as an old-fashioned cowcatcher to deflect any children and or princesses from inhibiting my forward movement. One of the choir boys remarked that with my beehive hair sticking up like a smokestack, in silhouette, I strongly resembled a steam locomotive.
We all set off down the sidewalk toward the main gate. On the scooter, I was easily able to outpace the rest of the choir boys and leave them in the dust. I began racing with choir director Dennis McCracken, who also had a scooter. I sped over a bump in the pavement and the resulting jolt dislodged an “air biscuit” from my buttockus rotundus causing me to momentarily speed even faster as if the scooter were jumping into hyperspace. Oh, I am ready for Space Mountain!
After a full day of scooting all around Tomorrowland and Fantasyland, we were returning the 1.3 miles to the hotel and the battery pack on my scooter gave out. I was left, stranded, motionless, unable to progress. Luckily for me, Dennis came along on his scooter and I asked him to give me a push. It worked for about a block, then his battery started to give out because of the added strain. By then Liberty Belle and the rest of the choir boys had caught up to us. They ended up pushing Dennis who kept pushing me, in a big line down the street. Just like a train. Reflexively, I began a queenly parade wave to curious onlookers as if this was all planned.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- While Liberty Belle was trapped with her face in my breasticles, I became moist. Was that from nervous sweating, or were my mammary glands getting all maternal at the proximity to a mouth?
- Should I develop a line of bedazzled crowbars?
- Was my “air biscuit” the source of the Santa Ana winds that fanned the recent wildfires in California?
- When I rode Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, was the crashing sound we heard a recording of thunder or the cracking of the track beneath my significant butticus rotundus?
- Since I resembled a steam locomotive, would anyone notice if I replaced the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad?
- Should I begin greeting people by saying Choo Choo?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.