The road to Covid-19 immunity is fraught with danger and excitement.
It was a dark, stormy night. I was safely ensconced in the basement of Chateau Pap Smear, listening to the windows rattling from the force of the frigid wind, desperately continuing my several-week-long search online for the availability of a Covid vaccination. Luckily, I had many experiences doing Internet searches for sequins, caftans, and wigs, so searching for “vaccine” was not a stretch for me.
Sadly, I was disappointed at every turn; either being unqualified or absolutely non-vaccine availability. My God, it was worse than trying to score a personal cache of shimmering eye shadow during an Estee Lauder fall clearance sale. It’s not like I could make a simple and inexpensive substitute for the vaccine, such as substituting glitter and Gorilla Glue for glimmering eye shadow.
Fortuitously I happened to have the television on, broadcasting a news story probing a certain company in possession of a large quantity of public vaccination. I knew then that time was essential.
I hadn’t a moment to adjust my bra strap – which by the way – painfully pinched my breasticles regions.
Immediately, my glittery eyebrows furrowed as my freshly painted fingernails swiftly dribbling the computer keys alike snagging dollar bills off the stage of a drag show.
I opened the website with trepidation, fearing I would not again qualify; yet, low-and-behold, they counted obesity as a pre-existing condition. Viola! I was in.
Who knew that being a substantially gravity-enhanced queen would ever work to my advantage?
I immediately registered for both myself and Mr. Pap Smear. Upon hitting the send key, a message popped up stating that I would shortly receive an e-mail telling me if I qualified and giving me a secret code with which I could schedule an appointment.
At the crack of the following morning, I checked my e-mail. A positive reply had come to Mr. Pap Smear, but alas, there was not one for me. Damn it! Yet, looking on the bright side, one is better than none.
So, I booked his appointment, clear out in South Jordan. I had to shorten my usual daily public preparations from four hours to a pitiful 30 minutes. Oh, what sacrifices we must make in these desperate times!
So, in a rough-around-the-edges and not-quite-ready-for-prime-time-appearance, we jumped into Queertanic. Hastily, I became confused and programmed Jordan Commons into the GPS, and off we sped. Alas, we were miles from the appointed destination. So, I cranked the steering wheel to make an emergency U-turn.
Amid a cacophony of honking horns, Queertanic swerved and jumped the median. My spiked heel nearly punched a hole in the floorboard as I stomped on the gas pedal.
We arrived, parked, hurried into the building. When we approached the check-in table, we were greeted by a most adorable specimen of the male variety wearing, of all things, a bright orange safety vest that tended to highlight his swarthy olive complexion.
Out of habit, I immediately glanced at his ring finger to see if he was available. AND HE WAS!
I hurriedly pushed Mr. Pap Smear through the turnstile and went into a serious business of flirting with Mr. Orange Vest. Folk stories claim being asked by the staff if they want a shot, they were let in. It quickly became an urban legend. As I batted my eyelashes and giving my best “come hither look”, he did not extend an invitation.
After the fifteen-minute waiting period, we were excused. We decided to celebrate his vaccination by eating Malibu Chicken at a Sizzler next door. Shortly later, Mr. Pap Smear went off to work. So, I swiftly plugged into the computer to sort through some porn — low and behold there in my in-box was MY e-mail invitation. I gasped out in frustrated exasperation. Apparently, it was time to RINSE AND REPEAT!
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Would sorting through all the porn on the Internet qualify me for a computer science degree?
- How long does it take Gorilla Glue to wear off?
- Did the orange-vest guy have regulation issuing me an invitation, or was he frightened by my blinking lighted breasticles?
- Should I have at least asked Mr. Orange Vest for his number?
- Should Malibu Chicken become the vaccination celebration food?
- Should I spell “I’m Vaxed” in lights on my breasticles?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
