The road back out of quarantine is fraught with danger and excitement.
As the state of Utah began loosening pandemic restrictions, it was with great excitement and anticipation that the Matrons of Mayhem began to plan our return to drag queen bingo in this, the city of salt. I thought that our first post-quarantine bingo extravaganza should be to resurrect our usual BBQ drag bingo and beer church events at Club Try-Angles. After all, Gene and the Try-Angles staff have been courageously remaining open, at great personal cost, as a resource for our community all through the dark, lonely, and despondent quarantine times.
On the appointed Sunday morning, I awoke extra early and descended into my basement lair to begin to prepare myself. As I sat in front of the mirror and began to draw on my glitter mustache, I realized that it had been 14 months since I have put on the beehive wig and strapped on the breasticles, and I was greatly out of practice, and the damned thing was even more lopsided than usual. Also, during quarantine, not having any reason to leave the house, I have gotten into the slothful habit of sleeping late. Thus, not only did I have to contend with lopsided glitter, but I also had to discover new and imaginative ways to disguise my sleepy eye boogers.
After several hours and many attempts to re-apply, I just gave up, said “Screw it!” and went out to get into Queertanic to drive to Try-Angles. To my horror, as I exited Chateau Pap Smear, I realized that it was a blisteringly hot day. Oh! My! God! I don’t handle heat well, especially when in full queen plumage.
When planning the day, I seriously wondered if anyone would even show up, but as I drove into the Try-Angles parking lot, I was astonished to see a substantial line of people waiting patiently in the hot sun to enter the bar.
The BBQ burgers were just as delicious as I had remembered. I didn’t recall how difficult it is to eat a plate of food while negotiating everything past my breasticles. Out of necessity, I have taken to balancing plates of food on top of the breasticles like a TV tray, thus freeing up both of my hands so that I can shovel food with my right hand while simultaneously fanning myself with the left hand. It’s like having two extra limbs. Vishnu, eat your heart out! The greatest danger in this procedure is when I pick up the burger from the plate, it becomes unbalanced and tends to slide down off the breasticles like a toboggan and land in my lap. My closet contains many a stained caftan as proof.
After my attempts to wipe the fallen food off my dress, it was time to play bingo. I began to introduce the other queens to the audience, and it had been so long that I forgot Adora Belle’s name. Oh, the shame!
I was very tired, sweaty, and semi-melted after spending the hot afternoon playing bingo on the Try-Angles patio. Of course, when the games were finished, I joined the rest of the Matrons to celebrate the success of our return.
Those of you who know me know that I’m not too fond of the taste of most alcohol and that, for me to like an adult beverage, it must be disguised to look and taste similar to a Kool-Aid-flavored slushie.
Well, as you can imagine, when drag queens celebrate, alcohol begins to flow. At the height of the festivities, someone purchased a round of shots. I looked up from sipping my Diet Pepsi and declined the offer, stating that I wouldn’t like it. Of course, Moeisha Montana assured me that it was something fruity that I would like. The Matrons formed a circle around me and began chanting drink, drink, drink. In a pathetic attempt to avoid the response of “Okay Boomer” from that circle of millennial bitches, I downed the entire shot in one gulp. It burned, and burned, and BURNED all the way down. Oh, My, God, it was that damned Rumpelstiltskin drink (Rumplemintz). The rest of the Matrons all guffawed mightily, having been in on the prank. After a good five minutes of gasping for breath, I finally was able to utter, “Damn you, Moeisha! Are you bitches trying to kill me?”
Still choking and snorting, I stood up and turned to snap my fan and glare at Moeisha, but I was astonished to realize that I couldn’t move. Just like Lot’s wife in the Bible, I suddenly became immobile and turned into a pillar of salt. It turns out that a river of salty sweat flowing down from my breasticles in the heat of the afternoon had pooled and congealed, forming a substantial crust on my caftan, rendering me immobile. Eventually, Contasia VonClappe took pity on me and struck the crystallized salt with a tire iron, and just like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz, I was able to move again. That was my cue to exit, stage left.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Shall I develop a line of makeup to cover eye boogers and call it Petunia’s Booger-Be-Gone?
- Would people buy breasticle TV trays?
- Instead of helping me be able to move, should the Matrons have just trucked my immobile ass out to the Bonneville Salt Flats like a statue and parked me by the Tree of Utah sculpture?
- Could I harvest the crust of salt from my Caftan?
- Would the State of Utah buy the salt to use in the winter to de-ice the roads?
- Can I send Moeisha Montana to Hell for trying to kill me?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.