The road to camping with bears is fraught with danger and excitement.
Last month I had the opportunity to go into the mountains of Idaho and conduct bingo at a camp with some bears (the human kind).
It’s no secret that I am a high-maintenance queen. If you have ever gone camping with me or even witnessed me prepare for a trip into the mountains, you will undoubtedly know that I do not travel lightly. I require all comforts of home wherever I go, including a kitchen sink, queen-size bed, and a spacious tent-a-minium capable of sleeping ten full-sized adults (but for me alone). Not to mention at least 17 caftans, complete with six different beehive wigs and matching breasticles. Thus, it would normally take at least three heavily loaded trips in Queertanic, my beloved 1975 Buick Electra 225 land yacht, to make any foray into the wilderness tolerable. All of this hauling eventually became a prohibitive logistical nightmare.
Thus, a few years ago, I regrettably was forced to retire my precious Buick and switch to a minivan. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Rumors that due to my aging knees no longer being able to hoist my ever-increasing buttockus maximus from the low-riding comfort of the Buick have been greatly exaggerated! NOT!)
Thusly, the current edition of Queertanic is a minivan, capable of containing both breasticles and wigs at the same time.
Back to our story. Even when I’m only going up into the mountains for just one evening, it’s still a major operation to move me and my hair. I loaded up Queertanic to the brim with all the necessary accouterments I would need to experience a sunset in the hills and headed north to Idaho, the land of my origins.
Much like my spirit sister, Godzilla, returning to menace Tokyo, I arrived at the campground. Upon hoisting my fat-icus ass-icus out of Queertanic, and barely squeezing between two mountains, I began inadvertently stomping on things. I happened upon a tent from which came many happy and amorous sounds of a couple of bear cubs enjoying an “afternoon delight.” There was much squealing and shrieking. Accidentally, I stumbled over some ropes that were supporting the tent poles, and the tent fell on them. Suddenly the squealing turned into much consternation and swearing. I quickly ran away before they could emerge from the mess and identify who dun it. When I later saw them, I said that I saw a moose stumble through the camp and hit their tent.
In my haste to escape the collapsed tent and the confused and angry bears inside, I ran smack into a lovely hammock swinging gently in the shade of a willow tree filled with a hunky bear cub enjoying an afternoon siesta. I landed smack on top of him, with my left breasticle poking him right in the family jewels. Again, I fled in panic, stomping all the way as he groaned in pain, gasping for air. I’m sure that several endangered species of plants and small animals, not to mention bears, came much closer to extinction that day.
Finally, I made it to the dining tent. I had arrived just in time for dinner. Voila, timing is everything! I settled down to eat a scrumptious meal, resting my plate on my breasticles, thereby shortening the distance between plate and mouth for expedited feasting. Despite the close proximity to my gaping hole, I managed to spill some sauce on my breasticle. Is anyone surprised?
Time for bingo. Since we were in the mountains and there were no muggles about, I determined that we should spice up the bingo party fouls by having the bears remove one article of clothing for each foul. Of course, I kept fouling the cutest boys. Before long, several were au natural. There was one particular boy whom I repeatedly targeted, who finally ended up stark naked. I turned to face the rest of the audience to call the next game, and suddenly his underwear came flying at me and hit me square in the face, and then dropped down. I wanted to hold up the underwear and make an example to the audience, so I looked at the ground around my feet to find the underwear and pick them up. I could not see them. I’m looking all over. How could they have just disappeared?
Finally, one of the guys pointed out that they were hanging from my right breasticle. Holy crap! They were too close for me to even see. Just then, out of the blue, another pair of undies hit me right in the nose. It seemed to be raining men, well at least men’s undies. I gave them each a very swift perusal to check for any latent skid marks. I thought I noticed one, but upon closer inspection, it was just some of my eyeliner that had rubbed off onto them. I gave each pair a good sniff and then draped them on each of my breasticles while I played with my balls. Er, I mean called the next bingo game. It appeared as if I was a clothesline at a boy scout summer camp.
Eventually, bingo was over, and they sent me home. No bears were seriously harmed.
Like always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:
- Does the next Queertanic need to be a Winnebago?
- For the safety of everyone, should I install caution beepers in my breasticles to warn of my approach?
- Can I play Godzilla in the next movie?
- Should the movie be called Papzilla?
- Would I stomp on beautiful downtown Magna?
- Should strip bingo become a regular thing?
- Will Idaho name a mountain range after my breasticles?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.