The Tale of Powerball
The road to Idaho is fraught with danger and excitement.
Recently, the lottery jackpot got up to more than one billion dollars. The prospect of winning a billion dollars was just too much for this old queen to resist. After all, Mama needs a new tiara! And some new glasses, and sequin caftans, and rhinestone studded breasticles, and, and, and… A billion bucks would almost cover my wardrobe needs. A quick trip to Idaho seemed in order.
So, I squeezed into my finest driving caftan, (made from polyester so it won’t wrinkle from the seat belt), and a matching travel-worthy beehive wig, (sprayed with three cans of Aqua Net so that the structural integrity of the hive was stronger than the titanium hull of the USS Enterprise), thus able to withstand a tornado. Then I threw on some stylish matching opera-length driving gloves, jumped in Queertanic VI, a silver minivan, tuned the radio to the disco station, and hit the road northward. I was motoring past Lagoon and singing along to Dancing Queen when I was very rudely interrupted by that screeching emergency alert signal followed by a message that there was an approaching severe winter storm with high winds and blowing snow, and extreme caution was advised.
Since I had just put new snow tires on Queertanic, I felt confident that she could weather any storm. So, I turned down the volume of the obnoxious announcement and began singing to the tune of the Mormon hymn, Let Us All Press On, as I drove onward.
“Let the queen press on in the quest for the horde,
That when the number is drawn, she may gain the reward.
In the quest for riches, she drove through the snow,
The lottery on her bestow.
Fear not, though the weatherman deride,
Courage, for Queertanic’s on her side,
She will heed not what the weatherman may say,
But the Powerball alone she will obey. She will obey.”
As I ventured closer to the Idaho border, there arose a fierce headwind. The road began to be slick. The blowing snow was making it more difficult to see than if my mascara had clumped and glued my eyelids shut. However, Queertanic, wearing her new snow tires, was surefooted, steadfast, and true. I arrived in Malad. As I exited Queertanic, the wind and snow gave me such a blow job that my beehive wig fell over sideways onto my shoulder, and I slipped on the icy pavement nearly turfing it. I quickly scuttled inside to buy my lottery ticket and, of course, the requisite king-size Snickers bar and a one-pound bag of M&M’s, because after all, there is not a buffet in Malad, and it’s a long way home.
I was only inside for perhaps 15 minutes, but when I came out, the wind was howling and Queertanic was covered in a solid sheet of ice. I raced to open the car door but, alas, it was frozen shut and my fingers froze to the door handle. Not as bad as Flick’s tongue was, frozen to the flagpole in “A Christmas Story,” but enough to cause some distress. Damn it. I lost 3 Lee Press-On Nails trying to free my hand. I tried the back door. No luck. Panicking a bit now, I tried the passenger side doors. Same. Then out of desperation, I tried the tailgate door on the minivan held hostage by Mr. Freeze. I was so relieved when it opened.
Miss Manners’ etiquette book had not prepared me for such a situation, but luckily, my Boy Scout mountaineering merit badge training filled the void. So, I hiked up my skirt and began climbing into the back of Queertanic as if I were making an ascent of Mount Everest. My foot slipped on the ice as I was placing my knee in the car, but luckily, my right breasticle caught on the back of the seat, much like a penguin’s beak then they fall forward, thus saving me from falling to the frozen ground. I reached around and closed the tailgate behind my sizable, but frozen, buttockus maximus. Then, while climbing over the seats, my left breasticle became entangled in the seat belt.
Finally, after much contorting worthy of a professional yoga swami and many swear words, I was able to squeeze into the driver’s seat and start the engine. I heaved a great sigh of relief. I tried opening the door from within. No dice. I was trapped inside. So, after running the heater on high for about ten minutes, the ice on the windshield melted enough to be able to see. However, the heat was so intense that it also melted the snow that had blown into my wig. The water melted the hairspray enough that my hair lost its structural integrity and drooped down in front of my face, thus obscuring my vision. Huge drips of sticky wet hairspray flowed out of the wig and down on the steering wheel, making it a sticky nightmare. And the final indignity, my mascara ran leaving dark black zebra stripes down my cheeks. Oh, the shame. Happily, I did not see anyone that I knew. I began the trip home. As I got on the freeway, the open-door alarm began to ring. Fuck it!!! And I drove on.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Should I exchange the studs on Queertanic’s snow tires with rhinestones?
- Should I begin carrying mountaineering equipment in my purse?
- Could I attach an ice pick onto one of my breasticles?
- How could I make it look attractive?
- How difficult would it be to install a radiant heater capable of melting ice in the other breasticle?
- How do I go about getting the store in Malad to erase their security camera footage of this event?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear