The tale of a homo on the range
The road to Wyoming is fraught with danger and excitement.
Once upon a time, many, many bingos ago, I had occasion to deliver a small package to a soda ash mine in Wyoming, way off the beaten path in the middle of nowhere.
Because this was just going to be a quick there-and-back day trip, I loaded up Queertanic with the barest of necessities; five gallons of Diet Mountain Dew, 12 ham sandwiches, seven pounds of M&Ms, and three pounds of glitter, along with seven caftans and three beehive wigs, and hit the road.
As Queertanic entered Wyoming, I was greeted by a forlorn-looking billboard in a field of scrubby sagebrush stating, “Welcome to Big Wonderful Wyoming.” Not an impressive beginning, but hope springs eternal. I began singing “Home on the Range” and searching the horizon for buffalo, antelope, and deer.
After several hours of driving through the empty scrubland, barely passing any other vehicles, I came upon the turnoff to the mine and was greeted by a sign saying, “SHAFT #5, Tight Hole, No entry without permission, Men working.” Startled by the message on the sign, I slammed on the brakes, Queertanic’s wheels locked up, and skidded to a stop in the gravel. Shafts and tight holes! What self-respecting drag queen wouldn’t get just a little bit excited about the prospects of what may lie ahead? I immediately began to make plans for my “home on the range.”
I paused, looked in the mirror, and made sure my mascara wasn’t clumping and that my hair was on straight so that I could present my best self at the shaft entrance. I walked up to the door, with the ever-present wind blowing my skirt up around my breasticles. I couldn’t hold the skirt down because my hands were busy gripping my hair so that it would stay atop my head. Trembling with anticipation of meeting up with a hunky miner, I rang the bell. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, but probably only two minutes, the door began to slide open. I put on my biggest smile in anticipation of meeting a knight in shining armor. The door fully opened, and I was able to meet my would-be future paramour. My hopes and dreams were suddenly dashed upon the dusty gravel when a dirty little old dwarf of a gentleman who could best be described as Gimly from Lord of the Rings, stood there and grabbed the package from my hands and sent me, crestfallen, on my way.
Dejectedly, I climbed back into Queertanic and began the journey home. Just as I was on the outskirts of Kemmerer, a huge antelope bounded out of the sagebrush directly in front of Queertanic. I shrieked. I’m sure dogs in Evanston a hundred miles away heard me. I didn’t even have time to react and hit the brakes. BOOM! The beast crashed into the hood of Queertanic. The airbag deployed, violently punching my breasticles into my chest, so much so that it knocked the wind out of me.
I was able to bring the car to a stop. Wheezing and disorientated, I got out to survey the damage. The hood was crunched, and oil and antifreeze were gushing everywhere. The antelope was nowhere to be found. Apparently, the creature went off to roam with the buffalo and play with the deer. I looked around for help. I could see a Chevron station a couple of hundred yards down the hill, so I got back in the car and coasted down the hill, and pulled into the parking lot right behind a Wyoming police cruiser.
The officer got out of his car and approached my severely damaged and leaking Queertanic. He was gorgeous and was wearing a very well-fitting uniform! HUBBA HUBBA! Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath. I’m not sure if it was still the effects of the airbag deployment or his stunningly handsome magnificence that took my breath away. He strode up to my window and asked me what happened. In my best “damsel in distress’ fashion, I recounted the harrowing incident. Officer Studly told me there was a repair shop further down the hill. So, I coasted the severely damaged Queertanic another 300 yards downhill to the shop with the officer following behind me.
By this time, it was evening, and the repair shop was closed. So, I just parked Queertanic by the door, and Officer Studly said that he would help me locate a hotel room for the night. He called every hotel in town. No vacancy! So, then he invited me to ride in his patrol car and drove me to the Best Western hotel. The manager graciously allowed me to wait in their lobby until the long-suffering Mr. Pap Smear could come and rescue me.
As per usual, my husband did not have his phone ringer turned on, so he did not get the message until the next morning. So, I spent all night watching TV in the lobby. At least the couch was comfy. Come morning time, the hotel served breakfast to their customers. I was starving. I pretended to be a hotel guest and snuck in line for a plate of biscuits and gravy. Salvation! After arriving home and getting in the shower, I discovered two painful breasticle-shaped purple bruises on my chest to remember the experience by.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Should I install drilling equipment into my breasticles for future tight holes?
- Should I have asked to examine shafts 1 thru 4?
- Do I need airbags in my breasticles?
- Should I get a purple bra to match the bruises?
- How much jail time is standard for a starving queen stealing breakfast?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of “The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.”