The road to our nation’s capital is fraught with danger and excitement.
On my recent trip to Washington, I had lofty ambitions of visiting the United States Capitol Building, paying some selected Congress members a visit, and giving them a stern “performance review.”
On the appointed day, I donned my tallest beehive wig, a blindingly brilliant rainbow sequin caftan, my sharpest pair of “say something” breasticles, and my most stern schoolmarm looking glasses, to complete the look of authority I wished to portray. I deftly mounted my mobility scooter, Mini-Queertanic, just like Almira Gulch mounted her bicycle in “The Wizard of Oz.” However, unlike Miss Gulch, I elected not to ride a twister to the capitol but made my way via the subway to Capitol Hill.
This mode of transportation was much more convenient but did lack a certain amount of perilous panache, as I would not be able to drop a house on selected members of Congress, which turned out just as well because there was no possible way for me to have been able to transport a large enough house to be able to cover all the MAGAs in one fell swoop.
Upon arriving at the capitol grounds, I made my way through the new visitor’s center, which is now the official route the public must follow to access the building. Since I did not have an appointment to meet any specific member of Congress, it was necessary for me to join one of the public tours in order to obtain entrance into the inner sanctum of democracy.
It quickly became fairly evident to me that I was just one very small sheep in the gigantic herd of people that was trying to tour the seat of government. The mass of humanity was funneled through a narrow passage and separated into smaller groups, (much like sheep being sorted for slaughter), and assigned to a tour guide. I was ever-so-pleased when my designated chaperone turned out to be a rather tanned and toned thirty-something stud sporting a very smart fitting tour guide blazer with a name tag that read Biff. I was very happy to follow him anywhere he led me.
Firstly, he took us to the basement area — to the crypt. I almost got lost trying to navigate the elevator on Mini-Queertanic while the rest of my group took the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I could swear that I saw Kevin McCarthy lurking behind the pillars, acting ever-so-much the part of the crypt keeper from “Tales of the Crypt.”
The next stop on the tour was the rotunda. It was big and beautiful. The dome was so tall that it was the perfect setting for my beehive hair. Very few edifices in this world are able to encompass the majesty that is my hair and live to tell the tale, but this one did. On the far side of the room, lurking behind a statue of Ronald Reagan, may he turn over in his grave, I spotted Rep. Lauren Boebert. I deftly maneuvered Mini-Queertanic through the teeming masses across the rotunda, anxious to give her some helpful hints as to how to give a hand job to someone in a crowded theater without getting caught. She must have seen me approaching because she quickly ducked out of sight into a little hidey-hole before I could reach her.
Disappointed that I was not able to share my voluminous knowledge with her, I turned around, and who should I see but Matt Gaetz. Well, if there was ever a member of Congress who needed my sage advice on how not to get caught with an underage paramour, it was this guy. I aimed Mini-Queertanic directly at him at warp speed. Just as I was about to get within earshot of him, his security detail saw me coming, and intercepted me, much like a herd of angry charging buffalo, knocking me off of Mini-Queertanic and sent me sprawling onto the floor, landing into an undignified pile of glitter, breasticles, and hair. When I regained my composure, Gaetz was gone, but my studly tour guide, Biff, was there offering me a helping hand to get me back into my saddle.
I was at my wits end with frustration, and there, right in front of me, emerging from a side hall, came Marjorie Taylor Greene. I wanted to give her a piece of my mind, but she was moving so very quickly that the best I could do was to perform a “drive-by fruiting,” ala Mrs. Doubtfire. So, I reached into my purse, withdrew a grape I had been saving for a snack, and chucked it at her. I discretely disguised my chucking motion as if I was swatting at a fly, so as not to engage her security thugs. I believe it may have landed in her hair. I hope it stayed in her hair long enough to turn into a raisin and begin to draw flies. Finally, after many a close call, my time in the capitol came to an end. Petunia has left the building!
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. Which is the best lube I could have recommended to Lauren Boebert to prevent chaffing?
2. Where the hell was Josh Hawley when I was trying to run him down with Mini-Queertanic?
3. Would his raised fist be able to save him?
4. What is the best fruit to throw at members of Congress?
5. How many times is it necessary to watch Mrs. Doubtfire to be able to perform a drive-by fruiting with expertise?
6. Should I begin carrying “Petunia has left the building” placards on Mini-Queertanic to exhibit when I exit an event?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.