A tale of ice cream

The road home from the doctor’s office is fraught with danger and excitement.

I entered my medical clinic with much reluctance, because I knew that things were going to be unpleasant. My heart began pounding intensely when the handsome nurse came into the waiting room to get me. He was the most beautiful, tall, dark, and handsome piece of God’s creation that I had ever had the privilege of lusting over. He led me down a very narrow hallway. It was the kind of hallway that one would have to turn sideways in order to pass someone else. In fact, it was narrow enough that due to my caftan-bursting commodious blubbernaught of a physique taking up all the room, I would need to press intimately up against the body of any passerby.

He led me into a small room that had a padded exam table, which I thought could easily function as a makeshift bed. The space was about the size of an average room that one might find in a bathhouse. However, the garish lighting was brightly fluorescent, thereby showing every single flaw in my makeup and fading out my beautiful pink beehive wig. There was no TV playing porn, and the music playing over the sound system was calm elevator music, not the deep resonant thump, thump, thump of dance music I was used to hearing in such a small room. His name tag said “Trent.” Oh, what a glorious name. I imagined myself screaming out “Trent” in the throes of passion so loudly that the neighbors would call the cops on me for disturbing the peace.

My revelry faded quickly as this encounter took a not-so-glamorous turn when we entered the examination room. Our banter involved more awkward conversation starters than a family reunion. And when the doctor joined us, I received more poking and prodding (but not the fun kind) than I usually get on a successful night in a bathhouse. Subsequently, the doctor left Trent and me alone in the tiny room. My hopes began to rise again. Then Trent spoke the words that every geriatric queen longs to hear, “Turn around, drop your drawers, and brace for impact.” Then I heard him say, “Prepare yourself, I’m going to give you an injection in your ass.” Oh, the passion! Oh, the danger of being caught! Oh, the lack of lube! Oh, the bad lighting! My revelry was brought back down to earth as Trent began to explain that he was going to give me an injection of medicine rather than the “hot beef injection” I had so wildly imagined and desired.

To my horror, Trent then produced a syringe and needle that looked to be much larger and longer than I thought should be necessary. Trent then began what I could only describe as an imitation of Captain Ahab in his pursuit of Moby Dick, while he harpooned my “great white ass.” I heard him quietly giggling as I was pulling my pants back up. I began to regret having worn my best Star Trek Captain Kirk underwear. The only thing that saved Trent from me hitting him with my purse was that he was so gorgeous, and he was still armed with that gawd-awful harpoon.

After being released from the exam, I emerged from the clinic building with one singular craving: an ice cream cone from McDonald’s. Surely, I deserved this tiny, creamy triumph over adversity. With hope in my heart and a prescription in my purse, I pointed Queertanic, my beloved 1975 Buick Electra 225 land yacht, toward the Golden Arches, humming a tune of frosty anticipation.

For reference, Queertanic was the largest production car that Detroit ever produced. One time, I parked beside a 60-person school bus. I got out and measured, the bus was only five feet longer and one foot wider than Queertanic

After carefully maneuvering said Queertanic into the narrow McDonald’s drive-thru, fate (and a suspiciously cheerful cashier) had other plans.

“Sorry, our ice cream machine isn’t working,” she chirped, dashing my dreams in cold, fluorescent light. Undeterred yet still determined, I sought out a second McDonald’s, convinced the universe wouldn’t be so cruel twice. Spoiler: it was. The second machine, too, had “technical difficulties,” which I suspect is code for “taking a nap.” My spirits, like the elusive vanilla swirl, began to melt.

But never let it be said that Petunia Pap Smear surrenders at the first or even the second sign of foiled desserts. I pressed on to the Arctic Circle, where, lo and behold, the machine whirred like a vibrator with fresh batteries. There, bathed in the glow of neon signage, I finally held my ice cream cone aloft like Excalibur — victorious, gloriously sweet, and a little drippy.

As I licked my hard-won prize in the parking lot, I reflected: life is full of disappointments, but sometimes, if you’re persistent (and willing to drive across town), you get your happy ending and your ice cream cone, too.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Could my heart jumping for joy have actually been my A-Fib acting up?
2. If my car is bigger than a school bus, does that make me the captain of the Queertanic?
3. Did my Star Trek Captain Kirk underwear help me boldly go where no patient had gone before?
4. Was Trent’s needle longer than Queertanic on a good day?
5. Did my Star Trek Captain Kirk underwear help me boldly go where no patient had gone before?
6. Was this Trent’s version of catch and release of a great white whale?
7. Should I have just asked Trent for a cold compress instead of chasing ice cream across town?
8. Is “technical difficulties” McDonald’s code for “we’re eating all the ice cream ourselves”?
9. If Arctic Circle’s machine had been broken too, would I have just licked the neon sign?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.