The tale of a whore in church

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to heaven is fraught with danger and excitement.

Many years ago, the Reverend Bruce Barton and Mr. Pap Smear invited me to a conference held at the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, California. Since it was the middle of January and Utah was blanketed in breasticle-deep snow and ice, I jumped at the opportunity to escape to sunny southern California more quickly than a drag queen grabs free lipstick samples at Nordstrom.

As with all road trips, I insisted that we travel in style and comfort. Thus, I donned opera-length driving gloves, a simple wrinkle-resistant sequin caftan, and my best pair of non-glare sunglasses. And we loaded up Queertanic, my powder-blue Buick Electra land yacht and off we went, ala Too Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar.

I maneuvered Queertanic onto I-15; then set the cruise control and began the voyage south. The long drive was uneventful except for when we were passing through Las Vegas.

We all know that a hungry Petunia is a bitchy Petunia, so in the interest of preserving world peace, the cruise control on Queertanic is permanently set on “buffet.” It was as if Queertanic was on autopilot and turned itself onto the Las Vegas Strip where it subsequently landed in the parking lot of Excalibur, home to what’s touted the largest buffet in the world. We entered the buffet, and I immediately witnessed mountains of mashed potatoes and rivers of gravy, and I thought perhaps I had, indeed, found heaven.

To make a long story short, we arrived at the Crystal Cathedral the next morning. The bright California sunshine gleamed and glinted off the sparkling chrome-and-glass edifice. As I walked toward the entrance, I was enthralled by the fact that the exterior glass wall functioned as a two hundred-foot-tall mirror, and I saw perhaps for the first time, my entire reflection, including my beehive hair! Never before had I found a mirror large enough to accommodate my entire self. Again, I thought I had found heaven. As we entered the large cathedral, I marveled at the glass walls and ceiling. I thought about how it must get very hot inside when the sun is shining. We sat in the center section with a good view of the conference speakers and the entire surroundings. The conference proceeded without incident, throughout the morning session. Then we broke for lunch consisting of a huge turkey meal.

After lunch, we returned to our seats. I sat between Mr. Pap Smear and Reverend Bruce. What with all the driving from the night before (and all the turkey) I was tired, so I slouched down in the chair, and braced my knees on the back of the chair in front of me.

The speaker began to drone on in a dull monotone about a subject in which I had zero interest. The sun came out from behind the clouds and the whole place lit up as if we were under bright hot stage lights. I became more drowsy and rested my eyes for a few seconds.

Suddenly, the somber reverence was violently interrupted when my mouth erupted an epically thunderous snore loud enough to register on the Richter Scale. Horrified at “the disturbance of the force,” Rev. Bruce and Mr. Pap Smear threw an elbow jab into my breasticles, with exceeding speed and force to cease the commotion. Disoriented, I immediately awakened and rose in my chair coughing and gasping for air, as they had knocked the wind out of me.

Rev. Bruce and Mr. Pap Smear remained sitting, stock still, eyes focused forward feigning interest in the speaker, pretending as if nothing had happened. In horror, I looked round in embarrassment, to see if I had drawn unwanted attention. Everyone within a stone’s throw heard my embarrassing snort. Some of the more polite folks tried to ignore everything and kept their attention on the speaker.

One poor woman sitting about five seats to my right and one row behind heard and saw the entire incident, and she giggled. She lowered her eyes so as not to meet my glance, but her giggling rose, and her notebook dropped to the floor. I slouched to avoid further recognition and humiliation. Fifteen minutes later, the woman was still giggling uncontrollably during a break in the conference. Feeling as uncomfortable as a whore in church, I excused myself and sneaked out the door at the rear of the hall.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should I apply for a patent for the buffet cruise control?

2. Is heaven truly a colossal buffet in front of a gigantic mirror?

3. When we sat in the center section, was it because I wanted to see and hear the speakers, or to scope out the audience for hunks? (Silly question: I’m always on the lookout for hunks!)

4. Should I modify my breasticles to muffle a snore?

5. Should I attach a drool bucket to the breasticles to catch the inevitable?

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