The tale of leaving your heart in Salt Lake City
The road to the emergency room is fraught with danger and excitement.
It was a dark and stormy Friday night. I had settled in for the evening and was well underway with my nighttime routine of sipping Diet Mountain Dew, eating anything withing arm’s reach and watching “The Great British Baking Show.” There was a football game on TV that held great interest for Mr. Pap Smear, hereafter referred to as MPS (or PMS for those with dyslexia.) As a general rule, I do not care to watch sports. Unless it’s about food, “Dancing with the Stars,” or an Olympic diving competition, I’m not interested. Speedos, sequins, and chocolate. Need I say more?
Therefore, I banished PMS to watch his precious football game on the tiny television in the bedroom. I, on the other hand, luxuriated in the recliner in the living room, viewing the much larger television with surround sound while those lovely Brits with their sexy accents attempted to bake a chocolate showstopper. I had no idea that there were so many different words to describe chocolate. I almost had to get a thesaurus out to follow the action.
When watching TV while reclining, my beehive wig forms a cushion for my head. My stubbornly perky breasticles obnoxiously stick up in front of my face and frame the screen like football goalposts. This function often comes in very handy in case there is a very gross scene or something so embarrassing that one must look away. I can just tilt my head so that a breasticle can obscure my vision until the unpleasantness has passed.
After a couple of hours of reveling in disastrous baking malfunctions by the contestants for whom I was not rooting, it became time for me to take my evening medications. I arose from the recliner and attempted to delicately sashay to the bedroom to take my pills. BUTT, due to my large buttockuss maximuss and resplendently rounded tummy, the best I could do was an embarrassingly clumsy trundle. Upon entering the bedroom, I noticed that PMS was sitting on the edge of the bed. Don’t judge me, but along with my normal medications, I also take a cannabis edible gummy to aid in sleeping. Not five seconds after I swallowed my meds, including the gummy, PMS tells me that he is experiencing chest pain, and thinks he is having a heart attack. WELL SHIT!!!
Realizing that I only had about one hour before the edible started to kick in, or PMS might croak on me, like “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Drag Queen,” I sprang into action. I force-fed PMS some aspirin and then loaded him into Queertanic, my beloved land yacht, for a harrowing “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”-like trip to the emergency room.
Upon arriving at the ER, I quickly grabbed a small wheelchair and crammed PMS into it. He whimpered to me that he was feeling cramped in the small chair. All I heard was that he was experiencing cramps. I read somewhere that PMS cramps can be just as painful as a heart attack. Oh, how embarrassing it would be if all this panic turned out to be just cramps that a generous helping of Midol might have solved. Just as the nurses were whisking PMS into a cubicle, my edible began to kick in. From here on, my perceptions of events may have been skewed by the effects of the edible. Despite all the chaos and confusion of the busy emergency room, suddenly I was feeling quite relaxed. It was like I was watching a medical documentary.
An extremely hot technician named Trent came and hooked many wires up to PMS’ chest for an EKG. In my documentary viewing mode, I leaned in close, so I could observe what was going on, and also to see if I could catch a whiff of the Trent’s strong, earthy, musky scent. I must have gotten too close because my breasticle got caught up in the wiring. Trent gave me a soul-withering ‘what the hell are you doing,’ look. He lightly grasped my wrist with his delicate, worthy of a concert pianist, yet surprisingly strong hands, to gently pull me away. In so doing, my breasticle became entangled with some of the wires and disconnected PMS from the machine. I could swear that I saw sparks fly as if we were connected by a Tesla Coil in a scene worthy of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. Whether the sparks were from the machine wires, or from the lust that I dare not speak its name in front of my spousal unit, I can never be sure. All I know is that I was smitten. Damn, all of this was happening right in front of my husband. Luckily for me, I think he was sufficiently distracted by the chest pains to be able to notice. When the EKG was finished, Trent thought the results looked suspicious. Apparently, the EKG picked up signals from my breasticles instead of PMS. The test had to be repeated. Finally, the doctor came in to say that it was a minor cardiac event, but they would like to admit PMS overnight for observation. Sadly, for me, Trent was nowhere to be seen.
I had to wait for several hours for the edible to wear off before I could drive home.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- If I installed a sub-woofer in my breasticles, could I achieve a grander surround sound TV experience?
- How many of us can proudly say we’re married to PMS?
- Can my purse hold enough Midol for all this PMS?
- If I stretched condoms over my breasticles, would it insulate them from electrical charges?
- With all this experience, should I become an ambulance attendant?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
