The road to spinal health and strength is fraught with danger and excitement.
As you may know, I was injured in an auto accident last June, which has caused some damage to at least four disks in my neck. After several weeks of physical therapy with a very handsome and “hands on” physical therapist (be still my throbbing heart) my equally stunningly handsome doctor recommended that I get an MRI so he could spy on my spine.
Oh the horror! I’m deathly claustrophobic, and just the mention of being placed into an infernal MRI machine is enough to cause my beehive hair to lose it’s structural integrity and become a limp, soggy massive hair ball large enough to clog any municipal sewer treatment plant. I confessed to Doctor Six Pack my fears and he gave me a prescription for Valium. He instructed me to take one about thirty minutes before the procedure.
So, on the dreadful day, I got up early to prepare. A queen should always present her best self when going to the doctor. After showering and shaving, I picked out the absolutely cutest panties I could find. After all, you never know what kind of a show you might be putting on. Then I chose my most comfortable bra, and though perhaps looser clothing may have been the wiser way to go, I selected a jungle-print Caftan, which I adorned with matching floral breasticles, complete with blinking flower blossoms, topped off with fiber-optic lighted sunflower interchangeable nipples. After donning my yellow beehive wig with embedded trolls (matching the jungle motif) I was ready to face anything.
Of course, Doctor Adonis’ office is clear out at Daybreak in South Jordan. On the drive, I calmed myself by realizing I had to pass by three temples just to get there. Surely I and my hair trolls would be blessed.
Upon arriving at the hospital, I swallowed a Valium in the parking lot then entered. I was directed to the x-ray department. A very no-nonsense nurse took me into a private room and interrogated me as if I was a suspected terrorist. I was informed that first of all the troll wig had to go. It would interfere with the vice that needed to hold my head still. Next she attacked the fiber-optic sunflowers. I offered to change them, but since they were held with magnets, I was instructed that I needed to remove the breasticles. In fact, she made me disrobe entirely except for my pretty panties and put on one of those infernal hospital gowns that are open in the rear. Well, at least my exposed buns were fashionable. Flummoxed, I snuck a second Valium.
They marched me unceremoniously down a cold hallway, with the rear flaps flying open and my pretty panties showing the Muggles how they should dress.
They placed me on a narrow little slab in front of the huge white hole. I laid there feeling ever-so-much like a big white squishy dildo, about to be inserted into the world’s largest turd tunnel. Then they strapped me down to the movable plank. Now things were getting really serious. I resembled a several hundred-pound strap-on ready for pounding the poop chute.
The machine began to move me into the infernal Cadbury Alley. Of course, even sans breasticles, I’m a girl of bountilicious proportions, and the machine was going to be a tight fit. As my shoulders entered the Turdinator, they were squeezed into my chest. I yelled we need more lube, but that request apparently fell on deaf ears. Damn it, we didn’t establish a safe word before commencing insertion into the full moon.
I began to sweat, and no queen worth her tiara should ever be caught sweating. Just then the operator (dungeon master) turned on a fan, thus it began to feel more like being inserted into a Windward Passage. The machine began to make terrible horrible thumping and grinding noises. I thought, is every Heinie Ho this noisy? Every part of me was being squeezed way beyond comfort in the Poop Chute. I began to regret stopping at Taco Bell for a taco grande and chalupa on the way to the appointment. Just then, despite every instinct I was taught in finishing school, I farted. Oh the shame. Oh the stench. Oh the giggles I could hear.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, or at least exit time for my taco grande and chalupa, the giant shit chute began to excrete me.
Oh blessed relief as I began to pour forth from Doctor Poo. I laid on the table, spent and giddy, most likely from the Valium. I can only describe the sensation of liberation as that truly accomplished feeling you get when you’ve just completed a really decent bowel movement. Ya know?
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions.
1. How big would the cat need to be to be able to cough up a fur ball the size of my beehive wig?
2. Should a proper queen’s safe word be “I think it’s time for tea?”
3. Would it require a 50-foot lesbian to accommodate a Petunia-sized strap-on?
4. After this experience should I develop and market a Queen Petunia Pap Smear dildo?
5. Should it be white?
6. Should it be bedazzled with rhinestones?
7. Should the head, or handle for that matter, have a blinking light?
8. Do latex appliances have some sort of sound deafening properties?
9. Do other MRI patients ever leave a “Booty Duty” in the machine?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.