The road to high definition television is fraught with danger and excitement.
Recently the doorbell rang at Chateau Pap Smear. I was in the basement busily sorting and categorizing all the porn that is on the Internet. As usual, I was not wearing pants. I hurriedly ran upstairs, tripping on the second stair and crashing onto the landing by the back door. Of course, my immense bulk-itude bounced three times before coming to a final rest, breasticle side down. After swearing mightily, I picked myself back up, ran to the bedroom and threw on a pair of shorts.
I opened the door. My breath caught in my throat, and my insides did a little flutter as I beheld his incredible beauty. He was a clean cut, freshly-returned missionary type that really sets my breasticles a twirl. I immediately invited him inside. As we sat cozily on the sofa, he introduced himself as Nick and indicated that he represented the internet company. He informed me that my neighborhood was newly wired with fiber optic cable and would we like to upgrade our internet and bundle our cable TV. He explained that I’d no longer have an issue with snow collecting on my satellite dish, I was immediately sold.
It was a dark and stormy night! Snow was falling heavily. Mr. Pap Smear was at work and I was home all alone. I was all snuggled in bed, watching Golden Girls reruns when the picture froze, then went black. A message popped up, “No Satellite Signal.” Being a former Boy Scout, I prepared for any eventuality. Thus I kept a brush on an extendable pole and a pair of slip-on clogs by the back door for just such emergencies.
Muttering swear words, I dragged my naked “Rotunditude” out of bed. Wanting to hurry and clear the dish before Rose finished her St. Olaf story about her cousin Sven, whom she thought was a Nordic God, I forwent clothes and decided to go “Al Fresco” to save time. We have a privacy fence around the back patio so I didn’t fear the neighbors prying eyes. However I decided not to turn on the patio lights that might draw unwanted attention.
I stepped into the clogs and opened the back door. I was immediately accosted by a gust of freezing wind. I stood momentarily stunned by the sudden coldness. (Think: shrinkage.)
Undaunted, I quickly slammed the door so as not to let cold air into the house. Picturing Nordic gods, I quickly tip-toed around the corner of the house, pole brush in hand, and resembled a well-fed naked Amazon on a spear hunt. I regretted not turning on the lights, and wished that I was wearing my lighted breasticles to light the way, just like Rudolph, because in the darkness, I tripped over something and landed on my knees in the snow. (SHRINKAGE)
Recovering, I brushed the snow off my legs and trudged onward. By now I was shivering from the cold. Each involuntary quiver sent a veritable tidal wave of ripples through my extensive “Bodus Rotundus.”
Unable to control my arms, I shakily reached the dish with the brush and gave it a huge stroke, whereupon the accumulated snow swiftly slid down on my head. (SHRINKAGE)
Squealing swear words worthy of Miss Piggy at a bacon festival, I cleaned off the rest of the dish. Surely Sophia Patrillo had never faced such trauma. I was able to momentarily calm my now almost uncontrollably shaking “Blubbernaught of a Buffet Queen Physique” in order to make three more swipes at the snowy dish from hell.
Finally I retreated to the door, which to my dismay, I found locked. (SHRINKAGE) Oh Gawd! My phone was locked inside the house. Mr. Pap Smear was not going to be home until after 1:00 am. Dear heavenly father, please let me have left the garage door unlocked.
My prayers were answered as I tried the door and it opened. Gratefully, I was able to go inside, away from the falling snow and wind. The garage was still below freezing, and my “Heroically Proportioned Juggalo” was shivering on the Richter scale, to at least an 8.0.
I switched on the light and began searching for anything that might be useful in this dire situation. In the corner I spied an electric heater. I plugged it in and it blew cold air. (SHRINKAGE.)
Then I spied some of the afghans that we give as bingo prizes at Third Friday Bingo. I removed a rather plush afghan and wrapped it around me. Then I sat up a folding lawn chair and began the hours long vigil until Mr. Pap Smear returned home. (SHRINKAGE and PNEUMONIA.)
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- If I keep feeling compelled to sort and categorize porn, does this indicate a obsessive-compulsive disorder?
- Did I listen to Nick because I was interested in fiber optics or because my insides were fluttering with lust?
- Since I went outside naked, does this mean I have latent exhibitionist tendencies?
- Should I pose for a nude calendar?
- Why don’t they make satellite dishes with internal heating elements?
- Do you think I should not use that particular afghan as a bingo prize?
- How does one explain to your husband why you are naked in the garage at 1 a.m.?
- How much shrinkage can happen before “IT” turns into a vagina?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of the Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.