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The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A tale of things that go boom in the night

The road to Christmas dinner is fraught with danger and excitement.

On the night before Christmas, yours truly was lying on the couch like a beached whale, snacking on holiday sugar cookies with tons of extra icing, watching Ralphie shoot his eye out in A Christmas Story while fondly reminiscing about this year’s gift-shopping experiences.

Picture it: My immense rotunditude, wearing a fake fur coat lying in the parking lot of Target, with brightly blinking breasticles pointing skyward, brightly shining into the heavens as if they were landing beacons for Santa Christina and her eight tiny rein-twinks.

I had just finished prying my 4-inch stiletto heel from the cold dead grip of a cute little old grandma, whom I had just trampled, as I victoriously clenched tightly in my hand the very last Chia Pet. God how I love “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” that is shopping on Black Friday.

According to my well-laid plans, Christmas dinner was going to be a low-key affair. Nothing fancy, just a crock pot of sloppy Joes and a plethora of chips and dip which we could graze. I was interrupted from my leisurely holiday memories by Mr. Pap Smear. He decided to throw a big wrench into my works by announcing that he really, desperately wanted — no, needed a turkey for Christmas dinner. 

Well shit! That ruined my restful holiday. Now suddenly I’m a queen with an urgent mission!

I slithered off the couch with all the grace and speed of an elephant seal in heat on a rocky shore, lumbering to find the love interest of the moment. As I hit the floor, I struck with enough force to knock the wind out of me with a great galumph of gas erupting from my buticusrotundus which knocked my left breasticle askew, causing it to start blinking, thus making it necessary to make only left turns on my emergency expedition to the grocery store. Therefore, only able to make left turns, my journey to the Walmart on Third West had to proceed by way of Magna.

I thankfully procured the last unfrozen turkey within the entire Intermountain West. But sadly, I trampled another little old lady nearly to death, but I didn’t feel too badly about it because she was wearing the most gawd awful ugly Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen. I’m sure, in my trampling, I was performing community beautification, for which I probably should win a service award.

When I got the fowl home, I sprinkled the damn bird with spices and then placed it in a glass baking dish with a couple of cups of water and put it in a 450-degree oven for the first hour. By then it was midnight and I turned down the temperature to let it slow-roast overnight.

When I checked it, I noticed the water had evaporated, so I went to add some more. Now, as a little princess growing up in Idaho, my mother taught me that I should never put a frozen dish into a hot oven because it would break. With this knowledge, I realized that I needed to add hot water. I ran the tap until it was scalding, filled a glass and poured it into the dish, shut the oven door, and retired to my boudoir for my long winter’s nap. 

Not two minutes later, a huge kaboom assaulted my ears. The house shook. My goodness, I thought the house had been struck by a crashing Santa Claus. 

I ran into the kitchen, and to my horror, saw that smoke was sifting from every seam in the stove. I threw open the oven door to a virtual volcano of steam. It was as if Krakatoa was erupting in my kitchen. The smoke alarm started to screech, frightening me so that my shriek was added to the cacophony. To my dismay, I discovered the glass dish had exploded. There were countless shards of glass all over the bottom of the oven, with a thick cloud of steam streaming from the oven, and the turkey left naked on the oven rack.

Not wanting to waste the $35 for the bird, I grabbed it with tongs, scraped the shards of glass from its bottom, placed it into a metal pan, added more water, shoved it back into the oven, slammed the door, and went back to bed.

On Christmas morning, I took the cooked bird out, sliced it up, and served it. I waited until Boxing Day to clean all the broken glass from the oven.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

  1. Is trampling little old ladies permissible if I’m wearing festive holiday sequins?
  2. If I draped a dark towel over my blinking left breasticle, would the police permit me to make a right-hand turn?
  3. Does glass add a mystery flavor and texture to the turkey?
  4. Should I patent this method of cooking turkey as my secret recipe?
  5. Is serving turkey seasoned with shards of glass considered the original party fowl?
  6. Did I like this turkey because of my fondness for shining sparkly things?
  7. Should I make a necklace from the shards of broken glass and turkey bones?
  8. Should the Annie Lennox song “Walking on Broken Glass” become my new Christmas anthem?

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

About the author

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear is a Matron of Mayhem who was born and raised in Cache Valley, Utah. She hosts Third Friday Bingo and the Big Gay Fun Bus.

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