The road to Third Friday Bingo is fraught with danger and excitement.
Last month, we set a new record for funds raised at Third Friday Bingo with the Matrons of Mayhem. Doing so nearly killed me. Let me pontificate.
The charity of the month was Rocky Mountain Great Dane Rescue, typically our most attended bingo of the year. There was much excitement and enthusiasm in the air, as we had been receiving many more than usual requests to reserve tables.
In anticipation of the big night, I arrived early to set up the hall. I stood in the doorway and quickly surveyed the empty room. It was going to tax all my faculties to have it all set up in time. I summoned my childhood training (if there’s one thing I learned as the Deacon Quorum President, it was how to set up tables and chairs for a “ward” party) and prepared to get down to business. I rummaged through my purse (a gigantic blue Ikea cargo bag) and donned some sensibly low-heal sequined shoes with good traction and opera length gloves to protect my manicure, and then went to work.
Luckily for me, the Mule of Mayhem, Terry showed up to help. Had I been left to my own devices, it most likely would have taken my girdle-free gluttinus maximus at least three days to accomplish the task. In the process of dragging tables and chairs around, my breasticles impeded the efficiency of my labors and I started to sweat.
Now, I learned in princess training school that a queen never sweats, she glows. Therefore, in order to facilitate this mantra, I removed the double “P” nipples I usually wear on my breasticles and replaced them with twirling propeller nipples, so as to facilitate the circulation of air to keep me cool.
And of course, all the heavy work was done by the time the rest of the Matrons arrived.
My overly fluffy tummy started growling, and I began to feel feint, as it had been more than 15 minutes since I ate anything. So, I sent the Mule to fetch me a snack. Bless his heart, the Mule brought me a six-foot-long hoagie. Surly enough to tide me over for another 45 minutes until the concession hot dogs were ready.
Eventually all was prepared. I re-applied my hoagie-smeared lip stick and the Matrons were ready. The players arrived. The room was exceptionally crowded to standing room only. The would-be bingo players were brimming with excitement. To their delight, the charity brought four Great Danes to show off. And the festivities began.
During the first bingo game, I instructed Cherri Bombb to make up a party foul against one of the most attractive men in the room for being too handsome. When he got up to dance his party foul, we asked him take off his shirt, knowing that a shirtless hunk brings in at least double the tips for the charity as a fully clothed guy. Come to find out, he was a fireman. Be still my fluttering heart and heaving breasticles.
Later in the evening, I moved over by the dogs, which were as big as Paul Bunyan’s Ox Babe, to pose for a photo. Moeisha Montana (Mo-Mo) couldn’t tell the difference between me and the dogs by stating, “All you bitches look alike.”
In an act of righteous indignation, I took the propeller off my left breasticle and threw it at her like a Chinese throwing star. My lack of ability to accurately throw things at a target was apparent as my projectile missed Moeisha by at least 10 feet, and hit Cherri Bombb smack in the crack of her “asset.”
She whirled around, saw Mo-Mo, thought that Mo-Mo assaulted her and yelled something about “losing a cherry” and “you bitch” and advanced in classic drag queen attack posture, nails drawn like cat claws and purse swinging. Mo-Mo, not to be outdone, kicked off her heels and assumed the classic “Crouching Tiger Hidden Drag Queen” defense posture.
At first, I felt I ought to intervene and stop the inevitable carnage, as this was all happening inside a house of God. But then my devilish side wanted to watch this “cat fight at a dog show.” What better entertainment could possibly be had on a Friday night in Salt Lake City? Eventually, guilt took over me, notwithstanding the fact that I didn’t want to mess up my hair, and I quickly acted by calling a dueling party foul on both seething queens which stopped them in their tracks.
I challenged them to prove their superiority over each other by collecting the most tips. My breasticles swelled with pride as I beheld the genius of quelling two queens with one swoop. Look at me: peacemaker and master fund raiser all in one. At the end of the foul, they were too winded to continue pursuit of each other and I was left blameless and angelic in the eyes of everyone. Blessed be Petunia, mother of all peace and pure as the driven on snow.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Could I make a living bedazzling IKEA cargo bags and selling them as couture purses?
- Could the air circulating breasticles be considered getting a blow job in the church?
- Should I apply for a patent for Air Cooled Breasticles?
- Could calling a party foul on a handsome fireman be considered a sincere form of flirting?
- When Cherry Bombb yelled “you bitch” was she refereeing to me or the dog?
- Are “real women” jealous of my interchangeable nipples?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.