The tale of The Love Boat
The road to the Love Boat is fraught with danger and excitement.
We continue the story I began two months ago with part three of my Caribbean Cruize. After several treacherous hours trying to maneuver Queerteeny, my bedazzled mobility scooter around airplanes, airports, and shuttles, our van finally reached Port Canaveral. There were several ships parked by the lot. As we got closer to the ships, my gaze was drawn upward to lofty heights. Coming from an Idaho farm background, I was shocked and amazed at just how huge modern cruise ships are. These ships towering over the parking lot seemed like a bunch of skyscrapers. Hell, they were even taller than my beehive wig!
As I took in the tremendous view, my jaw fell agape, wide enough that a passing casting agent for porn films thought I was auditioning to be a fluffer on his next film, “Ship’s Aboy,” the story of a lonely ship’s steward finding love and passion with a shy farm boy tourist from Idaho along with the entire engine room crew. After pulling out a measuring tape and taking a quick measurement of my mouth, the casting agent determined that my jaw would not open sufficiently wide enough to be the fluffer. Not wanting to pass up such an opportunity of a lifetime, I offered to be a consultant about all things Idaho farm boy. Sadly, he unceremoniously dismissed me. Dejectedly, I mounted Queerteeny and drove away from him, becoming lost in the crowd. But I promised myself that I would keep watch for him and his crew, as they were going to be filming onboard this ship.
I reconnected with the group from Utah, and as we joined the maddening throng of tourists attempting to board, I was yet again separated from my group because I was riding Queerteeny. They instructed me to board by a separate gangway from my friends. I was utterly confused since this was my very first time going on a cruise, and I was unfamiliar with the boarding procedure. In the congested commotion, while trying to find the right door, I inadvertently plowed Queerteeny right into a stack of luggage, and just like a gigantic Jenga game, they came crashing down.
Thus, I was delayed while I stopped and apologized to a tour group of ‘Golden Girls’ to whom the scattered luggage belonged. The angry group of grannies was advancing towards me, waving their canes menacingly in the air and yelling foul words in my general direction. I was saved at the last minute by a very helpful and even more handsome ship’s steward, who risked his life by stepping into the line of fire and restacking their luggage. He indicated by a subtle head nod that I should just drive away. So, I quickly took my chance and drove Queerteeny as fast as she could possibly go, disappearing into the crowd. In doing so, I went past the entrance that I was supposed to use and was forced to make a U-turn.
I noticed that in all of the commotion, somehow, the left rear tire on Queerteeny had gone flat. Therefore, I was forced to lean my substantial buttockus rotundus to the right side of the scooter to lessen the weight on the afflicted tire. Subsequently, while heavily listing hard to starboard, I was finally able to drive Queerteeny up the gangway and onto the ship.
At the first opportunity, I spotted another very handsome ship steward (one of the hiring criteria for the cruise ship industry must be good looks) who was directing traffic among the boarding masses. Demonstrating my best ‘damsel in distress’ act, I drove Queerteeny right up to his side. He looked at me with a quizzical expression. Shifting into flirting mode, I began to bat my eyelashes faster than a telegraph operator can tap out the Morse Code, while simultaneously holding my hand to my forehead in a gesture of distress. Breathlessly, I explained to him that I had a flat tire. I then blushingly inquired of him if there was an air compressor anywhere on the ship, and could I possibly get a ‘blow job’ er, I mean, get my rear topped off, er, I mean, have my tire inflated.
The steward looked at me as if I had a potato growing out of my ear. Obviously, he had never been asked this before. He grabbed a phone and made several calls. He explained that he didn’t know if they had a compressor, but he was willing to take Queerteeny and try to help out my situation. So, I dismounted Queerteeny and clumsily lurched to my stateroom. After several hours, I was so pleased that just before it was time to head to dinner, the steward brought Queerteeny back. He apologized that he was unable to blow up the tire. Neither snow nor rain nor flat tire could keep me from dinner. Therefore, this little piggy leaned starboard all the way to the dining room.
Stay tuned next month when the ship actually sails.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. How fast must I drive Queerteeny to be able to outrun a mob of angry grannies?
2. What would it take to get the ‘Golden Girls’ to throw cookies at me instead of menacing me with their canes?
3. Should I develop a new ‘bowling’ game where drag queens on scooters knock over piles of things?
4. I had much anxiety about being on a ship. Was it because of worrying about Queerteeny’s flat tire, or wondering how I could become part of the crew for the porn film, or because I had recently watched the movie Titanic and was having nightmares about sinking?
5. Will I ever get another chance to be in porn?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
