Extended tales of The Love Boat
The road to the Love Boat is fraught with danger and excitement.
By now, you’re probably all seasick from the ongoing tales of my Caribbean cruise adventure. But wait! There’s more!
The ship was heading towards our final port. I again sat on my balcony and watched a school of flying fish jumping out of the water as if trying to race the ocean liner. The gentle rolling of the ship on the waves lulled me to sleep. I had a vivid dream that I was a Viking warrior, and I had performed a makeover of the ship, with a Flamingo figurehead on the bow to proudly sail the Seven Seas, with my breasticles mounted on the front of the ship where the anchors hang. I renamed the ship, Her Majesty’s Ship, the HMS Pap Smear.
One of my main desires for taking this trip was to see the Mayan ruins. I had scheduled two different shore excursions in two separate ports which were to include tours of some ruins. BUT, and this ‘but’ was even bigger than my own ample buttockus maximus, the problems with my bedazzled mobility scooter, Queerteenie’s flat tires had thwarted both of them and prevented my deepest desires. It was now the second-to-last day on the cruise, and the ship docked in our final port. Even though I had been able to reinflate the tires on Queerteeny in Cozumel, I had all but abandoned any aspirations of seeing some pyramids.
As I got off the ship in Costa Maya, Mexico, there were many festive souvenir shops. Yay, I can shop till I drop! I stopped shopping to watch a troupe of scantily clad acrobats performing death-defying twirls and somersaults while suspended high up in the air, clutching only long streams of fabric without safety harnesses. It was truly a terrifying display. I felt that I was becoming lightheaded. It was then that I realized that I had been holding my breath from the suspense. I looked down and found that I had also been clutching my pearls almost to the point of breaking them.
Just then, my friend Scott touched my shoulder, startling me out of my trance, to tell me that he had located a tour that would take us to see some Mayan ruins. My heart was all a twitter with excitement at finally being able to realize my deepest desire. We quickly loaded Queerteeny into their tour van, and they drove us many miles deep into the Yucatan jungle. As the van drove farther into the dark and ominous jungle, we saw no other people or vehicles by the wayside. My mind began to wander, and I imagined that we were being taken to be robbed or worse, to be sacrificed in a Mayan ritual on top of one of those pyramids.
The van arrived at the site of an ancient ruin, where we were met by a very handsome guide who offered to lead us even further into the jungle to see the ruins. Again, there were no other people around. I was nervous, yet very excited. I unloaded Queerteeny from the van, and while getting ready to follow the guide, Scott noticed that a critical bolt had fallen out of Queerteeny, such that I would not be able to ride her to view the ruins. My heart sank to my stomach. After all this, I was again to be thwarted from achieving my goal. I told the rest of our group to go on without me, I would just wait until they returned. But Scott, being very resourceful, found a plastic zip tie and fastened it on Queerteeny to hold the loose part. So, I leaned the majority of my substantial weight away from the missing bolt, so as not to break the zip tie, and I followed the hot tour guide into the jungle.
Behold! At long last, a Mayan pyramid! I sat at the base of the grand structure, taking in the beauty of the surrounding jungle and marveling at how complex it must have been to construct this monument. I also wondered if I applied similar construction techniques, might I be able to apply these principles to creating new breasticles? I couldn’t help but think of the possible activities that could occur on top of the pyramid.
I suddenly had a fantasy that our Tarzan-like tour guide, after rescuing me from a jungle panther attack, swept me away in is tanned, strong arms to the top of the pyramid, laying me carefully on the sacrificial stone, gently wiping some of my beehive wig out of my eyes, raising a dagger high above his head, screaming something in the Mayan language at the top of his voice and plunging the dagger just inches above my breasticles. He then splashed some red paint on me to simulate blood, gave me a gentle kiss on the forehead and helped me down. Sending me breathlessly on my way back to the ship.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. Could one of my breasticles act as the bulbous bow on the front of the ship?
2. Is my voluptuous, gravity-enhanced body too heavy for the average strapping young man to carry me to the top of a pyramid?
3. If so, should I begin to sacrifice strapping young men on the tips of my breasticles?
4. Would my breasticles be sufficient protection to prevent my heart from being cut out in a Mayan ritual?
5. Is constantly leaning on Queerteeny to avoid tire problems going to eventually make me walk funny?
6. Is a simulated ritualistic execution on top of a Mayan pyramid a little too extreme for the average Grindr hookup?
7. Will simulated ritualistic execution hookups make me walk funny?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
