The road to non-profit fund raising is fraught with danger and excitement. Last month we had the dunk tank fund raiser at Club Try-Angles on behalf of the Salt Lake Men’s Choir and we raised nearly $7,000. A good time was had by all and much needed funds were raised for a really worthwhile organization. It reminded me of the very first time I agreed to participate in dunking tank shenanigans.
It was two years ago on a very very hot August afternoon on the patio of Club Try-Angles. I knew the dunk tank was going to be used that day, so like any Queen worth her tiara, and her accumulated boy scouting merit badges, I knew that I should come prepared for any eventuality. The very first rule of preparedness in life is: always put on clean underwear. As my mother always said, “You never know if you will be in a car accident and, heaven forbid, you should have on soiled panties in the hospital emergency room.” So I rummaged through my drawers and picked out a very festive floral print Speedo that would match the jungle print caftan I was planning to wear. Because that is the second rule of preparedness we learned in finishing school. “The carpet should always match the drapes” even if no one ever sees. So boys, this is how you can judge a queen of quality: just reach into her skirt/pants and examine the underwear. Of course, jock straps will match with absolutely everything, no matter what color. Just saying.
Next, I made sure that the caftan had sufficient acreage to be able to cover my immense rotunditude.
Planning for a water landing, I made sure my breasticles were floatatious to help keep me from drowning, and also non-electrical to prevent electrocution.
Last, but not least, I needed to choose which of my 23 beehive wigs to wear. Yes, I have 23, now shut up! These decisions cannot be made lightly. It finally came down to the age-old debate — style (a beautifully styled and back-combed cotton candy beehive) versus substance (a very practical and water friendly foam wig). Me being a very practical queen, I ended up choosing substance. I chose a nice yellow foam wig that I thought could withstand a douching.
Well, it turned out that it was a very good thing that I planned for any possible event, because the bastards at Try-Angles paid $350 to get me into the tank. Let be begin by saying there is absolutely no dignified way for a queen of breeding to be able to mount the machine. Gene Geiber brought a step stool to help, but since I am neither a contortionist nor a rock climber, it was a vision of ineptitude. After I was so unceremoniously placed on the trip seat, I sat dangling my toes into the water and began thinking this was not going to be too bad. The water felt cool and refreshing to my tired feet, and the first 15 balls thrown at the target missed. Jeremiah was up to bat, and he missed his three attempts as well, so he casually stepped forward and hit the target with his hand, thus dropping the seat out from under me.
Several things happened in rapid succession. Newton’s law of gravity took full effect and pulled down on my colossal girth, pulling me all the way to the bottom of the tank, such that I was sitting Indian style on floor of the reservoir with my dress drawn all the way up to my boobs. Unbeknownst to me, the front of the tank was transparent so that everything could be seen. Even my enormous lily white whale blubber-ish tummy. Oh the horror! But thank God, my carpet matched my drapes! My glasses fell off my face, but gratefully I was able to catch them before they became forever lost.
I stood up, rising up from under the water like Godzilla emerging from the ocean depths. The yellow wig proved to be much too water friendly and sucked up at least a gallon and became very heavy to wear. Gene was trying to help me get back up on the stool for another go. As I clamored up, tangled in my dress, large ass waving to the audience, I felt and looked like Shelly Winters in the Poseidon Adventure, right after she swims to rescue Gene Hackman, only to have a heart attack and die.
I noticed that the second time I went down, the increased mass of the water-soaked foam wig acted to keep its place in space, as my body fell out from under it, then it came crashing down on top of me. With each additional dunking, the wig and boobs got fuller and fuller and heavier and heavier with water and it became ever more increasingly difficult and embarrassing to remount the stool. I was about ready to join Shelly in her heart attack. I had not felt this water logged since the last time I had gone to the temple and been baptized for the dead.
Finally, my turn was over. Gene released a never-ending torrent of taunts and gibes, so I just took off my water-laden wig and put it on his head and squeezed. He was immediately drenched and silenced. I even believe that his ever-present cigarette was put out. Imagine that! And of course, I had the immediate need to pee.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Are drag queens, like wicked witches, allergic to water?
- Do emergency room nurses really judge a patient’s underwear?
- In checking the quality of someone else’s underwear, is it absolutely necessary to first ask permission?
- Is this why I keep getting slapped?
- Is the dunk tank the gay version of performing Baptisms for the Dead?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of the Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.