Ask Francine – Sentenced to Explore LGBT K.C. ? the Horror!

My hands are shaking, for if anyone finds out I am writing a column for this tabloid, I could get kicked out of my mansion in Loch Lloyd. I just know it.
Outside, my cabana boy Jay-Jay (who reads this piece of trash) is vacuuming the pool. His sweaty, tanned chest flexes in the hot sun. Why did God waste such beauty on such young manflesh, only to have him desire other men? I feel dirty writing these words, knowing that people like you are reading them.
I want to scrub my skin bloody in a bathtub filled with Clorox.
How did I get into this mess?
Tammy Faye. She moved in next door to me. So I bake a nice tuna surprise, knock on her door (it took her forever to answer it), and after one look at her, I urged her to take a bite.
?You?re so skinny,? I tell her. ?What is your secret??
She just smiled, took a puff from her cigarette, and shut the door in my face.
Before I got back to my house, the place was crawling with news crews and morticians. Tammy Faye was dead.
Popping open a nice ?78 Chateau Lafite Rothschild, I drank half of it on an empty stomach. As the sound of helicopters hummed through my slate roof, I knew the truth: Tuna surprise killed Tammy Faye. I should have checked the expiration date on that can of fish.
In a sweat, I climbed into my Hummer and burned rubber toward the Legends in Wyandotte County. Nobody would think of finding me there.
Nobody except the cops. Spread-eagled against the side of a police car, I was charged with DUI and not the murder of the Pentecostal Princess, thank God. Within minutes, my darling Jay-Jay rescued me with his skin-tight black tank top and crisp bail money. My attorney got me a private visit with the judge, and that damn liberal dictated that I give 50 hours of service to the needy.
Who are the needy, you ask? Camp Newspaper. I have to spend 50 hours writing a column for Camp.
They?re hideous monsters. I am being forced to explore the gay/lesbian and bisexual/transgender community of Kansas City (please, God, take me home right now, I pray to you in heaven).

So I?ll begin my journey into Hell by recounting my tale of a dark, terrifying place called the Unicorn Theatre. As my driver circled the block (that Democrat judge took my driver?s license for a month), I looked out the tinted window and found myself in ghetto Missouri. The limo door opened, and I stepped onto a filthy sidewalk on my way to witness a theatrical presentation of La Cage aux Folles.
I immediately saw my reflection in the Unicorn plate-glass windows. Even with three adult children (very young adults, mind you), my beauty is still ravishing. Beyond the windows, they?re building a new stage. Called the Jerome Theatre, named after some Jerome, I assume, it looks sleek, as if designed by a notable from Johnson County. With real estate in a slump, unemployed architects have to feed their families, and designing nice things for Missourians must tear out their hearts.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by a gang of half-drunk, uncultivated wildlings. They seemed sane, and their cloddish manners were somewhat endearing, so I took their photo with my new iPhone. Perhaps the Camp people will print it. Like a pack of homeless dogs, they followed me into the theater. I ducked into the women?s room to escape. No one is to be trusted, especially in the ?hood.
What an odd mix of people were in the audience. Men on men, women on men, women on women that look like men. I clutched my Kate Spade tightly and let my theater program drop to the floor.
The show began, and the damn thing was about MORE HOMOSEXUALS. Tap dancing and green tongues and swinging from rafters, the men who love men while dressing up as women left me exhausted. I couldn?t even rise from my seat during intermission. I sat there, wondering how such public antics were legal in Gov. Matt Blunt?s state. That cute little mousey wife of his would have tinkled in her big-girl cotton panties witnessing this.
The second act attempted to normalize ?gay? love. I had to divert my mind, so I thought about the pile of rubbish in front of the late Tammy Faye?s house, wondering whether it contained any artifacts to sell on eBay. Suddenly the show was over, so I snapped an iPhone shot of the cast. Out of nowhere, I found myself surrounded by the drunken creatures that I met earlier at the door.
One of them slobbered, ?Wanna go have a drink with us?? I smiled politely, and watched a handsome man reach down, pick my program off the floor, and hand it to me. They surrounded me, and I had no choice but to follow. Exiting the theater, I saw my limo waiting, so I quickly jumped in and commanded a swift return to Loch Lloyd. I turned around and saw the group standing silently, staring at the limo, sadness in their eyes.
Everyone is sad, I reminded myself, and glanced down at the Unicorn program in my hand. Someone had written ?Joe? and a phone number on the cover. How odd. This will be a story to tell my therapist tomorrow. Yes, Larry will hear all about it.

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