Ask Francine – Therapist Offers Unexpected Answers (Giggle)

Francine offers her slightly skewed viewpoint on issues in the Kansas City metropolitan area?s LGBT community in each issue of Camp. And since you?re asking, yes, she?s a fictional character. Well, you asked. Would you like to respond to Francine or give her a tip on something that may be of interest? E-mail her at francine@askfrancine.com.
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My therapist?s office is in a building with too much marble. I always dress down when I visit him, for if I wear anything expensive, he charges me double-rate.
As I entered his office, I kept thinking of last week. Tammy Faye dying in a house next door to me after I made her my Tuna Surprise (I used an expired can of tuna, whoops!). The guilt making me flee my home in Loch Lloyd, resulting in an unfortunate arrest for DUI and the court order stating that I use my God-inspired talents to write filth for Camp.
Sweet Mrs. Mother of Christ, I needed therapy this week. Larry, my bitter psychologist, prepares my favorite tea for each session and then hovers over me like a common servant. Everyone sucks up when you?re rich. You sad fornicators (all 12 who read this column) can only imagine my power.
Speaking of servants, I drove my Hummer (yes, I have my license back) down to UMKC last week and nearly got trampled by Judy Shepard?s PR firm. Here?s a photo of one of the folks they?ve hired to publicize her appearances. I honestly think she?s so busy with her schedule that she?s not monitoring her new PR campaign. I understand that all publicity is good publicity, but really, Judy! One of my neighbors is a VP at Fleishman Hilliard. I?ll have Kim call you.
So I?m in my therapist?s office. Larry motioned for me to sit down.
?Francine,? Larry said, ?it?s time for us to talk.?
?Of course,? I said, ?but before we do, tell me about the gays and the lesbians. As a therapist, you know hundreds of them. Tell me everything.?
His face drained of its color. I pulled out the Unicorn Theatre?s La Cage aux Folles program and handed it to him. He stared at me as I recounted my horrific tale of writing for Camp, attending a Unicorn production, and the stab in my heart when I think about mingling with the gays.
Larry cleared his throat. ?I do have a number of GLBT clients,? he said.
?What??
He giggled. ?Gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender. It?s an acronym.?
Straight men do not giggle, and most don?t know what an acronym means, either. Suddenly, I wanted to call his wife and ask, ?Honey, when?s the last time you touched Larry?s pee-pee??
?Do you go to the gay bars, Larry?? I asked him as I remembered that whole court-order nonsense. ?I ? want to go to a gay bar.?
Larry was sweating. ?I knew Sen. Larry Craig would squeal,? he moaned. ?You must keep this secret. Yes, I?m going out tonight.? I promised to meet him at a bar called Missie B?s right after work.
Strangely excited, I went home and immediately found the tightest pair of panties I owned. I always feel safer when my privates are compacted. Foundation garments give me strength in times of stress.
Driving in rush-hour traffic to midtown Kansas City requires faith, so I was praying as I pulled in to a parking space outside the bar?s entrance.
?Dear Jesus,? I intoned, ?please punish the devil-people at Camp by allowing me to turn these sinners into straights. Once I convert the heathen, there will be nobody left to advertise in that homo publication.? As I lifted my head, I noticed my therapist standing outside my car.
?Francine, I must warn you,? Larry whispered, ?they know me as ?Rock? inside here ? and I?m not a therapist, I?m a construction worker.?
I bit down hard on my lip, and nearly drew blood.
The moment I entered Missie B?s, I was transported to another dimension or generation or whatever. Solid black walls swallowed the sunlight, and low chandeliers (stolen from the set of an Anne Rice vampire movie) gave everyone a healthy, golden glow.
?Rock, over here!? At the sound of his name, LarryRock?s back stiffened, and I followed his manly gait over to a table of somewhat normal-looking men and women.
His voice deepened. ?Howdy, y?all. You looking forward to the AIDS Bicycle Challenge??
?My toes are aching to pump those pedals,? exclaimed a shiny-headed man I later found out was named Michael Lintecum. ?Here! Take a pledge form! And a sticker! It?s all for a good cause, you know!? He was so energetic that I took a photo of him with his boy-wonder sidekick Josh.
Michael looked at me and asked, ?Can you ride a bike??
?No,? I answered.
?Well, you?re in luck! St. Luke?s, Old Navy, Salva O?Renick, Ameriprise Financial, GE,? he gasped for breath, ?and other great sponsors are having a pre-bike ride party tonight! We drink six Miller Lights, someone shows you how to ride a bike, and then we single-file 30 miles down I-35!?
His eyes widened as he saw someone beyond my eyes, and rudely pushed past me. ?Mayor Barnes! Thanks for coming down so quickly! The FBI just gave me some intelligence information about a threat ?? He was swallowed by a huge mass of people, and they disappeared through a side door. Suddenly the bar was quiet.
LarryRock leaned over and whispered, ?Everybody in this town asks that man for advice. Even former Mayor Kay Barnes.?
If my forehead weren?t filled with Botox, I would have scrunched my eyebrows, pondering that curious comment. With my popularity, I could give Kay Barnes a run for her money, but I know that D.C. is an East Coast Sodom (perfect for Kay) and I have my work cut out for me here in Kansas City converting the gays. Besides, Kay knows that I will help her stomp Sam Graves in the next election. However, like most celebrities, there?s an agreement that we will not recognize each other in public.
?Larry?? I whispered.
?Rock!? he angrily hissed.
?Why do you come to this gay establishment??
He glared at me, grabbed my hand, and took me down some steps to a dark, quiet area.
?Francine, there?s three kinds of men in the gay community: Closets, outs and the ones from Raytown. I am a married gay man, and I only come to Missie B?s because of the bachelorette parties. There?s dozens each night. If I get caught, I tell my wife that it?s a work function.?
Sure enough, a gaggle of drunken girl-whores with plastic penis pacifiers around their necks were stumbling into the bar and began sitting down at tables right in front of us. I suddenly realized that it appeared as if we were standing on a stage. A burst of music and lights suddenly put us in the spotlight, causing the whore girls to scream and applaud.
?What should we do?? I yelled at Larry, over the music.
A gigantic spot of red appeared out of nowhere. I heard a loud ?thunk? as a microphone stained with lipstick made contact with my skull.
?What in hell are you doing on my stage?? the sparkly giantess loudly broadcast into her microphone. ?Kansas City, give it up for these two bitches so they?ll get off my stage!?
The crowd applauded wildly, and we rushed off.
Oh, dear. No gays converted. Perhaps next week.

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