Satan has got hold of me, I swear. Who would have thought a conservative, modest girl could ever set foot in the evil places I?ve been these past two weeks? Since this hideous column is court-ordered by that liberal judge after my unfortunate DUI, I must obey and attend the gatherings that Camp assigns to me each week.
Wretched, filthy degenerates.
The gays have a fascination with skimpy undershorts, gaudy necklaces and pierced ding-dongs. These perversions cause my brain to spin. And it?s no dirty little secret that these are the very things showcased at a popular fund-raiser each year ? SAVE Inc.?s Corroboree, held in the African section of the Kansas City Zoo.
I almost did not attend when I found out there was no first-class section on the zoo?s tram. So when Mark Anderson (who holds some official-sounding title at SAVE) took off his jacket, put it on the filthy plastic tram seat, and allowed me to sit on it so as not to soil my Allegra Hicks velvet suit, I politely obliged. Knowing that Mark was protecting my buttocks from vermin fecal matter gave me a small sense of relief.
I am a delicate woman, and not used to ?roughing? it, yet the evening was filled with rough characters, such as lesbians fighting over cheap wine, hundreds of dancing wildlings, an orgy of food, Hula Hoops, and vile, yet palatable, alcohol. My pastor asked me to take copious notes on this debauchery, but they closed down the party before I could finish.
The thump-thump of the previous night?s heathen music caused my head to ache the next morning, so when my pool boy Jay-Jay came into my bedroom to wake me, I pulled my 1200-count silk sheets over my head as he opened the shades, spilling light into the room.
?We?re goin? to the rodeo!? he shrieked, and pranced around, clad only in a cowboy hat, hot pants and a Schlitz Malt Liquor belt buckle. Jay-Jay has 3 percent body fat, and as a result, finds it difficult to wear clothing over his taut, sinewy body. At some point, I must talk to him about wearing more clothing while he does his daily chores, but my head hurt too much that day to confront him.
After a brief visit to Nigro?s Western Store (my, what interesting colors), I was appropriately attired in cowgirl drag. That?s a gay term Jay-Jay called me. I have no clue what it means, but you perverts may, so I will add it to my column for ?spice.?
The American Royal is a stinky place. I took one step inside and immediately threw up a little, catching it in my throat. The building smelled like the private area of my first (and late) husband, Geoffrey Riddle III. I was a young bride, and the first time I smelled that rancid odor I was filled with both terror and a warmness that only wives can feel for their husbands. Smelling it again gave me a spark in my entrails, so I scampered in to reminisce.
Trinkets and chubby men dressed as women and, oh, that smell. It intensified as I entered the arena, where the horses? hooves thudded against the dirt, raising a haze of dust. I sat on gritty bleachers watching people place men?s underpants on goats. I saw women dressed as men riding horses, and men dressed as women jumping on cows.
Jay-Jay sat next to me with his pom-poms, cheering each new contestant. Somehow, I don?t think this was the venue for cheerleaders, but with all the attention he was getting from the cowboys, who am I to judge?
Cow people are interesting to watch. In Loch Lloyd, we have cow people come in and entertain children at birthday parties. But when one man was thrown from a bull and his shirt ripped open, exposing rippled, muscular abs, I understand why the gays loved the rodeo.
I had wonderful dreams that night.
But some dreams are nightmares. I will never forget the Mr. Dixie Belle Leather contest held upstairs over the Missie B?s chandelier shop. I had anxiety about attending this gathering of tough, leathery people, so I attended with my new friend, Joe. A bit of history: Jay-Jay invited his harem of cowboys after the rodeo to cool off in my pool. I am a Christian woman and cannot reject any hot, sweaty soul in need. I went out with some fresh lemonade to serve them, and one young man (soon to be my new friend Joe) took a fancy to me. He sat and explained how the rodeo worked, with scores and judges and horseshoes. However, his voice was a blur, for all my attention was focused on how his little nipple ring sparkled each time he laughed.
At the leather contest, Joe seemed to know every tough, burly man that towered over me.
Big people don?t scare me. I?m petite in stature, but my faith makes me tower over others.
This night, however, was interesting for a short woman. I had full view of bare buttocks, bulging leather genital-holders and leather brassieres. This leather festival was a perfect opportunity for men and women to chew on cigars and avoid shaving their backs.
I was truly disappointed that Mayor Mark Funkhouser wasn?t in attendance, for it seems he?s involving himself with more fringe groups nowadays. As I was driving home, I pulled up his number on my speed-dial to give him a piece of my mind. Heavens, he certainly has gathered to his bosom all the folks who hate dogs and Mexicans, but he leaves the leather people alone? Doesn?t he realize that these people hate cows, and proudly adorn their bodies with the trappings of their enemies? I started giggling, thinking of Frances Semler of the park board wearing a sombrero.
His wife, Gloria, answered the phone. ?Funk is sleeping now, Francine, and I am the official mayor while he sleeps. You can express your concerns to me.? I agreed to meet Gloria at bar Natasha the following Saturday afternoon.
Bar Natasha, named for a cartoon character. I should have known it?s Gloria?s favorite spot. As I waited for her to arrive, I noticed groups of hunchbacks gathered at tables. Excitedly thinking I may have stumbled onto a Quasimodo family reunion, I wandered over to peek. Sadly, none of the people were deformed, they were merely drunk and playing a satanic gambling card game called Texas Triple Something and trying to win prizes. The whole thing was a charity event for AIDS Walk Kansas City. Those people, again.
Gloria never did show up. I imagine she got busy sewing a new calico sundress for the upcoming Jewel Ball.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.