I?m sorry, dear readers, for ignoring my social obligations this week. I?ve thoroughly enjoyed chatting with you, dizzily making dozens of appearances in the last 14 days. However, no matter how much money you spend on imported caviar (to impress me, I fear), I am nothing but a simple servant forced to obey the wishes of my masters, John Long and Jim Gabel. Pray for me, dear ones, that a pardon from Gov. Blunt will end this terror.
I?ve been told of some odd responses these last two weeks from some of my readers. I?ll lay it on the line: I am a church-going woman, with love for all of God?s creatures, including the gays. Therefore, I am incapable of causing offense. Maybe any readers who get that miffed feeling should just read that last sentence again. What a burden it is for me to maintain this status!
However, please do keep communicating with me. I do enjoy sharing stories of you heathens with my Bible-study group (they love hearing of boys shaving their underarms and the women who don?t), so I will get directly to the meat of this week?s column: the inquisitors of Kansas City.
Jim Gabel and John Long, publishers of Camp.
There, I?ve said it. These two overlords publish this piece of filth you hold in your hands, and it?s time that Kansas City (and the legions of admirers who read me on the Internet) know what I have to endure week after week.
These czars force me to cross the line of decency weekly. Each Sunday I am under court order (after my unfortunate DUI) to climb to their fifth-floor offices, pick up my social calendar for the week and write this column based on my experiences at those events. Today, I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a few shots of what I see on a weekly basis. The pictures tell all.
I walked in just as cover-boy Justin Van Pelt, Jim and John previewed the cover for this week?s edition. I could not believe my eyes ? no, not the nudity, the two percent body fat! I had my housekeeper deliver a case of Little Debbie Snack Cakes to his Hedwig dressing room. Everyone looks a little better with 10 pounds of baby fat.
Jim, associate publisher and creative director, gazes at me with jealous eyes, like an empress surveying the virgins of her kingdom. He?s jealous of my beautiful figure, my social network of celebrities and debutantes, and the delicate way I enter a room. His claim to fame is being the makeup artist in 1968 to Whizzo the Clown.
As I was covering the kick-off party for AIDS Walk?s 20th year, I discovered Jim and John in the corner of bar Natasha, devouring two huge piles of hummus and pita chips. If the good Lord doesn?t smite them for gorging themselves, their intestines will. Take it from me ? eating a half-gallon of tahini is nature?s secret remedy.
John, publisher and editorial director, governs over a messy desk. Mama always told me not to trust a messy man: ?They?re messy underneath, too.? I grew up in a shiny, sanitary home. Maybe a little too clean, now that I look back. If Mama hadn?t died of a botched plastic surgery, she surely would have died after seeing the disorder this man thrives upon creating.
Searching through the offices of Camp, I tried to find one bit of decent, inspirational material. I knew I was never going to find a Bible, but was hoping these people had the decency to have the latest Ann Coulter book, ?If Democrats Had Any Brains, They?d be Republicans.? But no luck. Only archives of old newspapers fill the space. Don?t ask me how I know, but there was a signed autograph of High-School Musical?s teen star Zac Efron in the men?s room. Unusual.
Francine offers her slightly skewed viewpoint on issues in the Kansas City metropolitan area?s LGBT community in each issue of Camp. This satirical column is meant in jest and non-thought-provoking fun! Francine?s opinions are her own, and they do not necessarily reflect those of Camp or anyone connected to 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.