Delicate Christian women like me do not sweat. On a blisteringly hot day, I find myself surrounded by a light mist of perfumed perspiration, which is quite enjoyable to my companions. Hence, I am very popular during the summer months.
So you can understand that the last few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity for your dear, humble Francine as I jaunt from event to event, holding court for the masses. As you know, a liberal judge ordered me to write this column as community service after my unfortunate DUI. It should not come as a surprise to you little stinky sinners that at two recent outdoor events, I was delicately scented like a rose-covered saint.
One outdoor activity was held in a tent holding the AIDS Quilt at the Kansas City Pride Festival. The sun beat down upon hundreds of individuals gathered to hear Julie Rhoad, the NAMES Project Foundation’s executive director, talk. Bless her heart, almost nobody heard her discuss how the AIDS Quilt was modifying its message as the disease gains inroads into new populations. No, they didn’t hear any of that.
They were all trying to cozy over to me to bask in my floral-scented misty aura. Our own local expert on the saints, Bishop Robert Finn, has compared me to St. Teresa of Avila, who brought a mysterious floral scent with her, even to her crypt. I certainly hope they don’t open my casket after I die to smell me (like they did to St. Teresa), but it will be no surprise if they do.
As much as I hate to acknowledge this gay lifestyle you all embrace, I was amazed by the Pride Festival, concocted to convert unsuspecting heterosexuals into homosexuals, and even worse, Democrats. That John Koop can put on a show, and his organizing prowess is impressive. As president of the local Daughters of the American Revolution chapter, I would love to learn how he puts together such a production.
Speaking of unsuspecting heteros, I encountered a gaggle of them at another AIDS Walk fundraiser, Party with a Purpose. Held on Holmes Street in Hyde Park, the hosts opened their homes and street to children, families, dogs and, more disturbingly, the Renaissance people from Bonner Springs. In sweltering heat, these tapestry-wearing oddlings interacted with those of us who happily live in the 21st century. I’m sure that the 1600s were great years, but what hobby is worth wearing a codpiece and forsaking pantyhose?
One face-painting artist at the street party had been commissioned to paint a portrait of the Virgin Mary. As I walked by, he gasped and ran to me, pleading to use my likeness as a representation of the Holy Virgin. Two days later, the artist finished it, and they anticipate miracles beneath my likeness. As I was sitting for the artist, he asked me to push down my blouse’s collar to reveal part of my collarbone. I guess Mama raised me to be a prude, and I refused. In high school, I showered in my slip, and there are parts of my body that sunlight has never touched. Since my face created the Virgin in a painting, could my chaste prudishness also create a miracle or two of my own?
I decided to test out my powers. I had my pool-boy Jay-Jay find me a pregnant turtle from the koi pool, and I held the turtle in my lap and prayed for a miracle as I stroked her hard-ridged shell. The little thing went immediately into labor, laying three leathery eggs directly onto my chaste lap. I held the eggs in my hands and prayed for signs of a miracle.
Then I had my cook set the oven on low, wrapped each turtle egg in swaddling clothes and laid them in the Miele.
I figured it would take a few hours to hatch at 125 degrees, so I called Bishop Finn to come over to reminisce about his visit to my home this winter. He was dispatched from the Vatican to exorcise a curse from me, but ended up helping me make some lists instead. We giggled and drank wine, and he offered to rub my feet. He has the biggest, softest hands I’ve ever felt on a man.
Two hours later, the kitchen timer rang, and we ran in to see whether my hands did, indeed, perform a miracle. As the photo shows, one turtle hatched and was marked by an image of the Blessed Virgin on its little tummy. I’m on my way to sainthood.
And the other two turtle eggs? Well, they were soft-poached, and with a little caviar and hollandaise, the Bishop and I thought they were delicious.
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.