As you uncover the mirror each morning, widen your tiny eyes, smile your best misshapen smile, and exclaim, “Francine loves me, this I know, for her column tells me so!” Then put the black cloth back over the mirror. You’re ugly, you little perverts.
Beautiful people know how to do everything much better than you. People like Miss California Carrie Prejean, for example. I have never been as proud of a fellow beauty queen as I was when she told the world that “opposite marriage” (as everyone knows) is between a man and a woman. You “same marriage” sinners began to scream — nobody likes noisy queerfolk — and you all should be screaming in your nasty bedrooms, on your knees, hands bound, begging for redemption from our Lord and Savior.
Let’s face it: You all elected John McCain’s opponent, thinking he would save you and instead, he’s turned out to be MY best friend: backtracking on his “don’t ask, don’t tell” military promise, staying silent about those liberal states allowing people like you to have MY marriage rights, and hanging out exclusively with white people. Now that I think about it, I’m adding him to my Facebook favorites list.
There has been some controversy about another beauty queen (and one of my dearest friends) Gov. Sarah Palin and her daughter, a teenage mother who’s going out on the circuit promoting abstinence as birth control.
Sweet thought, but she’s missing one thing: the Thigh Master. A young girl should keep her thighs tight and muscular. That’s the only way to ward off any unwanted advances from those one-eyed monsters that boys keep as pets. So proud of their monsters, boys spend hours feeding and stroking them — in fact, I’m surprised that boys have any time to give women due to the maintenance of those nasty creatures.
Some of you boy fornicators don’t give women any time at all. You choose instead to create your own little monster menageries.
Imagine my disgust the first time I saw one of those filthy rodents (my retinas still burn at the memory). We women, created by God in His own image, are enthralled by rainbows, unicorns and delicate butterflies. My heart soars as I think of my childhood girlfriends and me, running through soft meadows in our bare feet, our bodies caressed by soft silks and satins in the warm sunlight. Memories of slumber parties, snuggled under the covers with my girlfriends and giggling at the wonders of our budding breasts and delicate privates.
And if Bristol Palin gets on Fox News one more time talking about her pregnancy and how the best form of birth control is a wooden clothespin, I will go into my pool boy’s cottage and throw something at his television. It totally disgusts me that this little baby-mama is getting national press attention and I’m stuck here in Kansas City writing a column for a fag-rag that only 12 people read.
Yes, I said fag-rag. I went to see Dane Cook at the Sprint Center last weekend (in an executive suite, of course) and was so overjoyed to be surrounded by real breeding people — people who naturally reproduce and don’t use hired human Easy-Bake Ovens to create their designer babies. We laughed at gays and lesbians and told limp-wristed jokes and LOVED IT! I get so sick of being politically correct, of having to use GLBT until the lesbians got militant and now we have to use LGBT but the questioning queers get their satin jockstraps in a tizzy and now we have to use LGBTQ and it just gets curiouser and curiouser. And don’t even get me started about that rabbit hole.
Which reminds me of a hole you perverts call a mouth. I was at a local restaurant this week, interviewing candidates for the Missouri Right-to-Life chairman position. I was in the middle of an interview with one young man when the waitress stood over my table and drooled on my Bible. Thinking she was having a seizure, I jumped up, ready to give her a hiney-lick maneuver.
Then I realized she was adjusting a piercing in her lips by flip-flopping her mutilated tongue around. Imagine the sound of the bile bubbling in my stomach as I was forced to witness this horror.
I didn’t hire that young man, anyway. After seeing the waitress’ tongue, he muttered that her mother should have had an abortion and stomped out.
I don’t know what’s wrong with this world, perverts, but I will continue writing about the Truth until my best friend, Jesus, shows up again. He’s still on vacation (that’s why he’s not answering my calls), but I’m expecting a response any day now.
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.