When sin sits on your doorstep, you know the end of the world is near.
I’m talking about that stinky MGRA rodeo, which was held last month at some nasty place outside of the city limits of Loch Lloyd, where I have a fabulous manse.
The stench of the cows, the cologne of the gay cowboys and the musk from the unshaved lesbian underarms drove many of my neighbors to their lake vacation homes that weekend.
Being the strong Christian woman you’ve all come to know and love, I lounged at my pool and let the LGBT rodeo stench flow over me like acid rain. It was a punishment from God for writing this column. My raw, tender skin continues to sting two weeks later.
Speaking of stinging, don’t get me started about the bruised, inflamed red bottoms those AIDS Bicycle Challenge people suffered after riding their bikes in circles downtown. You queer folk tend not to be very adventurous, and riding your $1,200 mountain bike in a circle around the gay bars doesn’t exactly qualify as a hardship. I am sure they appreciated your money, for it does go to a good place. But in my mind, the poor fools who rubbed ointment on your hineys that night are 10 times more adventurous than you.
October is full of sin. Celebrating sin, people who’ve died of sin, and sinners dressed as people who’ve died. Of sin.
National Coming Out Day. What? Do you all just hold your gayness in all year and then suddenly pop out of your bathroom dressed in leather and lace (flannel for you women) and surprise your co-workers and neighbors?
That’s what I thought -- everyone knows you’re gay. Why don’t you have a National Staying in the Closet Day? That would bring in more attention and headlines, sinners.
Then the Kansas City Repertory Theatre is doing a reading of _The Laramie Project_. Used to be, the Kansas City Rep was headed by old, dried-up queens who pretended to be straight. They left the gay plays for the Unicorn and the Coterie. Now that the Rep is elbowing their way into gay theater like a stocky roller-derby queen, I’d love to be a fly on the wall over on Main and inside Crown Center.
And finally, the gay Christmas: Halloween. I worship Jesus while you all worship Satan. ’Nuff said?
I’m handing out little New Testaments for those unsaved children lucky enough to knock on my door this year. Once their greedy little fingers grasp the Holy Word, my best-pal Bishop Robert Finn, dressed as a priest (because he is one) will throw a bucket of Holy Water on each miserable soul. All he has to do is touch the water and it becomes holy. How convenient, and I’ve got a swimming pool full.
Bring it on, sinner children -- souls will be saved this year!
I came upon this old photo of my great-great-grandmother’s tattoo of the Last Supper stretched across her back. I continue her passion to spread the word of the Lord, albeit in a more demure fashion. Like, in my heart and soul.
Now that we’re entering that gluttonous holiday season, it’s time to showcase how other people celebrate the Lord’s holiday. Pay no attention to the homosexual rendition of the Lord’s Supper (ABOVE), for we all know that LGBT folk have no souls.
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.