A new year, and already I?m looking forward to spring, and the main reason ? April is the month when procreating heterosexuals have their once-a-year intimate relations. I have been invited to dozens of birthday gatherings these first two weeks of January, and as I count back nine months, there?s evidence that most proper Bible-Belt Christians choose one evening in April as their night to be intimate. Two of the offspring, Victoria and Jim, celebrated their 21st birthday with bar-centered events, and here?s proof that alcohol makes you age prematurely.
For shame. If only I could take over America, and lead sinners such as these to a more youthful, healthy lifestyle. Oops! That sounds like an invitation to pray ? get down on your knees, reader.
As we kneel in prayer, I wonder if the Lord will really strike the Demon-crats from the earth and install the Rev. Michael Huckabee as our next commander. I get little shivers when I see him on television, and I know that in the coming months, as we count down to the Rapture, we?ll need the Most Rev. Mr. President as our Lord?s mouthpiece. I hope he reads this fan letter and sends me an 8 x10 glossy.
Like many of you, I spent New Year?s Eve in bed ? praying. As the clock struck midnight, sweat beads formed on my brow and my clasped hands trembled as I asked God to lead me into temptation, and then quickly back out again. Sort of like a Jesus Amusement Park ride. And as Kansas City?s favorite Christian (yes, you sinners have actually sent me e-mails crowning me with this honor), I will be able to lead you out of this lifestyle you have chosen and down the path to PTO meetings, birth control and year-long abstinence (see paragraph 1, above). To begin this transformation, I?ll share with you four pages from my diary this year:
Tuesday, January 1, 2008.
Dear Diary,
Gloria Squitiro, wife of K.C. Mayor Funkhouser, sends me her annual holiday letter. If you?re unaware of its infamous contents, she describes watching a physician give her husband, the mayor of Kansas City, a prostate exam. She described the physician?s fingers as ?sausage-sized.? And she writes ?when the doctor hit his mark ... Funk?s eyes bulge[d> out of his head.? Honestly, Gloria. The things you politicians say... and do... to get the gay vote. Truly sinful.
Friday, January 4, 2008.
Dear Diary,
I?m sorry I haven?t written anything this week. The first week of the new year was blissful and peace-filled. My pool boy, Jay-Jay, just started screaming in the other room. I ran in (thinking that his Brazilian waxing session had gone awry) and discovered that he had won two tickets on the radio to a Korean comedy restaurant. He?s taking me tonight.
Sunday, January 6, 2008.
Oh, Diary.
Margaret Cho is not a Korean comedy restaurant. She is a woman who stands on a stage and tries to get people to laugh by using dirty words. Beautiful little animals, like beavers, have their names ruined with her nasty tongue. I washed my own mouth out with soap when I got home, and I still don?t feel clean. Maybe a sponge bath with Clorox.
Saturday, January 12, 2008.
I attended a private event held to honor me and the contributions I am making to Kansas City. Held in a formerly stately residence in a faded neighborhood, I endured countless speeches of accolades and (while I love the adoration) I can?t handle alcohol. (In fact, it was my unfortunate DUI that led to the court order mandating that I write this filthy column for Camp.) Someone handed me a Sloe Gin Fizz, I took one sip, and nearly fell asleep.
At that moment, a young man nipped my backside with a tiny pinch. This caused me to shriek, soiling my Roberto Cavalli silk blouse with the adult beverage. I was rushed to the nearest restroom to clean the stain, where I discovered a trio locked in a friendly embrace. I ordered them out so I could clean my blouse with club soda. It was a humid night, however, and my blouse would not dry. I was forced to wear my mink for the remainder of the celebration.
The curse of being me. Aren?t you jealous?
To end this week?s column, I have discovered something about the gays that really annoys me: Everyone wants to be tipped. I?m always handing out extra dollar bills for you hairstylists, waiters, and now I must hand hard-earned cash to men who dress as women pretending to sing songs? This whole gay tipping thing is so complicated.? Am I tipping the song-faker and/or is the money going to Musicians Union? You?ll have to bear with me, Kansas City, as I try to understand the fascination you have with throwing dollar bills at cross-dressing drag queens and kings. I?m straight, fiscally conservative and totally confused."