My ears were nearly blistering from the steam that spurted out of them. I was as mad as a hornet, and this nasty piece of trash you’re holding in your hands, Camp, was responsible for my madness.

I am being forced to write this column as part of my punishment from a liberal Demoncratic judge after an unfortunate drunken-driving conviction. I was inches away from being released from my bondage, sinners, until that hideous Camp publisher, John, insisted that I spend a day learning about boys that impersonate girls. First, he said, take a look at some LGBT blogs online.

Men that pretend to be women to pick up men who like men but find men that dress as women are a satisfying substitute for the company of a woman make my head hurt so much that I need to put a cold compress just above my eyebrows from thinking about it. (Hint from Francine: Keep a washcloth soaked with a high-quality vodka in your freezer for just such an affliction. Vodka doesn’t freeze solid, so you’ll get an excellent compress and you can suck on a corner of it at the same time. Two-for-one pain relief.)

Thinking too much causes distress for Christians, even model ones like myself. But I pressed on, setting up my laptop and slogging through one blog after another. At first I prayed for this dreadful sentence to end, but then I got caught up in some tantalizing rumors about a Missouri official’s sexual preferences. A Republican, no less.

After comforting myself with a delightfully cold and lengthy washcloth pain treatment — and that rag was dripping, let me tell you — I decided to go for a walk along the streets of my gated community, Loch Lloyd, before traveling to my first drag queen interview. I also wanted to show off my new G3 iPhone to the neighbors. If I got lost, its new GPS function would be able to help me stagger back to my manse.

But as I walked the streets, intentionally getting lost in the beige suburban jungle, how was I to know that the gadget’s touch screen responds only to the warm tap of human flesh — not the click-click of my salon-created fingernails?

Boiling anger reaches new temperatures when one discovers that Apple designs their products for the nubby fingertips of men (and you lesbians). In a rage, I threw my useless iPhone into the air, then gleefully watched it sail, anticipating the exploding crunch upon impact.

However, my girlish aim was slightly skewed, and the phone arced into a passing BMW convertible driven my none other than the public official I had just been reading about. My iPhone hit him directly on the forehead, causing him to lose consciousness. His passenger in the car, a smooth, lean fraternity boy, screeched as the car was stopped by a sturdy maple.

The man jumped out and started screaming, “He’s been killed! Help me, help me!” It was clear that he was a boy-toy. As a result of this community service sentence I’ve had writing for Camp, I can smell gay from 20 feet away. He rushed around to the driver’s door, opened it, and the official fell out onto the pavement, the contents of his man-purse spilling all over the place.

Quickly, though, he regained consciousness, his eyes filling with panic as he saw his belongings encircling him. “Get back into the car,” he hissed, picking up his travel-sized Clinique moisturizer and easing into the driver’s seat. “We need to get back to Springfield.”

The official was sweating profusely, muttering about his wife and how she didn’t need any more rumors. The boy-man put on a pouty-face and climbed back into the Beemer as the official untangled the fender from the tree. I remained in the middle of the street, watching the couple squeal their tires as they exited through the Loch Lloyd gates.

My iPhone, lying the middle of the street, began to ring. As I reached down to answer it, I saw that the caller ID showed that Sen. Larry Craig was on the line.

I don’t have Sen. Craig in my contacts list, I thought to myself, but I know who does. That Missouri official. It seemed that he and I had accidentally switched iPhones.

I remember thinking, just before the persistent ring of my very own iPhone woke me up (and I had an even worse headache!): I now have the cell phone number for Rush Limbaugh. And James Dobson.

And Cher.

Wouldn’t I have had some delicious phone calls to make?
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 francine@askfrancine.com.