Writing this column for monsters gives new meaning to Halloween. But now that we’re moving on, I can concentrate my soul on dead turkeys and a little fat man wearing a red outfit whose name spells SATAN if you mix up the letters.

Seriously, sinners, I’m worried for Kansas City. By the time you read this, the election will have passed, and I pray that my boy, Little Sammy, will have beaten the pants off that woman in Missouri’s Sixth U.S. House District.

And more important, I predict that Sarah Palin will be the next vice president. When old Johnny dies, then yours truly will take charge of the Oval Office, and you’ll be reading reruns of this column for four years.

But I’m sick of politics. Let me tell you about my latest adventure in dog-sitting.

Little Jay-Jay decided that with the bad economy (I had to cut his salary as my pool-boy because my Korean nail lady raised her prices), he was going to be a professional dog-sitter. A dog baby-sitter. What a booming business he quickly created, and there were dogs of all sizes running through the yard, day and night. I fired my lawn service and had Jay-Jay taking care of my shrubbery, which allowed me to get weekly pedicures, as well.

And then he had to go and get sick.

I’m tired of you sad-sacks moaning on and on about not having health care. Just pull up your boots and get well! And that’s what I told him to do when he said he had been diagnosed with strep throat. As he lay in bed, large dark circles under his eyes, I almost thought he was faking it.

But when he threw up a little blood, I smiled. He was telling the truth.

For two days, I walked his dogs. I personally had chastity belts made for the little girl dogs, because we all know that the boy dogs don’t respond well to abstinence training.

So when Jay-Jay recovered and I had some free time, I had an idea: I should save the world. You see, I’ve been witnessing boys on boys and girls on girls for quite some time, and frankly, it’s sapping my strength. So I’ve decided to write a little pamphlet for you homosexual sinners describing your first six days in hell after you die.

I’m calling it:
Day 1: You’re dead. In Hell. You’re being pulled from the Light, away from joyful, delightful things (like this column). You hear a lot of moaning, and you smell smoke.
Day 2: You yell for a bottle of Fuji water, but they bring you a warm bottle of Costco tap sludge. And then you become aware of the heat. Thick, choking and miserable. And it’s only Day 2.
Day 3: At least you think it’s Day 3. It seems like you’ve been here forever. Where are my Beer Bust friends? My barista from Starbucks? You stumble upon them, huddled on the ground, weeping and wailing. They gnash their teeth because there is no beer and no caffeine in Hell.
Day 4: Oh, if you could only send a message to those of us you left behind. The thought of your drinking buddies coming here is unbearable ... unless they could sneak a six-pack past the Grim Reaper.
Day 5: There is nothing good nor sacred in this place. Nothing holy and nothing made by God can be found (my column is not published in Hell, by the way). You’re amazed at how deep the gulf is between good and evil, much like comparing the quality of a house liquor and a premium liquor. You get the connection.
Day 6: Through the darkness you see a new face today, full of terror and fear. He asks a question, but all you can do is open your mouth and move your silent lips. You’ve just spent six days in Hell, and all you can do is pretend to be a lip-synching drag queen. Have a happy eternity, sinner.
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.

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