Ask Francine -The Whine of the Race Cars the Feel of Real Pearls
I just carried my trash can to the curb in front of my handsome Loch Lloyd manse (I am a pioneer woman) and bumped into my next-door neighbor, Christian construction magnate Roe Messner. He?s the widower of Tammy Faye, whom I accidentally killed with my tuna surprise casserole a few months ago.
?Roe,? I sighed, ?I am so sorry for your loss.?
?And I am sorry,? he said, ?that your grief over Tammy Faye has saddened that beautiful face of yours.?
Readers (all 12 of you), I felt as lightheaded as Marie Osmond a week ago when she fainted on that network television dancing show. This rich, Jesus-fearing widower is ripe for the picking, and he?s making a move on yours truly, Francine?
Thank you, God!
Never mind that his face looks like a hamburger bun that?s spent an hour too long in the steamer ? in the twilight of our wedding bed, I?ll just close my eyes and think of my pool boy, Jay-Jay.
And what a week Jay-Jay, my friend Joe (I first met him -- and his sparkling nipple ring -- at the gay rodeo) and a new boy named Leo showed me! But I?m getting ahead of myself. First, read a sad story about Kansas City, Kan.
That?s where the AIDS Service Foundation (and some health clinic that does free things) held a beerfest a Saturday or two ago. Full of ripe, sweaty college-age boys and the pert-breasted girls that tagged along, the afternoon event was a treat for me: watching men and women enjoy each other?s company. That?s what is missing in the Kansas City gay community! You men all hang together and act like women, while the woman all congregate and act like men.
As an elderly sloth took my beerfest ticket (she was labeled as a volunteer) ? my goodness, I?m a vixen today! I cannot believe that these awful things are escaping me! Surely you all won?t think less of me when I tell you that I tinkled a little in my pants (from fear) when I crossed over the state line into Wyandotte County? That awful NASCAR track was a stone?s throw away from the beerfest?s location at the Legends at Village West. I am terrified of large, petroleum-guzzling vehicles (except for my Hummer, of course), and I still shake as I remember the whine of those hideous engines.
Later that day, my little friend Joe called me up, saying that his new boy-toy had an extra ticket to the Heartland Men?s Chorus fundraiser at Starlight Theatre, and he wanted to be seen with me.
That boy is on a path to success, I assure you.
I wore real pearls to this thing, thinking that my arch-nemesis, Kay Barnes, was going to be in attendance.
She was, and glared at me the entire time.
Kay, I will NOT challenge your attempt to win the White House or whatever you?re running for. I won?t donate a dime to your campaign, but I won?t challenge you, either.
Back to Starlight. I love events where poor people pretend they?re rich. These sweet boys took the sheets off their beds (like Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland) and decided to put on a show! I saw many of my new friends from the Human Rights Campaign there (as I am now a Federal Club member with a multi-thousand dollar donation) and blew kisses to them all evening. Pure heaven.
Little Joe introduced me to his new boyfriend, Leo, who is as cute as one of those little cockapoo dogs (all petite and blonde), and told me that they were purchasing a home together. Their love started me thinking of my next-door neighbor, Roe, and how I would have to mash my face into a pillow on our wedding night so I wouldn?t scream as his hamburger-bun face loomed inches from mine.
A lovely dark-haired man told the audience that the chorus was composed of rich, white gay men. I giggled with happiness, for I knew I was with kindred souls. He and I even use the same shade of Miss Clairol: cocoa brown.
Suddenly, Leslie Jordan appeared in an ill-fitting rental tuxedo, slurring words that begin with ?P,? ?S,? ?F? and other letters that embarrass me to write, even in this trashy Camp pulp.
Readers, I?ll volunteer to entertain the troops in a Christian way next year, and will include that cute little drag queenette Ron McPheece or whatever his name is. That boy has talent. In my few years on God?s earth, I?ve only seen two performers with ?spark.? Little Ron is one. Liberace was the other. In my youth, I would travel from city to city following this master of the keyboard. I told little Ron that if he ever made his way to Loch Lloyd, I?d open the gate for him to visit. But he?d still have to use the servants? entrance like the other gays. They?ll do anything for a beautiful, rich bombshell.