Dear Note Pad: I'm sitting in the lobby of the National Association for the Advancement of Recovering Catholics. (Motto: For Jesus' Sake Get Over It.)
I'm here at NAARC of my own free will (what's left of it). Tho' insurance won't cover tonight's marathon session, BTL foots the bill (and costume rental).
I'm with Sr. Serena Scatterpin, Renegade Sisters of Mary, who knows a thing or two about NAARCs. Thanx to my legendary temp-service, longhand, curlicue skills, she's asked me to take notes. (No mean trick with Bugs Bunny mitts on.) Humane Society spell check's next.
We're in furry drag – this is a NAARC cuddle-up, "furcon" (convention). For reasons of homo- and hetero-sapien mating, mounting and/or molting, yiffing's popular here, but never permitted on Sunday (without a leash).
Sr. Scatterpin's dressed as Big Bird. Sesame sashay down pat. Floofy feathers. Stylish. Emu of London. Nesting hatch flap (with matching Tom of Tiffany egg ) breezy and tagged: "Zippered In or Out by DKNY." Wraparound talons: St. Joan of Crawford, Quirk of the Hills, Ltd. Question: who are the other 500 fursons in cartoony jumpsuits and flea collars?
Between us, DNP, I think Father Manly Everready, S.J., just might be Baa-Baa Black Sheep or Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. Lots of furries are wearing ovine outfits, so it's hard to say. Whatever furvert he be, he's holding ham hocks with curly-tailed Little Piggy Who Went to Market (or, is it Who Stayed At Home and didn't get none? Groan.)
There's somebody who looks like Cho Merica Tiger on a yipes! stripes! day. Shaking a bandaged head. Comforted by Ed Seldom Lions. "You think you've got it bad, Cho? What about us? We haven't had a rip-roaring romp or a hefty, hardy, heave-ho, fifty-yard, pigskin pass (with matching butt slapping) in years."
While I'm no NAARC card carrier (tho' I look like one in my Bugs Bunny get up with vibrating carrot) I qualify says Sr. Scatterpin. "You're recovering well from old age — the next best thing to recovering well from an excess of bead counts and 6 a.m. kneel ins on fat ankles and calloused joints."
I must admit, DNP (this is definitely on the LGBQ-T. No sharing with the Archdiocese of the City of Detroit), I've yiffed once or twice with a well-known bishop who likes to get dressed as St. Peter Rabbit. I got him going with, "What's up, Doc?" (My Mel Blanc imitation's hot!)
Our play-leapfrog session was heaven. Even if the bish', defrocked and unmasked, looks like Jonah's beached whale. (His backyard play pen's no Mr. MacGregor's rose garden, either.). But, honestly, DNP: I like to yiff. Just weeks ago I had a swell time yiffing dressed as the Cow Who Jumped Over the Moon. A rather full – and cheeky – harvest moon, at that. Not being RC, I can't yaff and/or shrimp on Friday. But I do digress.
All in all, it's a five-star Looney Tunes night. We sang Farmer in My Dell, Talk to the Animals, revived the Chicken and the Pony, Fox-TV turkey trotted about, watched Animal House 1 and 2, cuddled, groomed, plucked, preened, scratched, clucked, cackled, hen-pecked, breathed deeply, swallowed hard, snorted, burped, belched, then voted for NAARC's furrydom 'toons of '06.
First prize: Mr. Wm. D. Camel (in oilcloth burka). Second: Me. (Thanks BTL.) Third: The Little Piggy Who Stayed Home (ate roast "beef"). Plushophile Boobie Prize: Good Ol' Pink Elephant and Do-Nuthin' Dem-O-lition Donkey.
As Pork Barreler Porky Pig sezzit, "T-T-That's all folks!" Unfortunately.
A yiff in time gets mine
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