I have these two friends. Though it would be a wildly uninhibited stretch of the imagination to ever qualify them as moral or upstanding citizens, they occasionally have one or two redeeming qualities. These qualities, I suppose, justify me in keeping them around, as I am Mother Teresa to their lepers. Ladies and gentleman, meet Dirty and Filthy, Chicago's finest gutter rats. You can normally find Dirty, Filthy and me associating with other morally-bankrupt Chicago nihilists at any Boystown establishment, or swilling martinis at an upscale and overcharging Andersonville martini lounge, where I indulge in four too many mint chocolate chip martinis before taking home the duplicitous and kinky bartender.
Dirty is a saucy, loud and proud Latina who fancies himself to be Puerto Rico's answer to Tyler Perry's Madea. His best friend might very well be the gay iPhone app known as Grindr (this nauseating app would inspire repulsion from anyone who has at least a shred of dignity left, no matter how desperately they are clinging onto that shred). It is in your best interest not to piss off Dirty, due to his momma bear sensibilities and larger-than-life personality. Otherwise he will be on you like a fly to shit, taking more satisfaction in giving you a what-for and an ear-bending than most people take from masturbating. At times he is so relentless that you might try to escape, only to have him literally pull you back by your legs as you scramble and claw to get away with your fingernails embedded into the floor.
Filthy is best described as a bitter Asian bear (if you don't know what a bear is in the gay community, Google it and look forward to an onslaught of sites with such wholesome titles as daddysbigfist.com.). He's an optimistic individual who walks into work on Monday and, when greeted by his lowly assistant who cheerfully calls out, "Good morning!," he glares and snarls, "What's so good about it exactly?" Next, he'll walk into the boardroom and announce, "I smell Lane Bryant," before locking himself in his office and singing Forence + The Machine's "The Dog Days Are Over." Filthy is essentially the gay equivalent of Miranda Priestly for the 40+ set, except he lives in Chicago and doesn't wear Prada. That, or one could liken him to the bitchier version of Mr. Miyagi.
Dirty and Filthy are the type of friends who will listen to your raging horniness throughout the evening, until Filthy notices a Jersey Shore frat boy who is incapable of detaching himself from his own reflection in the bar mirror. At that point Filthy will, without warning, proclaim, "Oh my God, it's Brant," and push you ass-backwards into the unsuspecting stud. As you profusely apologize to Unsuspecting Stud for his now-crimson wifebeater, you notice he is strikingly gorgeous and has the cockiness of a well-endowed rooster. The next thing you remember before blacking out is bonding with Unsuspecting Stud at the bar over his narcissim and alcoholic tendencies. That is, until his cockiness would unnerve even The Situation, and you drunkenly slap him across the face, only to immediately apologize and pray you didn't scare away that night's lay. Unsuspecting Stud will tell you he actually kinda liked it, and you will inexplicably reply, "Yeah you did!," before slapping him AGAIN. Despite his cheek now matching his Cosmopolitan-stained wifebeater, Unsuspecting Stud will take you home and fuck your brains out for the next two months. Consequently - whether they like it or not - Dirty and Filthy have unwittingly unleashed a bad romance on you and all your friends, who hate Unsuspecting Stud's douchebaggery, skilled alcoholism, and the fights you two engage in at 4 a.m. bars on Christmas night. You are not good Christians.
So how was this fruitful and bad-decisions-infused friendship with Dirty and Filthy born? Well, it began when they had the good fortune to meet me at Midsommar Fest in June of 2010. I believe, for them, it was something like love at first sight when I made a flask materialize from the pocket of my True Religions, and ran behind a fence to pour out some of my coke and add cotton candy-flavored vodka to it. Incidentally, when I poured the coke out from behind the fence, Dirty and Filthy witnessed a shocked older couple walking by who thought I was pissing brown liquid in public. For reasons that need no explanation, I have not been able to get rid of Dirty or Filthy since.
As friends we share many similar qualities - a passing fondness for one another, a sarcastic, abrasive and often cruel sense of humor, and a disdain for the other fools we consistently find ourselves surrounded by. And, of course, we hate the same people, who won't be named in this blog (mostly because I enjoy not being slapped with libel charges).
Now consider this: one year later, Dirty, Filthy and I have established a routine in which we meet once a week for drinks, gossip and debased evenings. Because who can ever pass up an opportunity to make an ass of one's self, spend money that could go to, oh, I don't know, food?, and wake up feeling like a trauma victim? Not us. Sometimes people at the bar invite themselves to dinner with us, resulting in inexcusable evenings at nice restaurants, in which families look on in shock and disgust at the obscenely inebriated homosexuals who are ensnared in a boisterous conversation of anal sex and fisting. Afterward, like more polite homosexuals, we discuss the latest Real Housewives of New York episode and Filthy delusionally likens himself to the Countess De Lesseps, or Saint LuAnn as we know her. As Dirty looks on in confusion and asks, "Who's the Countess?," Filthy turns to me and remarks in disbelief, "Did you just hear that?! He doesn't know who the Countess is! Oh, dahling!" I cannot bear to inform Dirty of who the Countess is, much like I cannot bear to inform Filthy that he lacks any of the Countess' style or panache.
And while we would like to consider ourselves as The Real Housewives of Chicago, in truth Filthy and I are more akin to a modern-day, designer-wearing, boozy and over-sexed Lucy and Ethel (he is, clearly, the Ethel to my Lucy). Naturally, in our appalling antics of immaturity and scheming, the Puerto Rican assumes the role of Ricky Ricardo.
This is what I imagine Filthy and I look like when reviewing drink specials at the bar.
Last weekend during our weekly Devil's Meeting, Dirty, Filthy and I adjoined at Sidetrack for cocktails. It was there that Dirty, in an outrageously inappropriate gesture of whoredom, decided to open his mouth wide and show the entire bar his cock-sucking abilities (say, is the reason behind his name "Dirty" starting to make any sense? You can only imagine the situations and pillow-talk Filthy gets himself into.). It was apparent that someone had to teach Dirty an etiquette lesson on what NOT to do in bars. Being the good friend I am, I took such a task upon myself, and promptly stuck my fingers into his mouth. At such a sight, Filthy nearly lost it and spouted his drink across the bar while Dirty chastised him and screeched, "Don't you laugh!"
The remainder of the evening was spent at bordello-wannabe Scarlet, where Dirty, Filthy and I danced like a couple of tone-deaf monkeys and I threw Dirty onto a couch and gave him a lap dance while "Teach Me How to Dougie" blared. Then Filthy whispered to me, "Oh my God! It's the black Charlie's Angels!," and I whipped around to see three African American women posed like a straight-to-cable version of Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu. While two of the three were rather skinny, the other looked like Jennifer Hudson during her "Dreamgirls" days. I quickly decided that she must be the one with the personality, and so I dougie'd my way over to her. It wasn't long before Jennifer Hudson and I had attracted a crowd, with her standing above me on the couch, flailing her over-sized hips and arms, and me dancing like a little slut-boy in front of her to Rihanna's "S&M" (OF FUCKING COURSE). Only later would I notice that Jennifer Hudson had an Adam's apple.
However, the best part of the night was still to come. This would undoubtedly occur when Filthy and I were standing on the corner like two social pariahs who were desperately in need of their nicotine fix. About 15 feet away from us we noticed a rather attractive and rather drunk-as-all-hell 20-something with a not-so-attractive and not-so-skinny 40-something Mexican. The sound of a zipper and the sight of the sasquatchian Mexican's hand down the guy's pants was too much, and Filthy and I began to laugh. Filthy chanted, "Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. Money can't buy you claaaaaaass. Who let Kermit the frog out?" The unlikely pairing, hearing this, decided that they were not in need of a catty audience and wisely relocated to the Mexican's car across the street. Unfortunately for them, the 20-something fell on the street before reaching the car, and - to the twisted delight of Filthy and I - his pants fell along with him, right down to his knees. There the 20-something was, in all his failed glory, writhing on the street with his ass hanging out. The poor idiot made a vain, half-assed attempt to pick himself and his pants up. It was not a success. He fell again, this time with his pants all the way down to his ankles. By now Filthy and I had gone into hysterics and an immense bout of laughter so uncontrollable that I could not actually make breathing happen. There we were, bent over, crying, gasping for breath and howling like a couple of asshole hyenas. The 20-something, knowing fully well that we just had an amazing laugh at his expense, got up defeated and waddled into the passenger seat with his pants still around his ankles, as he and the overweight Mexican drove off to perform what I'm sure could accurately be described as the "nasty."
The next morning I texted Filthy and alerted him to the fact that he and Dirty would be featured in an upcoming blog post, so this way at least I have records indicating that they were forewarned. He texted me back: "I'm sure it will be a fine piece of writing. Because you're a beautiful, thoughtful, decent human being. I thank you for being you. I feel blessed to have you in my life."
You're damn right you do.
