Wrong, Just Wrong.

According to this here news article, which might as well have been titled I Always Knew Penguins Looked Kind of Fruity, "two male penguins who have developed a budding romance at a Canadian zoo will be separated so they can mate and breed with their female counterparts."

Wrong, just wrong.  And I'm not simply referring to the fact that zookeepers are splitting up an obviously-interracial couple (I mean, "Buddy" and "Pedro"?  One of those is clearly Mexican).  No, I am also referring to the fact that - if you look at the ages - Buddy has a solid 11 years on Pedro (who is only 10).  Disgusting.

However, I also see that their "romantic gestures include sleeping together every night, defending their territory, making mating calls and constantly standing alone together."  Is that not normal?  Do only penguins do this?  Well, shit, then, I must be part penguin, because that's how the majority of my boyfriends and I have acted.  Especially the mating calls part.

The zoo's curator of birds (that job title actually exists?  Seriously?) has been quoted as saying, "Two girls have been following them; we just have to get the boys interested in looking at them."  Yeah, good luck with THAT.  Already knowing the shitstorm of gay penguin love that you're up against, if you can't even get the boys to look at the two hussies, how in the fuck exactly do you plan on getting them to sex 'em up?  I knew from the second I saw it that "Curator of Birds" was a bullshit title.

But, apparently, this is isn't the first time two gay penguins have fallen in love (no, really?  Because homosexuality doesn't exist in nature, OH NO SUH!).  The article describes a similar incident that occurred at the Central Park Zoo in 2004, in which another gay duo "was offered an abandoned egg, which they hatched and raised together."  You know what I gather from that?  Gay penguins were being given more rights in 2004 than gay men are now.  Still, only in New York, people.  Imagine what would have transpired if these gay lovebirds had found themselves in a Texas zoo.  There would have been some tiny lynches involved, I tell you somethin'.

Please, Take Your Infinite Stupidity Elsewhere

So today, right?  As I was scrolling through my Facebook mini-feed, I stumbled upon this real gem of a photo:

If you ask me, this obviously-Republican college senior seems like a ripe candidate for Arrogant Asshat of the Month if I ever saw one.  Is it a guy or girl?  I'm not sure, because whoever it is has wisely hidden their face.  I'll assume it's a man, since it would take a lot of testosterone to fill one's head with the crippling superiority complex as witnessed above.

"Working 30+ hours a week making barely above minimum wage"?  First of all, that's not very difficult, but it's certainly not glamorous either - unless you do it at Abercrombie & Fitch, like I did.  And then it's still not glamorous, just boozy.

"Moderately priced, in-state public university"?  An in-state public university?  Well then, what's the point in boasting about a 3.8 GPA?  From the sounds of it, he's not even going to a Public Ivy.  Book-But-No-Street-Smarts up there doesn't realize that no one looks twice at your GPA after college; you're lucky if they even take a first look.  Neither does he realize that, if you actually have a level of intelligence that would insinuate you're smarter than those attending the nearest community college, you can still get a GPA to be proud of and party like a freshman recruit with a low alcohol tolerance during Rush Week.  That way - because you actually had something resembling a social calendar in between 24-hour-oh-shit-appointments at the library - you won't feel the need to rub your GPA in everyone's faces afterward.

"I got decent grades in high school and received two scholarships, which cover 90% of my tuition."  Yeah, about that, buddy, we all got "decent" grades in high school.  Some of us got "good," if not "excellent" grades.  And, as my friend divulged upon reading your Confession of Douchery, "I had 100% of my tuition covered, and it only took ONE scholarship."

Finally, as if I would ever go around flaunting the fact that I live "below my means"...what does that even mean?!  No wonder he has to hide behind a piece of paper; most likely to cover his taped-up glasses and knocked-out teeth, because I have no doubt that this guy right here is one of the rare few who gets bullied in college.  Is this some type of a satire, or something equally insipid that I just don't get?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready to go watch the over-privileged who don't make it into the aforementioned 99% on Revenge.

If It Struts Like a Cougar, Dresses Like a Cougar, And Talks Like a Cougar...

...but is only 24 years-old, then it might not be a cougar just yet.  But give it time.

West Palm Beach-er, Queen Fruit Fly and Miami brunette Barbie-doll Stefaknee read the post below, This Isn't A Comedy, It's A Horror Film, and within minutes had pounced on me like - you guessed it - a cougar, for defamation and exaggeration of her character.  As she refuted:

Stefaknee:  "Why, WHY, do you continue to call me a gold digger/cougar-in-training? I finance your cigarettes and martinis, for Christ's sake.  I couldn't be more opposite.  Now, if you talkin' bout my fine ass, that's another story."

Me:  "Stefaknee, babygirl, maybe one of these days you learn some proof reading skills, hmm?  Because if you look closely, while I do call you a cougar-in-the-making, I say nothing about gold digging.  Meaning that one of these days - God forbid you procreate - you'll be the bitchy and successful hot mother on the block who pulls up next to her son's high school water polo buddies in her Mercedes convertible and tells them that she has candy in the backseat.  Kind of like Courteney Cox."  [Or Melinda Clarke on The O.C.]

Stefaknee was also quick to point out that her alias for this site wasn't very subtle, and told me not to write anything that could prove fodder for her she-devil boss.  I replied,

Me:  "I'm not that bad.  I do have a brain, and the alcohol hasn't killed all of its cells yet."

Stefaknee:  "Mmmm.  Debatable.  You'd be like, 'But your alias!  It's inscrutable!'  And I'd have to go out to Chicago and wring your pretty neck (probably your motive, to get me there)."  [Well, the girl ain't no stupid.]

 

Stefaknee's television counterpart.  They even have the same exact sultry hair and cat-like eyes.  The resemblance is disturbingly uncanny, minus about 15 years and the gold-digging, of course.

This Isn't a Comedy, It's a Horror Film

I often think of my life as a movie.  This is not simply because I have gorgeous hair, African American lips and a metabolism that would most bulimics would trade their asses for, but rather because I have a personality that is chameleon in nature, scheming, manipulative, and rivals Naomi Campbell's.  In other words, I'm a Gemini, and was born to strut in front of a green-screen.  This has been witnessed by my best friend and former college roommate, Tuna (named Tuna 'cause she's a lipstick-lesbian and loves "sushi."  Ya dig?), who would walk outside our apartment while I was pressed up against the wall and smoking a cigarette in a gayer-than-usual James Dean pose.  Even Tuna's rugby-playing friends would come to parties at our apartment and comment, "We think Brant belongs in a movie.  He looks exactly like Val Kilmer circa Top Gun." (On better days, I have been likened to a younger Brad Pitt, but that is neither here nor there, and has in no way bolstered my self-aggrandizing personality.)

Recently, however, I've nearly been downgraded to Shia LaBeouf status (By the way, Shia:  learn how to control your public intoxication, or at least how to properly break a beer bottle over someone's head during a bar-brawl.  Amateur.).  Between being a recent college graduate, seeking employment and coming to grips with a dwindling bank account, I've realized that life isn't a comedy; it's a fucking horror film.  One that no longer involves Dior Homme, Dolce & Gabbana, master bedrooms with 14-foot vaulted ceilings or $14 cocktails.

And, as I prepare for the nearest gainful-employment that doesn't involve hawking $250 jeans in a desperate attempt to make a $25 commission or servicing customers at culinary establishments, let's just be thankful it's not the 80's.  Because if it were, cougar-in-the-making Stefaknee (more on her in another post) and I would be Wall Street enthusiasts, having a field-day and getting our yuppy on to New Order's "Truth Faith."  American Psycho's, anyone?

[Editor's note:  It was 4 a.m. and several long islands in when this post was originally written.]

And additionally - in honor of Columbus Day - I'm considering enlisting Tuna's help, us marching back down to Florida and doing exactly what it says in this photo to the people who currently live in our old apartment:

Who are Dirty and Filthy?

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.

Shit, Boy, It Must Be the Weekend, Cause 10 of These Girls Ain't Got No Class

Here to perpetuate the stereotype that all gay men are obsessed with fashion (and it's true.  Kristen Wiig's dress?  I'd rock it.), I present the 10 best and 10 worst fashions from the Emmy's, complete with my snarky and entirely unnecessary commentary.  And because the Emmy's took place over a week ago, this post is even fashionably late.  Just like us inconsiderate gays always are.

BEST:  Claire Danes.  Possibly the best dress of the night, this is blue and black done impeccably right...

WORST:  ...and this is blue and black (note the pointless little belt) done impossibly wrong.  Amy Poehler.  Oh, Amy Poehler, you sea urchin of a woman, what is wrong with your hair, your face, your dress, and just your whole entire look in general?  Can you please go back to dressing like Hillary Clinton?  Even that was a more flattering look.  Or are you attempting to channel Ursula the Sea Witch?

BEST:  Nina Dobrev.  I hear she's a bit of a diva, but does it really matter when you look this good?

WORST:  Kate Winslet.  While Nina above opted for something with a little flair to complement her dress, Kate and her red dress over here?  Boring (much like her movie role choices).  And her hair makes it appear as though she woke up in that dumpster next to me last weekend.

BEST:  Heidi Klum.  Normally I hate this woman, and I still kind of do, but she does have a decent sartorial sense.  And, call me a queer, but I like how the bottom of her dress resembles a bouquet.

WORST:  Christina Hendricks.  Dear God, woman, maybe next time you don't pick a dress that matches your exact skin color?  Or, hmm, I don't know, pick up a bottle of spray tan?  You're at the fucking Emmy's for Christ's sake.  So, if nothing else, try not to look like a Vegas showgirl from the 1920's.

BEST:  Kerry Washington.  I don't know who she is, but I love the color, the shininess, the intricacy, and the fact that the shredded bottom only kind of makes her look like a high-end escort (not to be confused with a 1920's Vegas showgirl, as seen above).

WORST:  Anna Faris.  I am speechless.  This is shininess gone wrong.  Me no like the sparkles.  And oh, dear Jesus, that pattern...can you spot the kitchen sink in it?

BEST:  Juliana Margulies.  Classic yet modern, simple, and I like the corset top.  Armani Prive never fails.

WORST:  Jayma Mays.  I love you, Jayma, so I'll try not to thrash you too badly here.  But, really, what were you thinking?  I mean, come on, I'm biting my tongue so hard I can taste blood.

BEST:  Kristen Wiig.  I love everything about this, especially the two-toned colors.  And to avoid sounding overtly-homosexual, I will not continue the list of reasons why I love it.

WORST:  Dianna Agron.  I tell ya what.  I have a set of royal blue satin sheets and would immediately be shown the door if I ever applied to Project Runway, because I cannot sew for shit.  But still, you give me a couple bobby pins and a pair of scissors, and even I could've made a better looking dress than THIS.

BEST:  Paula Abdul.  Pretty chic if you ask me, and the belt was a nice touch.  Unlike...

WORST:  Minka Kelly.  Originally I thought Minka was Jennifer Lopez and I didn't realize she was wearing Christian Dior.  I hated it, and not just because I hate Jennifer Lopez.  Then I found out that she was, in fact, Minka Kelly and her dress was courtesy of Dior.  And I still hate it.  The Dior bears a slight resemblance and some similar qualities to Paula Abdul's dress.  Except this one is over-the-top, you shouldn't pair black with navy, and...why is there lace?

BEST:  Padma Lakshmi.  You know how I said I had royal blue satin sheets that I sleep on?  Well I was thoroughly ashamed to admit that, because usually you don't find that out until after I've gotten you back to my place at 3:00 a.m. and, well, by then it's too late.  But I also have gold satin sheets, and this is what someone with actual talent could make them look like.  Unlike Dianna Agron up there.

WORST:  Amber Riley.  I've seen plus-sized women occasionally dress well before.  This is not one of those occasions.

BEST:  Heather Morris.  The ruffles are one too many, the neckline plunges a bit too much, the single earring is a little too funky, and the hair is too tall.  But fuck, it's Heather Morris, and baby I like it.

WORST:  Kathy Griffin.  I've seen girls at prom who looked better in this exact same dress.  Give it up, Kathy.

BEST:  Rachael Taylor.  The dress was daring, without being over-the-top.  Bitch looks good.

WORST:  Phoebe Price.  I've never heard of this troll before, and I hope I never do again.

Back in the U.S.S.R.?

This here blog has been up for less than a week and, according to my not-at-all-creepy visitor tracking, I've already had six people visit from Russia and one from Germany.  I am intrigued.  Mostly because I am wondering how they found this blog, and also because I find Russians to be oddly sexy.  Call it a fetish.

Look for a post, depending on my hungover status and whether I'm clinging to life or not tomorrow, detailing this evening's meeting with Dirty and Filthy.  As well as a nice little anecdote regarding the incompetent fool who I witnessed snorting coke on the train ride home; it was not subtle, and only amateurs do not understand that such events are to take place strictly behind closed fraternity doors and/or club bathroom stalls.