“There he is, it’s Filthy Frank,” they’d whisper in clandestine tones, the women instinctively shielding their breasts with folded arms.
But the kids, they didn’t get it.
“Frank doesn’t look filthy to me,” the Steeple’s son said one day.
“I know! My arms and hands have layers of grit on top of streaks of dried mucous, and no one calls ME filthy,” the ripe son of the Mooneys added.
But what the neighborhood kids were too young to realize was that there are several definitions of “filthy.” And Frank was the sort of “filthy” who invented variations of the Dirty Sanchez while on a bathroom break at the Adult Bookstore and waved to their mommies in special ways when no one was looking.