Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, don’t fail us now.

Chicago + beer = fat drunk and stupid. Well, maybe not fat.

Drive to Chicago to visit Crip. Use the south side surface streets, for the “scenic drive.”

Crip: You are so going to get a beat down.

There are plenty of places to park on the near north side. Trust me on this. (If you drive a scooter. Or Nike iPod shoes.) Parking is important, because if you have 1/2 a brain, you won’t be driving anywhere soon.

Chicago loves baseball. Not good baseball, like the Tigers. Shit baseball, like the White Sox or those other guys. So go catch a game at historic and dirty Wrigley Field. You’re all “WTF” about anything Crip wants to do. You are so WTF that you can’t stop flashing the WTF sign* on the El. Chicagoans respect that fake gangy-looking thing, like Dilana respects Vanilla Ice. Too bad it’s too fucking hot to wear a hoody to complete the hip hop ese look.

*use both hands, middle finger and pinky out; do it with arms crossed over your chest if you are super blase-cool)

You are so going to get a beat down.

The game sucks.Why? Because it’s the Cubs, dumbass. The D-backs are the one team in baseball that can make the Cubs look good, and this night is the one time they decide to do it. Fuckers. Cheer for your homies anyway. Call them “my homies” while flashing your signs. Scream whatever comes to mind, like “Harry Carey sucks.” WTF, eh?

You are so going to get a beat down. (But not from a real baseball fan – they hated Carey.)

You will find out that Cubs baseball is not really about the “sport” – it’s about getting laid. That is what everyone is trying to do.

Play along.


In the same direction as the place you got hot dogs is a bar. Yes it’s true for ANY direction in Chicago (that there’s a bar), but I mean that way <— from where the players park. It starts with a G and the building comes to a point. It’s right next to 85 other bars. In that block. Yeah, that’s the one. (ed.: Ginger Man – “your source for late nite, free, leftover stadium hotdogs.”)

You: Dog Style, and keep ‘em coming.
Bartender: STFU before I give you a beat down.

The girl (Laura) from Wrigley is here. You leave her and your buddy Crip at the other end of the bar, so he can, uh, ingratiate himself into her, uh, consciousness. She keeps calling you back to where they are, so she can flirt with you, in front of her new friend. Plus, she wants to pay for your beers. So you go along. You’re the wing man, Goose. Take one for the team.

Pretend you think she is funny. Pretend you are listening to her stories. Pretend you are not just striving for a glimpse of boobage, or an“accidental” grasp of ass (that doesn’t lead to a beat down for you).

Wow. This sounds like she’s YOUR date. Yes, it will end the same way. With you sleeping alone on a couch.

You are so going to get a beat down. Probably from Crip, because it’s his couch.

As a true gentleman, offer to walk this girl home. Mostly because that is what Crip is doing. You might be able to find the El by yourself, but you have no fucking idea where to get off. And no keys. And no more money. Plus, if you’re wrong, you will walk to Iowa.

Look, there is another bar. Go figure. Drinks, billiards, stupid late. Just like you’re all 20–somethings.

Walk her the rest of the way home. Even past a cemetery, because how fucking cool is that at 3 am?

A: Only for George Romero. Or Zombie Elvis

They stop; you keep on walking. Crip joins you down the street after they experience  some interpersonal closing shit that you dare not even imagine.

“OK, tough guy, how do we get back?”

Late night, sleep-deprived drunken behavior ensues.

Man leaving bar (to man already across the street and walking as fast as he can without looking like that is exactly what he is doing to get away from this psycho): “I AXED you POLITELY can I have a light?”

Man leaving bar: *drops severed head of Marlboro man*

You are so going to get a beat down.

Crip (to now insanely drunk comrade): Radar, you need to cool it. Right now. We are not in a good neighborhood [lost somewhere in “Uptown”].

You: Really? What was your first cl –

Crip: *whispers* You need to STFU. NOW.

Crip *walks down the middle of the street, pretending not to pee his pants in sheer terror*: We need a cab.

Crip: *sees cab on cross street a block away, runs*

You: Huh. Where’s he going?***

You (to the guy jonesing for a smoke): Your women. I want to buy your women. The little girl, your daughters… sell them to me. Sell me your children.
You *internal monologue*: Uh-oh. Was that out loud?
*runs to the one cab brave enough to stop for drunken crackers way out of their own ‘hood*

You are so going to get a beat down.

Elwood: It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses.
Jake: Hit it.
Cabbie: Fucking morons. I should have let you get the beat down.
Man Leaving Bar (now beating on taxi windows): Brains! Bbbrrrraaaaiiiinnnnssss!

Later that night [Ed: morning] you discover yourself wandering one of the floors of the fire escape/balcony of Crip’s building (you hope).

How did you get there? No fucking clue.

Where is the condo from here? No fucking clue.

But, there’s no crazy ass zombies or rats in sight, so you can take your time trying to figure all this out. Eventually, you will come down from the third floor balcony you’re on and make your way back inside (dammit), even if you have to break in like you were looking for booze at a frat house or something.

You are so going to get a beat down.

8 thoughts on “Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, don’t fail us now.

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