Chicago, City in a Garden (of Maggot Infested Ruptured Badger Colons)

Through this whole move to Chicago, I’ve done my best to keep a positive outlook, even through a minor car accident and tickets every time I looked at a parking spot the wrong way. But you know what?


First impressions count for a lot, and so far, this is what Chicago means to me, deep in my heart:

Chicago, you are a bloated tick simmering in the steamy sphincter juices of a thousand syphilis-infected crack-whores. The meanest frothing mongrel leading a cavalcade of rabies-addled hunched terrors with the sole purpose of eradicating kindness and cooperation. A lowly prison rapist trolling for a fresh infant to sodomize while injecting AIDS into a column of passing nuns. A gibbering shape in the darkness intent in bathing and supping on glistening entrails of eviscerated doe-eyed Cub Scouts. A cackling demon awash in gore erupting from the eyes of a million screaming souls slowly roasting among the damned, gripping their still-beating hearts with a grotesque, deformed tongue to extract as they scream silently and convulse in helpless shudders.

Chicago lacks all decency, any modicum of redeeming quality extinguished long ago through a relentless barrage of venom and rage. It exists now as a black anguish permeating each street and avenue, infecting residents with a sour distaste for generosity and forgiveness. It licks greedy, deformed lips at the promise of tasting tears easily wrought from hapless strangers to its many guises. Were there any pit of worthless excrement and waste more foul, Chicago merely looks on in envy.

Why the seething diatribe? On top of everything that’s already happened while I’ve been here, my car was towed. For parking behind my own apartment building. So, where do I park, Chicago? I just moved here from another city, and I have no idea how anything works here. I just now filled in my change of address forms. I don’t know where I can park, or where to get these mysterious zone stickers. From what I hear, they cost $75 for the year, which is great, but there’s only two months left in 2005. So I get to spend $75 for two months, because the stickers aren’t pro-rated. Hey Chicago, my left nut is pretty salty; suck on that for a while. Are new residents supposed to be imbued with omniscience, glittering with the awe-inspiring holy light of regulation and zone detection? How the fuck does Chicago get any tourism when it treats people unfamiliar with its retarded and unyielding bullshit like criminals beating a puppy to death with a baby they just finished raping?

Here’s the funny part. I AM TRYING TO SELL MY CAR, YOU SOULLESS SPHINCTER DRINKING ANAL CRUST! I moved here, to this very area of town, so that I would no longer need my fucking car. It is now worthless to me, but I have to maintain a relationship with the city anyway, until the car leaves my possession. You want my car that bad Chicago? Fucking keep it. If I didn’t still owe the bank money, you could crush it in a monster-truck rally, and use the scrap parts to build the crying-virgin raping machine you always wanted. I know Chicago already has at least twenty such machines for every day of the week, but one more would cause jealousy among lesser pits of human suffering such as New York and Detroit.

Actually… I’m being too harsh. Chicago does have one redeeming quality: it smells better than a grain silo filled with a steamy soup consisting of dirty diapers, skunk corpses, concentrated moose urine, fermented buckets of gangrenous puss, and Barbara Streisand. Kudos, you disease-ridden jizz-belching road-whore of a cock-gobbling city.

Fuck you, Chicago. Fuck you right in the ear.