It's October. The White Sox and Cubs are completely out of the postseason race to the World Series yet Chicagoans are still somewhat happy. Sure there are the select few Northsiders who are bitter that it's been the 100-and-someteenth consecutive year that they haven't been able to get completely inebriated in front of a marquee that says 'Champs!' while simultaneously vomiting on their 'bro'. And sure, there are the select few Southsiders who wake up in their 1990 Chevy Blazer with the 2005 White Sox World Series bumper sticker, crying tears of sadness onto their burnt CD of Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin'. But for the most part, Chicagoans are still happy.
We're still happy because October rules. It's not freezing cold yet. There are still fests to look forward to. Pumpkin Patches. Sam Adams Autumn brew. Slutty girls in cat costumes. It's the calm before the subzero storm.
But then it hits us. Winter. One second we're sitting around a camp fire drinking some bootlegged apple pie shots from our weird friend in Indiana and the next we're cussing at that bitch Mother Nature because we're sitting in our car waiting for the stupid defrost to work so we can beat the traffic on the Kennedy. It never seems gradual, does it? One day it's "Ahh this is perfect weather" and the next you wake up to Dennis Quaid and Jake Gyllenhaal telling you everything is going to be ok. Can I tell you the last time I was warm? It was yesterday because I waited for a coworker to get done in the bathroom so I can sit on his warm toilet seat. But before that it was like August.
But I will be warm soon, Chicago. That little announcement that doesn't mean much to most, but something to plenty: "Pitchers and catchers report today," is my light at the end of the Siberian Tunnel for this Polar Express. No more ever having to hear or see the word 'Chiberia'. I know that sooner rather than later it will be baseball season and a whole new set of complaints based on heat are looming in the very near future. Soon I will smell the hotdog, beer, and vomit aroma emanating from the stadiums. Soon the sweat will flow down my ass crack as the overweight guy with horrible BO invades my personal space as I travel south on the red line. Soon the hipsters will flow through the streets of Wrigleyville because "Winning is too mainstream". Soon I will be wearing shorts and not 13 extra pounds of goose feathers. Soon my penis will be on the outside of my body.
Soon Chicago, soon.
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