During a recent social outing, a Cub fan friend of mine (yeah, I know; I ain’t perfect, folks) mentioned how much he enjoyed RSBS now that I had seemingly lightened my unadulterated bashing and verbal vexing toward his beloved Northside team.

Upon reflection, I realized that I had indeed let my guard down… and noted that a good old Cub ego squashing was well overdue.

So in the confounded interests of being hack — carefully considering the fact that hack sells — I reluctantly invoke my inner Jeff Foxworthy in order to remind Cub fans just who they really are.  

I declare:

• If you pop your collar, skip class and hang out at John Barleycorn with a pocketful of GHB, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you remind Southsiders about the 1919 Black Sox scandal at least once a day, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you think Wrigley Field is anything other than a dilapidated craphole with more falling parts than Amy Winehouse after happy hour, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you consider urinal trough diving an official sport, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you do not work yet can afford season tickets, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you are my brother-in-law and you made a baby with my sister, you might be a Cub fan (thanks a lot, Patrick, for ruining the Cardinal blood line).
• If you think the word “choke” only applies to baseball teams and has absolutely no physiological connotation at all, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you think a baseball game is just an excuse to shotgun Old Styles and annoy anyone within ten feet, you might be a Cub fan.
• If you think Magellan is the name of a shoe insert, you might be a Cub fan.
• If your team’s biggest fan is an impeached corrupt politician with Lego hair, you might be a Cub fan.

And of course, the most obvious sign can only be this:

If you sincerely hate my guts, you must be a Cub fan.

Go ahead and hate.

Just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.

Peace,

Jeffy