I've taken a few steps to make rooting for the Cubs palatable. First off, I got myself a nice trust fund after being adopted by a Palatine insurance adjuster whose grandfather used to live in Sauganash and so therefore have a tangential tie to Cubs and Chicago mythology, since grandfather was the last in our family to work an honest job and apparently he went to Wrigley from his shift at the train barn once and saw Andy Pafko's stool. Then, I made sure to miss the first, second, third, fifth, seventh and ninth innings of the games waiting in line, either for the bathroom or to buy Captain and diets and $11 Old Style carafes at Yak-zie's, while making breast jokes about the three DePaul undergraduate sorority sisters near to puking in the beer garden and on their way to inevitable date rape. After urinating in some condo owners' well off Damen, I finally blared the Blink 182 from my Hummer 3, struggling to wrap the seatbelt around my distended gut, as I drove westward down Irving Park, making sure to forget the names of anyone on the Cubs roster other than "Wood" and "that "Fuku" guy," and not minding that my "It's Gonna Happen!" poster blocks my rear view for my drunk drive home.