I hailed a cab on Saturday night to go to a friend’s house.  The driver was a polite brown man with heavily accented but superior English. 

We quickly established a nice rapport and chatted about upcoming summer events in Chicago.  He told me how he had just driven by Grant Park and they were already setting up for Taste of Chicago.  I groaned.  He asked if I had ever been.

“Not since I was little” I said “but if I died and went to hell I would wake up every day in the middle of the Taste of Chicago”

The cab driver laughed.  “It’s very crowded” He replied.  “And expensive.”  Then he seemed to change the subject, and insist that he wasn’t a racist.  I assured him that I believed him.  Then he asked me if I knew the real problem with Taste of Chicago.  I shook my head- no.

“The black people” He said.

“Errm” I said.

“I’m not a racist, I’m just saying that the black people cause all the problems at the Taste.”  He turned around in the driver’s seat to make sure I knew how serious he thought this issue was.

“Huh.  All the problems?  I didn’t realize that.”  I started counting how many more blocks until we got to Belmont.

“It’s like Lollapalooza” he continued.  “I’m am not a racist, I am not.  You must understand that I am not a racist” I braced myself.  “But the problem with Lollapalooza is all the black people.  They make it so bad.”

We came to a red light and he slammed on the brakes.  He turned around again.  We stared at each other for a moment.

“I’m not sure you know what racist means” I said.  Then I put my headphones on.

That cab driver was not only a racist, he was totally wrong.  The problem with Taste of Chicago is that no one wants to stand up while eating a turkey leg in 99 degree heat surround by swarms of fat people in shorts. 

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

I am single and looking and I thought you could help.

I have a fine personality, nice waist and good teeth. After college I worked at a Christmas tree farm where I was promoted to manager. Because of my status, the girls were after me, but I was too involved in my work to take notice.

Due to the economy the farm closed and I took a lesser paying job as a banana salesman. My boss recognized my talents and promoted me to “head banana” and I flourished. Again, I became a “chick magnet” and again I ignored the women for my job.

The banana poison scare hit and again I was on the street working as a consultant to a brassier manufacturer and now I am looking for a nice woman with a ski jump nose and small ear lobes.

What advice do you have for me on how to “score” with the chicks using my work experience as an “entre” (French for “get in”)?

Signed,

F. Myron Cheesbourough

Dear Myron,

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me