I would like to declare from the outset that I am baseball-neutral. I will weakly root for a Chicago team over a non-Chicago team out of civic responsibility, but I don’t get bent out of shape about it.

What I DOES get me bent out of shape is when someone (actually a group of someones) steals my parking spot, is incapable of operating the parking garage kiosk, fills the Metra train to capacity so that I have to stand, blocks foot traffic, stops in the middle of a heavily-traveled bridge to take a picture, and otherwise disrupts my morning compute with their incompetent jack-assery.

In short, I hate Cub fans on opening day.

Oh, I hate Sox fans, too, in all their mulleted, gnarled-tooth, senselessly-violent glory. But they get plenty of derision hurled their way without me adding to it, and they also didn’t get in my fucking way today. So I’m not going to rail against them. It’s all about Cub fans for me right now.

It all started when I pulled into the public parking garage near the train station where I park every work day. I consistently park in the same spot, and it’s always available because it’s a little out of the way and nobody wants it but me; I like it because it’s number 551, which I remember by singing it to the tune of “Bye Bye Love.”

But today, TODAY, I had to park in number 549 which has absolutely no pneumonic properties to it whatsoever, because a CUB FAN parked in MY SPACE. I should be able to have his car towed away, but the Obama administration is anti-freedom Socialist Commies, and say the parking garage is “Public Property.” I bet Sarah Palin would let me shoot out all their windows and leave a bloody moose head in the back seat.

Then, at the kiosk where you key in your parking space and insert your payment, there was a line where there normally is no line, because Cub Fans are illiterate. Or, they can’t read digital screens. Maybe if a teeny tiny little man was inside, manually changing the letters, they would have had an easier time. Also, if the kiosk was covered with pretty ivy.

THEN, there were no seats on the train. I had to stand in the vestibule with the people who ALWAYS stand in the vestibule (I call them Vesties. Nick was a Vestie.) They smiled politely at me, but they knew I didn’t belong there. I was the licorice cow of the vestibule, and I stood by myself trying not to eavesdrop on their private conversations.

AND THEN, when the train got to the station, the assorted maturity-stunted ex-frat boys and stodgy, thick-calved early retirees in their Cub regalia impeded the natural flow out of the station by standing still trying to figure out how to get out of the station, or which exit they should choose, or should they buy a Cinnabon, or some such nonsense. I neither know nor care WHY they were frozen in place; all I know is they were fucking ANNOYING. Also: no stopping on the bridge to take pictures during rush hour, assholes!

In conclusion, Cub fans need to stay out of my fucking way. Plus, adding the suffix “-ies” onto your team name is ridiculous and wrong. Does anyone say “The Bearsies” or “The Bullsies” or “The Hawksies” or “The Soxies?” No. Fuck you and your “Cubbies.”

I need more coffee.