I Can't Wait to Not Go to the Taste of Chicago!

I have been waiting, with baited fucking breath, all year, to not set one goddamned foot in the Taste of Chicago. It is going to be the highlight of my summer; avoiding The Taste like it's a Haitian crack whore with a needle habit and a pet monkey that I had unprotected sex with, and keeps calling me asking when we're going on a proper date. Don't get me wrong. Normally I love going to severely overcrowded places serving food on the street when it is 95 degrees and humid with overflowing public shitters and every type of low-rent criminal and social deviant one city has to offer. Typically I'm on that like a fat chick on a Denny's Grand Slam. But I'm sitting this one out. Sure, my air-conditioned condo with food I know the source of and cooked myself may not be as exciting, but I'm going to bed at night much less Hepatitis B'ed than I would if I ventured down to The Taste. And when "Flash Mobs" break out and beat the ever living shit out of some innocent attendee, until someone in the crowd who said "I'm packing my 9mm in case these Flash Mob assholes show up" pulls out their piece and starts firing into the crowd indiscriminately, well unfortunately I'm going to have to hear about that on the 11 o'clock news (Yeah, I know 11 o'clock news went extinct years ago, but I like to show my age). As much fun as it sounds, I'm going to go ahead and stay home this year and squirt hot sauce on my dick instead.