This is it. Our year. The Cubs’ year. The year of living dangerously. At least for every team that dares to cross the foul lines with the Cubs. It’s the year of the monkey, my friend; that nasty, smelly, furry little f–cker that’s been on our backs since Henry Ford introduced the Model T. THAT monkey is about to get swatted like a Kyle Schwarber moon shot across the great divide that’s separated the Cubs from the phrase “World Champions” for the past 107 years.
This is the year we make like the Bosox and bury our curse; the year we put that friggin billy goat on a spit and serve it up with a sixer of Old Style and a lip-smacking, artery-clogging, basket of curly fries. Besides … if I happen to go down for a dirt nap cuz of a celebratory, junk-food-induced coronary, I will have died a happy man, headed to the big locker room in the sky knowing the Cubs finally hung a W on their last game of the playoffs.
So enjoy the season, peanut shells. It’s gonna be fun.