The Philadelphian

Hey you.  Yeah, you.  All of yous!  Get over here, I got something to say.

You think you know this city?  This city of Philadelphia?  I’ve seen people like you, who walk around with your hoagies and Phillies caps and think you’re his holiness Will Smith himself.  You people make sick.  My name is Donovan McNabb Jones.  And I know this city so well it’s downright disturbing.

I was born in the heart of Philadelphia.  You know that big one you can walk through in the Franklin Institute?  Yep, popped out of my mom in the left ventricle.  So I’m told anyway.  My parents passed away from high cholesterol when I was 3.  Even at that age, I knew the dire consequences of having to move down the shore with my grandparents, so I packed my things and left home.  I managed to sneak into the Betsy Ross House, where I lived for some time in an old sewing machine surviving on rats and a 200 year old block of goat cheese.

Following that, I spent the next 30 years working odd jobs around the city as a scrubber, greaser,  grubber, and a grouper for a few years in the 70s.  I’ve seen the underbelly of this place, let me tell you.  I’ve had the black excrement that flows through the city’s sewers and diners been sucked into my skin and absorbed by my inners.  The doctors say I am a medical enigma, and have even named my current condition ‘Philadelphia Organ Toxicity Disease’.

My dogs are named Bellcrack and Citizens Bank Bark.  I love my brother even though he is the worst human being I have ever met.  And I’ve never told anyone this before, but I once stabbed a man at an Eagles game.  Only because it was what everyone else was doing.

So why am I telling you this?  Why am I standing in front of one of the city’s many LOVE statues yelling this at you and other people who walk by?  Well, the answer to that should be obvious by now.  I’m a Philadelphian, and that’s what Philadelphians do.

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