Yo, Phrom Philly Wit Brotherly Love

You've gotta hand it to Philadelphia-- not even three feet of snow, the result of a historic blizzard, can keep its young sons from killing each other in the streets.

On Thursday, while most people were fast asleep under cozy down blankets or having massive heart attacks from too much shoveling, two young men were slain, in separate incidents, on the streets of North Philadelphia, the latest victims to drown in Philly's brotherly bloodbath.

Now, say what you want about lazy people in the inner city, sucking on the teet of unemployment or SSI or resorting to nefarious proto-occupations like pimp, crackhead or burglar, but you've got to be a pretty industrious S.O.B. to make your way out of your house onto an unplowed North Philly street and take the initiative to put four holes in some other motherfucker's torso, probably over a bag of dope no bigger than my cornhole.

Now that's Philly pride.

When we get bitchslapped by Mother Nature, we don't cower in our rowhomes, we fight back-- against each other, of course. And we don't bother to wait for the cover of darkness to commit these acts of brutality-- the first fatal shooting took place at 10:50am, illuminated by the glow of the sun bouncing off the endless mountains of snow. We don't care who sees-- after all, who's going to stop us? The overworked, underpaid, mismanaged Philadelphia Police Department?

Greenpeace?

No way, man. We've got work to do. There's tons of asses out there to be capped, yo, and Philly is always up to the challenge.

The police have often relied on poor weather to reduce crime rates, citing the fact that, in normal cities, bad weather drastically reduces crime because even hardened criminals historically don't like to get wet or slip on the ice and bruise their tussies. "Rain & snow are the best police partnership in the world," high-ranking cops in white shirts have often said. Well, not in Killadelphia, they're not. Rain? Please-- I'm reloading. Snow? You better duck, motherfuck, 'cuz it's payback time on Cecil B. Moore Avenue.

If you think Philadelphians are going to be deterred from blowing unnatural holes in each other by a little fluffy white stuff, think again. It's like throwing a toy poodle in a black and white striped shirt into the middle of a rabid pit bull fight and expecting it to referee.

You may have your own opinions on murder, but you've really got to respect the dedication to task. I mean, I work for a small non-profit, and I couldn't even be bothered to shovel out my car this morning to go to work, and yet, there are shitskins and fucktards roaming Philly, armed to the grills, who are totally undeterred and undaunted by whatever precipitation threatens to stand in their way. Not only that, their potential victims even find a way to get outside of their shitty, pointless dwellings to offer themselves up as visible targets. And, even as their blood colors the snow a sickening sanguine crimson, I applaud their sheer pluck in just fulfilling their destiny as another dead Philadelphian.

Forget Rocky-- we should build a statue commemorating you, dedicated crime victim, and put it in front of the Art Museum. It would be bronze, of course, and, instead of a triumphant, imaginary figure wearing boxing gloves with its arms upraised, it would be a bronze cast of you, sprawled out on the sidewalk, like a 3-D chalk-outline, and tourists could lie down on the pavement next to you, their limbs grotesquely splayed and their friends could take pictures of it and post it on Facebook. This would require much less energy than running up and down the museum steps.

Yup-- that would be just fine.