|The Cubs are people! They’re made out of PEOPLE!!!!|
The Cubs are people, and I don’t mean they are a team comprised of human beings. They are that, but . . . no to the duh. I’m saying the Cubs consist of a litany of metaphors for people just like you or me or that guy who keeps sniffing his fingers on the train. It’s like the Cubs assembled a motley cast of unremarkable human beings and, instead of putting them all in a house for a reality show, they processed, amalgamated, and packaged them into a baseball team.
The Cubs are people. The Cubs are you. If any of these statements don’t apply to you, just look over your shoulder. Somewhere lurking behind you is the statement’s intended recipient.
You don’t like your job, and you dream of finding a better one. But you know tomorrow you’ll be right back in that cubicle. You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You’d like a bigger house, but at the end of the day you know what’s really important is the people that make life special. Achieving your wildest dreams would be nice, but enjoying life wherever you are is what counts. You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You know that sometimes the only way to address your problems is to self-medicate, be the prescription alcohol, narcotics, or donuts. You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You want to get rich. The best way to make that happen, by your judgment, is to play the lottery. Somebody’s gotta win it all, right? Might as well be you! And by you, I mean the Cubs.
You see that person. You’re attracted to him or her. You’d like to go out, get married, grow old together. You imagine it all happening, but it never does. I now pronounce you the Cubs.
You want to learn to play the guitar. You get really good at Rock Band. You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You have tons of work to do. You spend your time talking about baseball. You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you. You are me.
You don’t like that person. You’d like to tell him or her off. You think of an excellent rant in your head. You post it anonymously on a message board after telling the true object of your ire to have a nice day. You are the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You don’t like the current regime that governs over you. You complain about it. You vow to vote for the other person. You’d never in a million years get involved in politics. You expect that eventually things will go your way. You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You have bad luck, so what’s the point? You’re the Cubs. The Cubs are you.
You are charming. Almost everyone likes you. Too much success would probably just spoil that. I recognize you from somewhere. I think I saw you play at Wrigley yesterday.
Every time the UPS truck drives by your house, you look out eagerly, hoping it will stop at your door. You didn’t order anything. In the event a package does arrive, go ahead and sign as “The Cubs.”
You watch romantic comedies and wonder if your life will ever be that romantic or that funny. Maybe if you’re Jennifer Aniston it will. But you’re not Jennifer Aniston. You’re the Cubs.
You believe in something. Anything. And you know that deep down, that’s enough. And let me tell you . . . you’re right. Especially if what you believe is that you are the Cubs and the Cubs are you.
You never stop hoping, and you never start trying. YTC. TCAY.
You realize this post is overly cynical.
You realize this post is on the money.
You realize this post only begins to scratch the surface.
You’re rolling your eyes.
You. Are. The. Cubs. TheCubsareyou.
You don’t care how stupid it is. It’s a game. It would be nice if they won. It won’t kill you if they don’t. Or maybe it will. Whatever. You know who you are.