How Do You Like Me Now, Chicago? Fake Mayor Brandon Hits 90 Days in Office

"The Soul of Chicago is in all of us. That's why I made it my life's purpose to serve the greatest city in the world"

From the desk of Fake Brandon:

Act One

Chicago: Are we having fun yet?

In my first 90 days, I've turned our city into one, big safe space (during "don't shoot, gang wakey wakey hours) with equity and social justice for all.

Progress? We've got it by the deep-dish load.

• 1,009 shootings! A new Mayoral record for the first 90 days. Who says my voting block can't hit their mark!
• Brandon Johnson Newspeak you ask? Try this one on: No more "mob" labels for silly kids. They're just teens in "large gatherings"
• The "First We Get the Money Chicago" initiative is barreling down the tracks like a runaway "Equity Express" Green Line train with no peacekeepers on board! Up first: We are launching a $1MM and up property transfer tax kicker. And yup, it's not skipping those commercial transfers!
• Six out of every 100 black children in CPS are doing math at the expected grade level. This is such a huge accomplishment for Chicago's youth and equates to precisely $435,870 spent on every kid hitting expectation (based on the $29K CPS spends per child for every child)
• And all those who think that the other 94 percent of our youth aren't educated: Let me say they sure can count when sneaking past the metal detectors at the United Center to fire off a few rounds and stab a fellow concert attendee (prior to getting a five-finger discount at the concessions and merch as they head for the door). Smart little buggers.
• Hey Cub fans who boo me, how's that love feeling now? Big kudus to the CPD for adopting my "See no Evil" policy on the North Side after Karen stumbles out of Wrigley smelling like White Claw. North Side haters, consider yourselves warned: Wait for the Sox Glock Switch giveaway next season

All this progress aside, I've used the past three months to spruce up my wardrobe, scratch the back of my comrades at the CTU, and ensure my police detail is fully staffed.

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On that note, we've gotten full funding for the 149 police officers (Detached Services 543 and 544) assigned to my detail.

Granted, while "my detail" may not be as big as my predecessors, for the roughly 1.5 percent of total CPD officers assigned to me, there is no strap on required or Medicaid funded gender affirming surgery required (and unlike rumors surrounding a past Mr. Mayor, I also plan to keep "my detail" as far away from my detail as possible)!

Despite these accomplishments, I do need your help with a few things.

First, what's up with this talk about giving the CPD "CTU educator" bennies?

Puleasssse! Over my sequined equitable mayoral sash! If the force thinks they're getting the same perks as my CTU brothers and sisters, they've stepped over one too many migrants on the way into the Police District building.

Second, I must also take this time to express my anger that we could not make the charges of "sexual misconduct against a migrant new arrival by CPD" stick as part of a disinformation campaign. You know, to deflect from the 600 student allegations of sexual misconduct and 16 criminal charges filed in the 2022 school year at CPS alone.

Keep it in your pants, teach!

Third, it's scratch the back time for those trial lawyers who fattened my campaign wallet. Their 7-Eleven "minor pilferage" clients from the latest "peaceful gathering" downtown are set to see more zeroes in settlements than a Chicago winter thermometer. And a sultry wink to the CPD in this case — they've perfected the art of being hands-on enough to ensure our city's coffers get a good shakedown, while showing the restraint I expect.

Act Two

Keep the "Chicago Exit Tax + Reparations Act of 2024" between us.

But put those silly party hats on now, folks!

We are just a few short weeks away from the "no cash bail" extravaganza!

Chitown, we got this!

I'm just getting warmed up.

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A Chicago Contrarian PSA: In the era of The Jean-Baptiste Point du Sable People's Revolution, getting away with political satire can be as tricky as navigating a pot-hole laden Chicago street with 17 syllables, while, well, nearly protecting your flank from a silly discharge. We'll be here until we're not.