Wow, what a city. The embers of productive industry having been long extinguished in Michigan’s deepest hole, I’m afraid my professional diagnosis is that the entire metropolis of Detroit, as a singular entity, has a severe case of borderline personality disorder. “Oh, you’re from Detroit. That must be nice. What? Well, fuck you and your mother, too!” Now, as a lifetime resident of Philadelphia, I understand what it is to wear the city that you’re from as a badge of honor on your sleeve. What I don’t understand is how you can still do that with no sleeves on. Seriously, Detroit… get a real fucking shirt. I suppose you’re well within your rights as residents to be bitter about the declining state of affairs in your community, but that doesn’t make it okay to rev the engine of your Charger like an asshole and try to run me off Eight Mile Road just because I have a Pennsylvania license plate. Just keep your hands on the wheel and don’t make eye contact. I’m sure that Robocop will have this city cleaned up in no time. And if he can’t, here’s some advice for anyone planning on visiting this emotional time bomb of a commonwealth: Slap a Lions bumper sticker on your car, grab a toothpick to chew on, start practicing referring to almost anything as “some bullshit,” and hold on for dear life. If you’re not from Detroit, you’re clearly against Detroit… and you should be punished accordingly. After all, that’s what you get for being some uppity yuppie from somewhere else; and if you continue to insist on speaking in complete sentences and having an opinion other than “fuck that,” we’re gonna have a problem.