Jabroni Sandiego

If a tree falls in the middle of the woods and nobody is around, will Jabroni's still flock to Midtown like flies on shit?

Last weekend, we actually had the pleasure of experiencing an hour long conversation with a fully-certified, Axe-Body-spray-sponsored Jabroni sitting by our pool. His tattooed murals of skulls and women gripping penis-shaped daggers would make the hair on Salvador Dali's paintbrush moonwalk on your face. The only problem was, this young gentleman had no idea of his Jabroni classification. It begs the question, do Jabroni's actually recognize their d-baggery status level or are they in just as much denial as Roger Clemens testifying before Congress? Let's look at the context clues:

1. Dolce & Gabanna wrap sunglasses - CHECK;

2. Pinky ring with ominous skull head - CHECK;

3. BMW 3-series key ring - HALF-CHECK (He actually drove an Accord);

4. Memorial Day-weekend Airbrush tan - CHECK;

5. An attitude laced with Jager and Red Bull: DOUBLE CHECK;

6. Blueberry-infused Stoli vodka for the ladies of the pool - CHECKMATE.

Needless to say, we were taken aback when Memorial Day Jabroni was describing places he doesn't like to hang inside The Loop because of all the Jobbers. The only thing he was missing was a mountain of awareness. Have you ever listened to yourself in the mirror before?

We don't mean to judge, but it looks like we have a dead ringer for J status and it's like staring down the exhaust pipe of a 1976 Dodge Challenger. OK, we're lying, we even pre-judge the words you speak before they even consider exiting your talk box. So J-bags, if you walk like a duck, and talk like a duck, you're a fucking Jabroni. There's no hiding from these sleuths of the Loop. We're your worst Carmen Sandiego nightmare.

Son, you are even less subtle than the North Korean government.