The Presser That Turned into a Game of Hot Potato

In the heart of the Windy City, where the pigeons outnumber the sane folks three to one, a routine press conference devolved into a spectacle worthy of a three-ring circus full of torch-juggling clowns and upright walking poodles. Picture this: a reporter, armed with nothing but a microphone and a grudge, lobs a long-winded grenade in the form of a question right at the mayor's polished loafers. "An illegal alien from Nicaragua grabbed a woman on the North Side last week, bashed her head into the sidewalk and raped her," the scribe bellows, his voice cutting through the air like a rusty chainsaw aimed right at Johnson's oil sheened fauxhawk. "If that had been your wife, would you want ICE to deport him?"

Johnson freezes faster than a popsicle in an igloo, as he just stares back with the wide-eyed panic of a deer caught in the headlights, and says something to the effect of, "Uhh. I uhh. Duh... Next question."

Enter the Evasion Expert: "Alright, Let's Move On!"

Oh, the drama! Instead of sputtering excuses or launching into a soliloquy about sanctuary cities being the real heroes, our fearless leader channels his inner game show host. "Alright, let’s move on…" he mutters, smoother than a politician's slogan and twice as slippery. It's as if the question was about the weather in Timbuktu, not a brutal crime that left a woman picking gravel out of her dreams. No outrage, no empathy—just a pivot so dull that it couldn't have sliced through butter, even if it was already at room temperature.

One could almost hear the immediate pant-pooping from Lake Michigan to the suburbs. Johnson's handler immediately cuts into the line of questioning, from demanding the speaker ask a question, to asking if it's even a question at all. The tension was so thick, it could give JB Pritzker's waistline and double chin a run for its money.

The Crime Scene: A North Side Nightmare Straight Out of a Bad Noir Flick

Let's rewind to the heinous act that sparked this fiasco. A woman, minding her own business on a crisp autumn stroll—probably humming show tunes or thinking about her memories of watching the movie Grease with her girlfriends—gets ambushed by a Nicaraguan national who's apparently auditioning for the role of "Chicago's Most Unwanted." He slams her skull against the concrete like it's a rival arriving at a mob wedding, then commits an assault so vile it could make Gavin Newsom gasp with a hand on his chest. Neighbors heard the screams, but by the time the cops arrived, the perp had vanished faster than a Dallas Cowboys' Super Bowl ring.

Enter the immigration angle: this guy's here illegally, skating on policies that treat borders like suggestions and deportations like optional side quests. The victim? Left with a concussion, a lifetime of therapy bills, and the sinking feeling that her city's leadership views her plight as just another Taco Tuesday.

When "Welcome" Means "Whatever Happens, Happens. Who Cares? We Don't!"

Ah, Chicago—the self-proclaimed sanctuary for everyone except, apparently, its own citizens. In a town where politicians choose a cash-grab over fixing any potholes they don't personally drive on, the mayor's dodgeball routine exposes the rotten core of it all. Why bother with pesky things like public safety when you can virtue-signal your way through another term while yachting? Deport the attacker? Pshaw! That might cramp the style of the open-door policy that's turning the Loop into a powdered wig wearing court of jesters, where every decree devolves into a pratfall parade.

We imagine that Johnson would howl that this apathy isn't about negligence; that it's a fantastical feature intended to bring harmony, and not actually be a bug in the system. Keep the illegals flowing, they say, to pad the voter rolls and prop up the welfare state. Meanwhile, locals stock up on pepper spray and wonder if the next "move on" will be to a city that actually gives a fricken' darn about their well-being.