Letter From Milo: Marijuana Blues

September 18th, 2017

In five years, 10 at most, marijuana usage by adults will probably be legal in every state of the union, with the possible exception of Utah, a blue-nosed shithole known for moderation in all things except marriage.

It does my heart good to know that there are some places in this nation where a guy can smoke a little weed without worrying about getting his ass tossed into jail.

But, there is one thing that bothers me about buying marijuana legally – the mechanics of actually purchasing it.

According to some reports I’ve read, there are not enough marijuana outlets in Colorado. In Denver, people have to wait in lines, sometimes for more than an hour, just to get their hands on some reefer.

I don’t like the idea of standing in line for an hour, waiting to buy some weed from a clerk working in a store that will probably have a name like Mister Giggles. I’d much rather get my marijuana the old fashioned way – from my neighborhood dealer.

In the late 70s and early 80s, my connection was a guy named Gary, who lived on Sheffield, near Wrigley Field. Whenever I’d get down to seeds and stems, I’d stop by Gary’s place.

Hanging out at Gary’s was a pleasant way to waste a couple of hours. There was always good music on the stereo, stimulating conversation, and plenty of herb to sample. He enjoyed having people over and was a good host, generous with food and drink. I also met quite a few interesting people, and made some lasting friendships, while sharing joints in Gary’s living room. When I left Gary’s place, I usually had a smile on my face.

And that, my friends, is the way a civilized person, a real gent, buys his weed. When I was a pothead, I did things the right way. I shopped locally, patronized a small business, and kept my money in the neighborhood.

Gary’s been dead for about 15 years, but I was thinking about him recently, wondering how he’d react to the legalization of marijuana. My guess is that he’d be in full panic mode. Aside from a stint in the military, Gary had never held a regular job. He had always been a small-time pot dealer. And that’s all he ever wanted to be.

Legalizing the sale of marijuana in the state of Illinois would have ruined Gary.

Right now, in Colorado and Washington, there are untold thousands of pot dealers out of work, their livelihoods destroyed by arbitrary acts of their state legislatures. Like the ice man, TV repairman, the four-man pitching rotation, and Vaudeville, the neighborhood pot dealer is, or soon will be, relegated to history’s dustbin. These former pillars of the underground community now face a bleak and uncertain future, with nothing to look forward to but the dismal prospect of working for a living.

Good luck, boys. It’s been great doing business with ya.

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Letter From Milo: The Secret History of The Third City, Part 17

September 11th, 2017

A few years ago, when Benny Jay asked me to become a partner at The Third City, he told me not to expect much out of it. He said that the blog site was just a vehicle to entertain ourselves and a few curious friends. He said we could write anything we wanted. There would be no censorship, no rules, no editing, and, of course, no money.

He was wrong.

As soon as I took over as The Third City’s Society, Lifestyle and Religion columnist, our readership boomed. In a matter of six months we went from 14 loyal readers to hundreds of thousands. We became one of the most popular destinations on the internet.

And, in due course, the money started rolling in, shitloads of it. There was so much money that we didn’t know what to do with it. We had money stashed in shoeboxes in closets. We considered opening accounts in the Cayman Islands, but neither of us could locate the Caymans on a map. Benny flew to Switzerland carrying a suitcase filled with cash and opened an account under an assumed name. Unfortunately, a few days later Benny forgot the name he used.

The situation was becoming unmanageable. The Third City was in disarray. The books were a mess. The staff was in an uproar. The main problem was that Benny and I were not businessmen. Benny’s background was in journalism, and I had been a semi-successful advertising man until liquor, drugs, and irresponsible sexual behavior brought me down. Neither of us had a clue about running a wildly successful enterprise like The Third City.

We needed help — professional help.

“Milo, we’re in big trouble,” Benny said. “The Third City is too successful for its own good.”

“I agree. The whole thing is out of control.”

“It’s obvious to me that we’re in over our heads. We need a sharp businessman to look out for our interests, a shrewd operator, someone that will run this place with an iron hand.”

“That’s sound thinking, Benny. But where do we find someone like that?”

“Just leave it to me,” Benny said.

I should have known better than to trust Benny with such an important assignment. We went through three CEOs in six months. The first guy Benny hired was a 300-pound, tattooed brute named Lamar, who insisted that everyone call him “Barn Boss.” Lamar was last employed as a guard at the maximum security prison in Marion. On his first day as Barn Boss of The Third City, Lamar pepper sprayed all of the interns, just to get their attention, and then took a three-hour lunch. He left The Third City after a few weeks to work for the government. He’s now a valued employee of the CIA, in charge of the Waterboarding Department at Guantanamo Bay.

The next person Benny hired to run The Third City was 4th Ward Alice, a long-time City Hall insider who had worked closely with every mayor since the original Richard Daley. We had to let Alice go when we discovered that she had put all of her relatives on the payroll and tried to rig the Board of Directors election.

Then Benny hired a former carnival operator who called himself Colonel Harlan Parker. The Colonel was a fixture on the Southern Indiana carnival circuit. He claimed to have bilked ignorant Hoosiers out of millions of dollars over the last 20 years. He said that if he could scam hicks and yokels out of their hard earned money, he could easily do the same to The Third City’s readers. Shortly after he started working for us, a squad of Indiana State Troopers barged through the doors of our plush Michigan Avenue office, handcuffed the Colonel, and dragged him away. No explanation was given.

When Benny told me that he had found another guy to run the company, I put my foot down. “No, Benny,” I said. “I’ve already found someone and he’s perfect for the job.”

“Who is he?” Benny asked. “What’s his background?”

“He’s a distant cousin of mine, named Wally Popovich. I haven’t seen him in a long time but he’s the right guy for the job. He’s a numbers man, an accountant, and he’s worked for some huge companies, Enron, Bernie Madoff Enterprises, and Bain Capital.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Benny said. “When can he start?”

“He needs the job. He’s been out of work for the last three to five years. I believe he can start this afternoon.”

As soon as Wally walked into the office, everyone recognized that he was a world class scoundrel. He had the frankly larcenous manner of a raccoon. Yet he inspired confidence in the staff. His felonious demeanor put everyone at ease. With Wally in charge, there was no longer any doubt or uncertainty about the future of the company. We all knew what to expect. His intentions were obvious to everyone.

He was going to rob the company blind.

Although he was clearly up to no good, Wally was popular with the entire staff. He was friendly and courteous to everyone. He had the con man’s gift of instant likeability. He looked you in the eye when he spoke to you, was generous with praise, and never failed to buy the boys a round of drinks after work.

“A capital fellow,” someone said. “It’s a joy having a rascal like him around.”

“A genuine died-in-the-wool rogue.”

“He’s a real gent, a skunk from the old school.”

“Watching a con man like Wally in action is a real pleasure.”

Many in the company were saddened when, as expected, Wally emptied the company coffers and disappeared. The receptionist and two of our long-legged, busty interns took it especially hard. And Lance, our gay and lesbian affairs columnist, also seemed unduly upset.

We hired a private detective to track Wally down. They found him in Massachusetts. He had changed his name to Wally Cabot Lodge, and married into the Kennedy family.

Benny and I considered taking legal action to recover some of our assets. We contacted our attorneys, Dr. Matt and El Dragon, but they advised against taking Wally to court. They said it was nearly impossible to win a lawsuit against a Kennedy or a Lodge in the state of Massachusetts.

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Letter From Milo: Seeking a Second Opinion

September 4th, 2017

“Hey, Milo! Let’s get together tonight for a few drinks.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t.”

“My doctor told me I can’t drink anymore.”

“What! Like forever?”


Jesus, man, that’s horrible.”

“I know, but there’s still hope. I’m actively seeking a second opinion.”

I don’t remember when I had my first drink, but by the age of 16, I was getting drunk once or twice a week, usually on weekends. A few like-minded friends and I would pool our meager resources and buy a case or two of the cheapest beer in Northwest Indiana. Then we’d find a quiet spot, somebody’s basement, a backyard, a garage, or go out to the beach, and drink until we ran out of beer or got sick.

That was the beginning of my life-long affair with alcohol. Drinking offered everything I wanted in life at the time. It allowed me to spend quality time with friends, escape reality, feel bulletproof, act goofy, and get up the nerve to approach girls.

After stints in the United States Army — where I added a few more vices to my collection — and Indiana State University, I relocated to Chicago’s North Side. In a short time I discovered the taverns on Lincoln Avenue and quickly became a regular at some of that street’s finer establishments.

Coincidentally, it was during that same time period, when I began acquainting myself with Lincoln Avenue taverns, that I slowly switched from being a beer drinker to being a whiskey drinker. My drink of choice was bourbon on the rocks, but vodka, brandy or rum would do just fine if bourbon wasn’t available.

I don’t know why I tapered off on beer. There was a time I could put away a couple of six-packs – even more if it was a long night and I started early. But as I got older, three or four beers filled me up, made me feel bloated and uncomfortable. That was a problem I never experienced with bourbon whiskey.

I’ve got my wife to thank for getting me started on red wine. She had always frowned on my whiskey drinking.

“You should try red wine for a change. Instead of guzzling bourbon like a degenerate, you can sip red wine like a gentleman. It’s supposed to be good for your health, too.”

I took the lovely Mrs. Milo’s advice and started sipping red wine. In a short time, I was sipping nearly two bottles a day.

And then I suffered a Subdural Hematoma and ended up in the hospital for three weeks. I don’t know if red wine had anything to do with my affliction, but I never had any problems when I was drinking bourbon.

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Letter From Milo: On Cue

August 28th, 2017

The town where I grew up, Gary, Indiana, probably had more pool rooms than churches. And for young men of a certain mindset, those dim, smoky and wicked billiard parlors were where we learned about life. I was about 15 years old when I first walked into a pool room. In a very short time, I discovered the arts of smoking, drinking and gambling, pleasures that have stayed with me all these years.

I became a pretty good pool player, not great, but competent. I acquired enough skill to occasionally make a few bucks playing 9-ball, pea pool, straight pool, rotation and snooker. Playing 8-ball for money was beneath my dignity. The boys in the pool room considered it a frivolous game.

When I was 17 or 18, I lost interest in playing pool and pool rooms. By then, I had discovered other ways to pass my time, some were unwise, others were very pleasant indeed. I would still stop by a pool room once in a while, but those occasions became rarer as I grew older.

Still, those few years spent hanging out in pool rooms were not a complete waste of time. In the early 1980s, my knowledge of the game and its milieu got me a job as the managing editor of Billiards Digest, a Chicago-based magazine catering to pool players and the industry. I didn’t stay long. The only thing I liked about the job was the paycheck, but after a few months, even a paycheck wasn’t enough to keep me interested.

My involvement with the game of pool ended when I left Billiards Digest. I have not given much thought to the game or set foot in a pool room in more than 25 years. Then, this past Friday, a dear friend, who I’ll call Bruce Diksas, to spare him undue embarrassment, called and asked if I felt like shooting some pool.

“I’d prefer to take a nap,” I replied.

“Come on, don’t be a lazy fuck. I heard about a place called Chris’ Pool Room out on Wilson, by Milwaukee Avenue. It’s supposed to be a classic old room, like Bensinger’s. We ought to check it out. There aren’t many left in town.”

“Nah, I don’t want to go.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up in 20 minutes.”

Bruce’s interest in the game of pool goes way back. Like me, he became a habitué of billiard parlors as a teenager. His youth, however, was misspent in Bridgeport, on the South Side of Chicago, while mine, as I had mentioned, was wasted in Northwest Indiana. As a young man he even managed a pool room, although I doubt he includes that information on his resume.

Chris’ Pool Room was as advertised. It reminded me of the beloved dens of iniquity of my youth. The place was dark, dingy, and smelled of decades-old cigar smoke. The history of the joint is written on its walls, in faded and peeling posters, framed and yellowing newspaper articles, and autographed photos of long-forgotten hustlers.

It was early afternoon when Bruce and I arrived at the pool room. I was surprised to find that the place was nearly empty. Although there were dozens of tables in the room, only three or four were in use. And all of the players were older men, none seemed to be under under the age of 50. There were a couple of gents playing friendly games of 8-ball, and another two guys playing alone, practicing, keeping their chops sharp in case a money game came along.

We stayed for about an hour and a half and had a pretty good time. Bruce and I were still competent players, but we both realized something odd about our games. Although we had no problems on short shots, when we lined up long shots we noticed that the object balls became blurry, and it was very difficult to make delicate cuts. Our eyesight had betrayed us. I tried putting on my reading glasses, but it didn’t help.

Another thing I noticed was that I had difficulty with awkward shots. There was a time when I could stretch across a table and contort my body into an uncomfortable position just to make a shot. When I tried to do it at Chris’ I got a kink in my back.

As I was rubbing my back, trying to work the kink out, I consoled myself by thinking that I wasn’t actually getting older, I was just not in top pool playing condition.

When we left Chris’ Pool Room, Bruce made a comment about the lack of young people in the place. “When I was growing up, the pool rooms were packed with young guys. Now it seems like it’s mostly old farts.”

“I suppose most of the young ones stay home and play video games,” I said.

“That’s too bad,” Bruce said. “They’re missing an important part of their education. There are things you can learn in pool rooms that you can’t learn anywhere else.”

“It’s too late, anyway. Most of the old style pool rooms will be gone in a few years.”

“I hate to hear that. What do you think will happen to all the old fuckers who like hanging around in pool rooms?”

“I suppose they’ll be gone, too.”

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Letter From Milo: Road Warrior

August 21st, 2017

I’ve become somewhat of a hermit as I’ve gotten older. My comfort zone has shrunk to a few North Side neighborhoods. I hate to travel. I don’t like meeting new people or seeing new things. I’m uncomfortable with crowds. And I refuse to fly.

I am a weird old dude, and I’ve got the documentation to prove it.

The lovely Mrs. Milo, on the other hand, is the most social of creatures. She loves people, parties and travel. Fortunately, she has a wide circle of girlfriends, some of them also burdened with uncooperative or curmudgeonly husbands, who help her enjoy the social pleasures, things that I am unwilling or incapable of doing.

A few weeks ago, my wife approached me and hesitantly asked, “Milo, honey, is there any chance you’ll go on a road trip with me?”


“Upstate New York. My brother’s going to race one of his cars at the racetrack in Watkin’s Glen. It’s near Ithaca, where, if you recall, I was born.”


“What! You’ll actually go.”


“And you won’t grumble and complain.”

“I just agreed to go. I didn’t agree to behave.”

Ithaca is about an 11-hour drive from Chicago. We decided to drive to Cleveland, which is more than halfway to Ithaca, and spend the night at a Bed and Breakfast, which my wife found on the internet. The room was funky, it had a medicinal smell, but the breakfast was excellent.

We stayed at a B and B in Ithaca, too. The room was great, but the breakfasts were horrible. Everything – eggs, potatoes, bacon – was microwaved.

Despite the shitty breakfasts, we had a nice time in Ithaca. It’s a pleasant community, hilly, watered by several streams, with well-maintained homes, and dominated by Cornell University. It reminded me of Gary, Indiana. We did some sightseeing, found a few good restaurants, and patronized a couple of the local watering holes. Then, we were off to Watkin’s Glen to meet my wife’s older brother, Richard.

Richard is a retired naval officer, in his early 70s, with a lot of spare time on his hands. He spends that time buying, rebuilding and racing old Mustangs. And that’s how I ended up, on a fine Saturday in August, wandering around the pit area of the Watkin’s Glen racecourse. My wife and I were going to watch her brother race his Mustang.

I’ll admit that I know nothing about cars. In fact, I have no interest in knowing about cars. If someone had told me that I would spend an entire day nosing around the pit area of a racecourse, I would have laughed out loud and asked what they were smoking.

There were dozens of cars in the pits, most had their hoods up and a couple of guys tinkering with the engines. As I walked past some of these mechanic types, I could hear fragments of their conversations. And I could barely understand a word they said. It was like they were speaking a foreign language.

I realized, then, that these guys were like the kids I knew in high school who used to hang around gas stations, except that they had grown up and were able to afford expensive racing machines.

All of the race cars were covered in product decals – oil companies, auto parts companies, tire companies, etc. As I strolled around with a beer in my hand, I noticed a car with a prominently displayed “Hoosier” decal.

Ah, I said to myself, a fellow Indiana boy. I walked up to the guy working on the car and said, “What part of Indiana are you from?”


“I grew up in Indiana,” I said. “I noticed your Hoosier decal and wondered what part of Indiana you were from.”

He looked at me strangely and said, “I’m from Pennsylvania and Hoosier is the brand name of a tire.”

I smiled, nodded and walked away.

My wife and I spent another day in Watkin’s Glen, but stayed away from the racecourse. We sailed on Seneca Lake, ate at a couple of decent restaurants, and bought some souvenirs. The following morning we left New York State and drove straight through to Chicago. I was glad to get home.

About a week later, my wife approached me and said, “A group of us are thinking about going up to Michigan for the weekend. Do you want to go? It’ll be fun.”


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Letter From Milo: Help Wanted

August 7th, 2017

The Third City has become an internet sensation. Discriminating readers are flocking to the site. We’re up to 63 readers a day now, 64 when my sister is sober enough to navigate a keyboard.

Benny Jay, the genius who came up with the brilliant idea of starting a blog, says that as soon as we get 15 or 20 more readers, we can start selling advertising. All we have to do is keep up the great work and brilliant writing and the money will start rolling in.

Unfortunately, keeping up the “great work and brilliant writing” will be difficult. In fact, it may be impossible. You see, the staff here at The Third City ran out of fresh ideas early in 2009, shortly after starting this blog site.

That said, we couldn’t let The Third City die just because we didn’t have anything new or interesting to say. We had to keep the site going. There was potentially too much money at stake. So, we all had to figure out ways to compensate for our shortcomings, which include, among other things, lack of talent, inspiration, originality and complete ignorance of the most basic rules of grammar.

For example, that talentless hack, Benny Jay, a die-hard NBA fan, never writes an original word from November to June, when the NBA playoffs end. He has become a master plagiarist, specializing in stealing from Belgian pastoralists from the 18th century. He figures nobody will ever find out. He’s probably right.

Jon Randolph the lowlife who poses as a photographer for this site, ran out of photos more than a year ago. He’s been scanning photos from National Geographic, posting them every Friday and boldly claiming them as his own.

Rolando told us, by phone, that he’s too busy to write anything new. He says he’s working on a story that will make The Third City a legend in the blogging world. After years of the most arduous and dangerous undercover work, he claims to have found Barack Obama’s Kenyan birth certificate. He’ll post the story as soon as he’s released from rehab.

Jim Siergey began outsourcing his blogs to India about a week after we hired him.

As for me, my drug, alcohol and sex addictions have seriously cut into my writing time. I’ve posted the same story for nearly two years, the only changes being different titles and a new dick joke. Nobody seems to have noticed.

All of us agree, however, that the only way to keep The Third City in business is to add new writers to our staff. The problem with finding new writers is that we have extremely high standards. We won’t hire just anybody. Over the years we’ve turned down applications from Joseph Stiglitz, Kingsley and Martin Amis, Stephen King and the late Saul Bellow.

Then a thought occurred to me, a stroke of genius, really. In the past months I’ve become Facebook friends with many witty, talented, accomplished and highly literate people. Surely some of them would jump at the chance to write for The Third City.

I ran the idea by Benny Jay and he loved it. “That’s a brilliant idea, Milo. That’s why you make the big money around here.”

So, I sent notes to some of my dearest Facebook friends, asking them if they would care to write for us. Here are some of their replies:

The always elegant Elaine Soloway immediately unfriended me and changed the locks on all her doors.

The lovely Jessica Gardner replied, “Go fuck yourself and that goes for the rest of those losers you work with.”

The transcendent Chansonette Buck contacted her attorney who immediately applied for a restraining order.

The manly Bill Linden wrote, “I’d rather gnaw off my own foot than be associated with you barely literate clowns.”

The virile Matt Farmer wrote, “Who are you and what exactly is The Third City?”

The glamorous Barbara Biederman answered, “No! No! No! Never! Not in this world or the next. I would rather die a painful, lingering death than write a single word for your stupid blog. Are we clear here!”

The gentlemanly Harlan Stearn wrote, “You rotten bastard, you’ve been stealing my dick jokes for years and now you want me to write for you? You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

Even my old friend, the legendary pussy magnet, Bruce Diksas, turned me down. “Friendship only goes so far. And, by the way, where’s that money you owe me?”

Okay, so things didn’t go too well with the Facebook idea. Normally I would just go to Plan B. Unfortunately, I don’t have a Plan B. Matter of fact, Plan A wasn’t so hot.

That said, we still need writers at The Third City. If you’re interested, send us an application. Oh, and please enclose a crisp 50 dollar bill in the envelope. The money is for, ah, processing, archiving and eventually crumpling up your application and throwing it in the waste basket.

I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

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Letter From Milo: Feedback

July 31st, 2017

Recently the editors at The Third City hired a research company to figure out the demographics of our readers.

“The more we know about our readers, the better off we’ll be,” Benny Jay said. “Once we know who they are, where they live and their income levels, we can increase our advertising and subscription rates and squeeze even more money out of the dumb bastards. All of the big boys do it — Guns & Ammo, Hustler, The Daily Racing Form, Minnesota Swingers Magazine. We’ve got to do it, too.”

Well, I have to admit that I was astonished by the results of the survey. A surprising number of our faithful readers have been short-listed for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes. More than 70% have advanced degrees from Ivy League schools. 81% of our readers are independently wealthy or employed at the highest levels of government. We attract more MENSA readers than any other blog, by a margin of more than three to one. And more than 90% of our female readers have big tits.

With such a literate, civilized and genteel readership, I feel an obligation to our fans to let them have their say. That’s why I occasionally turn this column over to our loyal supporters. Here, then, are a few letters from the distinguished followers of The Third City.


Hey, Milo! I’ve seen photos of you on the internet and I have to say that you are an exceptionally good looking man for someone of your advanced years. What’s your secret?




Hey, Milo, what makes you such an expert on sex? It seems like all you write about is booze, drugs, gambling and sex. Personally, I find your blogs extremely offensive. I caught my wife sneaking a peek at your blogs the other night and immediately made an appointment for counseling with my minister at the Lutheran church.


I am a humble man, modest to a fault. I would be the last person to blow my own horn. I prefer to let others blow it for me. That said, there are few men better equipped or as well endowed with the knowledge and experience that is needed to be able to offer advice to the fornicationally challenged. The great ones – Casanova, Don Juan, Sir Walter Raleigh, Porfirio Rubirosa, Catherine the Great’s horse, Errol Flynn, and the immortal Wayne Gray — made it a point of honor to pass on their knowledge of the studly arts to those who followed in their footsteps. Although I am too humble to put myself in their exalted company, I would be doing a grave disservice to aspiring Pussy Magnets everywhere if I failed to do the same. The letter below, from a young man floundering in the sexual widerness, is a perfect example of why it’s important to pass on traditional manly lore.


Hey, Milo, it’s me, Benny Jay. This question is not from me, honest. It’s for a friend of mine. Is it true that size doesn’t matter when it comes to sex? Like I said before, this question is not from me. My friend would appreciate an answer ASAP.


Benny, let me put your, ah, friend’s mind at ease. Size has absolutely nothing to do with sexual pleasure. The truth is, you can have just as much fun with a fat woman as a skinny woman.


Milo, I’ve decided to start my own blog site and get rich and famous like you guys at The Third City. It’s going to be a Christian blog site, dedicated to Christian ideals. I’ll post notices of good, clean, family activities, like hayrides, all-you-can-eat fish fries, spelling bees, corn shucking contests and church outings to Six Flags. What do you think? Any advice would be appreciated. Bless you.


Eh, great idea, kid. Add a little good Christian porn, strictly missionary position stuff, of course, and you’ve got a real winner on your hands.


What ever happened to your friend Teddy, the bank robber, who spent 22 years in a Mississippi prison?


Teddy turned up about a week ago. It seems that he had spent the last four months in the McHenry County Jail on a forgery charge. Teddy assured me it was a bum rap, a simple misunderstanding, something about a questionable signature on a check. That’s what happens when you rob banks. You get on all the authorities’ shit lists. Make the smallest mistake and they come after you. It doesn’t seem fair. A man robs a few banks and he’s considered a criminal. Yet, when the banks rob us, the bank executives end up getting a free trip to Washington, D.C. so they can spend a pleasant afternoon amiably chatting with Senators in an air-conditioned room. What they should do is take the motherfuckers outside, put them up against a wall and…

Note from the Editors:

Due to the flood of angry calls, letters and emails to The Third City, we are suspending Milo without pay indefinitely. He will not be allowed to write for us again unless he agrees, in the presence of witnesses, not do any more letters or advice columns. We want to assure our loyal readers that The Third City does not officially endorse or condone drug use or drug trafficking, indiscriminate sexual activity, pornography, bank robbery or armed violence of any kind. On the advice of our attorneys, we can say no more.

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