Chicago, IL-Sitting down and paying $50 for a glass of tomato juice with Popov, a sliver of translucent bacon and some sopping wet eggs you can see your reflection in, is a favorite past time for most Chicagoans. As is engaging in a war of attrition against a crippling hangover that is pummeling you closer to the pavement with every excruciating moment as you stand in a lengthy line, waiting to eat half of whatever slop you order before succumbing to booze fever and nausea.

Your eyes calculate if the water glass on the table could withstand a stomach sized load of bile.

Contributing to these feelings is the table adjacent, containing a smug looking man with a goatee and a summer scarf, a woman with oversized sunglasses dressed head to toe in luxury athletic apparel, and their diarrhea snowflake…Jake. Though never actually addressed as Jake, his behavior and look suggest it as the most likely name.

The idiotic salon styled Mohawk. The soiled little league jersey. The perpetual fart stream. The unmistakable look of complacency that accompanies being worshipped as a god and breast fed over the age of 10. Jake exists in every brunch, happening at any given moment, past, present or future. He doesn’t give a fuck about you or your hangover and he’s having a “me day”.

His parents will look on with pride as their perfect creation hauls ass around the restaurant, stomping toes, flicking boogers and ripping eye stingers. We all deserve to share in this prize they’ve selflessly delivered to the world. We all deserve to have an already idiotic morning ritual ruined by the likes of a privileged insect and his disinterested parents.