Oh, JB Pritzker, the Governor of Illinois—or as I like to call him, the Jell-O Jumbotron of the Midwest. If you’ve ever wondered what happens when a trust-fund teddy bear decides to waddle into politics, look no further.
JB’s not just the man at the helm of the Prairie State; he’s the man who is the helm, a floating fortress of flesh that’s got more chins than Chicago has dead gangstuhs. We’re talking about a guy so generously proportioned that when he signs a bill, it takes three aides to locate the pen under his gubernatorial girth.
And let’s be real: in a world where politicians are supposed to be lean, mean, policy machines, JB is more like a plush, policy-proof pillow. Too fat to be a governor?
Dude, he’s too fat to fit in the governor’s mansion without calling for structural reinforcements.
But don’t get it twisted—this isn’t body-shaming; it’s physics.
JB clocks in at around 330 pounds (give or take a few executive stress pies), and in a state where the average commute involves drive-bys and despair, how’s a man of his stature supposed to dash to a crisis?
Picture it: Springfield’s on fire with budget woes, and JB’s elevator gets stuck between floors because, well, supply and demand. The man’s built like a budget surplus—vast, unyielding, and nobody quite knows where it all comes from.
As a billionaire heir to the Hyatt hotel fortune ( bet you didn’t know that) JB didn’t earn his waistline through manual labor or midnight marathons. No, sir. This is the product of privilege plated in golden caviar-fueled catering carts, truffle-infused tiramisu flown in from Paris, and enough foie gras to float a yacht down the Chicago River.
We’re not talking corner-store hot dogs here. JB’s diet is a Michelin-starred monument to excess. Lobster thermidor for breakfast? Why not, when your net worth could buy the lobster industry? He must polish off platters that cost more than most Illinoisans’ mortgages, all while the rest of us scrape by on sad Subway subs.
It’s like he’s auditioning for a role in The Most Interesting Man in the World ads, but instead of “Stay thirsty, my friends,” it’s “Stay stuffed, my constituents.”
And yet, for all his opulent obesity, JB seems perfectly content to let Illinois slide into a sinkhole of its own making. Why? Because when you’re that rich and that round, the state’s slow-motion implosion feels like a cozy hammock swing.
Crime? Up 20% in Chicago last year, with car-jackings so routine they might as well issue speeding tickets for getaway drivers.
JB’s response? A few press conferences where he vows “action” while munching on a mid-sentence cruller.
Taxes? Illinois has the highest property taxes in the nation, sucking families dry faster than a vampire at a blood bank. But JB, with his $3.6 billion fortune tucked away in trusts thicker than his moobs, doesn’t feel the pinch. He can afford to flee to his sprawling estates in Florida or Wisconsin whenever the Windy City’s wind starts whipping up too much woe.
Education? Schools crumbling like week-old cornbread, teachers fleeing the profession like rats from a sinking ship.
JB’s fix? Pour more money into a black hole of bureaucracy, because nothing says “reform” like funding the fundraisers.
Pensions? Ah, the elephant—or should I say, the elephant and the hippo—in the room. Illinois’ unfunded liabilities are a ticking time bomb north of $140 billion, a debt so colossal it could bankrupt a small country. Regular folks are watching their retirements evaporate, but JB? He’s got Hyatt-level security, sipping vintage Scotch while the system shudders. Why rock the boat when you own the marina?
Migrant buses overwhelming shelters? Hand ’em a hotel voucher (Hyatt-owned, naturally) and call it compassion.
Floods in the south? Emergency funds rerouted to pet projects that line the pockets of pals.
Deep down, JB’s laissez-faire leadership is peak billionaire bliss: Why fix a leaky roof when you can just buy a new mansion? Illinois bleeds residents—over 100,000 fled in the last census alone, chasing opportunity to redder, less-taxed pastures like Texas or Florida (ironically, where JB summers). But he’s fine with the exodus; fewer mouths to feed means more foie gras for the feast.
It’s almost poetic: a state ballooning in debt while its governor balloons in bespoke suits. Sure, he touts green energy dreams and equity anthems, but they ring hollow when your capital’s streets are more pothole than pavement.
JB’s not malicious; he’s just marinated in money, too full and too flush to fathom the famine facing his flock.
In the end, JB Pritzker embodies the absurd American dream: a man so stuffed with silver-spoon sustenance that he can govern (or not) from a throne of takeout containers. Illinois deserves better than a billionaire blob content to watch it bloat into bankruptcy. But hey, at least he’s consistent—one overflowing plate at a time. If only we could trim the fat from Springfield like we do from a holiday ham. Bon appétit, Governor. The rest of us will be over here, tightening our belts.
