It's February in Chicago, it's not February in Costa Rica, it's not February in Florida

or Southern California, this is Chicago, it's cold and it snows.

And I'm Judge Dibs, I'm the real Judge Dibs and it's time to get out the Sacred Dibs

Constitution, the Sacred Scrolls, as it were, to explain some things to you.

Dibs is a Chicago winter tradition. In a heavy snowstorm, you dig out a street parking space

in front of your house, you can claim that space with junk from your basement, or garage

to mark that parking space. I didn't invent the practice, but I guess I'm the first columnist

to call it by its rightful name, Dibs. How do I know that? A column get the paper

searched frantically for evidence that I was not the first one to call it Dibs.

And then he couldn't find the evidence and had to bless his heart.

Conceived, grudgingly, the truth that I was the first one to call it Dibs.

Like I give two figs, it doesn't matter, and I guess they're having a Twitter fight now

over who called it what. Don't you have some more important things to do guys

than fight over who called it Dibs? Like maybe, I don't know, take some laxative

or Google yourself or something. The thing is, Dibs is an important feature in American life

because Americans believe, at least they did, that a person is entitled to the fruit

of their labor. What does that mean? You dig it out, you claim it because the city

isn't going to dig it out, you do it. And once you do, it's yours for a time.

When the snow goes away or when you can drive over the snow, you can't call it Dibs

Chicago isn't like all of Chinatown like when the outfit used to call Dibs in

July on city streets with folding chairs. Nobody dared park in the spot of

Hoppe-Lonqués in each. When you can drive over it, it's not yours anymore.

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