Ah, the deadly Falcon Punch.
What? You've never heard of it?
Well, according to urbandictionary.com -- an online slang aggregator I've always found very helpful translating inner-city street jargon -- the "Falcon Punch" is no longer just the fatal blow delivered by Captain Falcon in the Nintendo game series Super Smash Bros.

Now, probably thanks to the reporting of Sun-Times investigative reporters Tim Novak and Chris Fusco, the Falcon Punch "describes the blow to the head received by David Koschman from R.J. Vanecko, the nephew of Chicago Mayor Richard Daley (and his brother, U.S. Chief of Staff to President Obama, William Daley)," according to the website.
Koschman was the drunken 21 year-old man who mouthed off to one of Vanecko's pals outside a Rush Street bar in April 2004. Vanecko threw one punch that hit Koschman in the face, knocked him to the pavement and caused injuries that ultimately killed him.

Novak and Fusco have relentlessly reported on the police investigation of Koschman's death, which was ruled a homicide by the medical examiner's office and closed without charges by police. Most recently police have discovered reports on the incident that have been "missing" from the investigation file for years. Why and how the reports went missing remains a mystery, for now.

But the Vanecko "falcon punch," according to the urbandictionary.com, is the "kind of fatal punch that is backed up by police and powerful politicians! If you're related, you can get away with murder!"

Here's how to use it in a sentence, according to the website.

"RJ didn't like him at all, so he threw a Falcon Punch, and we all ran."

"The administration threw a falcon punch to the entire proposal, essentially preventing it from ever surfacing again."

It's the new slang -- Chicago's latest contribution to the urban lexicon.

Below is no Falcon Punch. It's just funny. Enjoy.

Generally, I pretend panhandlers are invisible.
But when the short woman with black teeth threw herself on my car at the red light under Skyway Bridge at 79th and Stony Island I just couldn't ignore her.
It is impossible to keep your gaze fixed on the car in front of you when a woman with black teeth is pressed against your drivers-side window. The radio was turned up. So, I couldn't make out her gibberish, which I imagine was a less than gentle request for spare change. I thought I heard her say "Sun-Times." Did she want money to buy a paper? If so, I'd have to oblige even if she planned on using it for a pillow.
I turned off the tunes and rolled down the window.
"You're freaking me out lady," I said.
She leaned in to take a closer look at my face. She appeared more curious than aggressive. The darn light refused to turn green.
"You from the Sun-Times? You that Pulitzer guy? You got that big build and those glasses, she said. You that guy who won the Pulitzer Prize?"
Since winning the Pulitzer Prize for local reporting my colleagues Frank Main, John Kim and I have been congratulated by strangers, but never like this.
I reached for some coins, handed the lady about 75 cents in nickels and dimes and thanked her for reading the paper.
"Can you give me a quarter to make it a dollar?" she said. "How 'bout making it a dollar to make it two?"
Then, the light turned green and the lady -- my first panhandling fan -- went back to being invisible.

Wicker Park Fest last weekend was, as you would expect, awash with dirty hipsters and tattooed, stroller-pushers struggling to hold on to their youth. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

I popped by on Sunday to grab a bite and a beer and catch A.M. Taxi, a local pop/punk band that should be more popular than they are. They're the best thing since Dave Hoekstra to ever come out of Napervillle.

While munching on a tasty pork belly taco from Salud, I spotted a crowd of folks screaming toward the top of a building. "I'll take one," a guy in a yellow shirt yelled.

Then, an orange five-gallon bucket tethered to a rope descended to the Milwaukee Avenue sidewalk. The guy in the yellow shirt tossed some cash in the bucket, signaled to the man on the roof, who was holding an empty Gatorade bottle that acted as a pulley. Then, the bucket quickly rose to the rooftop.

A few seconds later, the bucket gently returned to the sidewalk. Inside was a tiny pile of ice and a cold can of PBR. The man in the yellow shirt lifted the beer skyward in celebration.

But the darn bucket headed skyward before I could toss in my cash. I quickly craned my neck and spotted a woman on the roof signally that beer sales were over.

I'm not sure if they ran out of PBR, or if they didn't want to sell beer to a square who might rat them out. (Is it wrong to tell you about it? Am I a snitch?)

Before I walked away a Wicker Park native on the street told me not to worry, the beer bucket sale would most certainly return.

"It's not just for the festival," he said. "They do it all the time on the weekends."

Or at least they did ... until some square ratted 'em out.

If Sun-Times reporter Steve Warmbir's report last week on how Cicero President Larry Dominick spends town cash -- $500,000 on trinkets including rubber chickens --wasn't alarmingly amusing enough check out what Keith Obermann had to say about the Cicero boss and his suburban cronies.