Let's turn our attention west to Chicago, that toddlin' town, where the men, who dance with their wives on State Street, are men, the gals are gals, and the aldermen are a bunch of skirt-wearing nannies who want to make sure that your Harold's fried chicken comes with no trans-fats. That's right, "The City of Big Shoulders" is rapidly turning into "The Village of 'My Pussy Hurts,'" as the city council authorizes bans on foie gras, cellphones, and smoking. Which is why we at Gawker would like to offer you Chi-Town weenies a trade: You take our nanny-state, ban-happy mayor and we'll take your indictable, "where's mine" city head. We've got to be honest: New York hasn't had a good corruption scandal since Donald Manes started playing with the cutlery. Meanwhile, our guy is the most regulating, schoolmarmish, "I know what's good for you" pol since that broad you guys had who "lived" in Cabrini-Green. It's an "everybody wins" situation, except maybe for the residents of Englewood, who, if this week is any indication, can expect to spend a lot of time with the power out.