Welcome to Killadelphia.

Yep, it's us, Houston, St. Louis and Milwaukee. Maybe we should get a little city rivalry going, like they do during the Super Bowl. Maybe the city with the biggest uptick in kills could send the other cities some token of civic pride. Milwaukee and St. Louis could send beers. Houston could send beef. Philly would send cheeseteaks from Joe Vento, unless Houston wins because, well, they have a large Spanish-speaking population.

Ah, between the murder rate and Vento, it's been a lousy week for civic pride, hasn't it?

But I think I know how to get our pride back. The idea comes from Catholic schoolgirls.

You probably heard about the gang of students (and a parent) who allegedly jumped another student, a freshman, a block away from West Catholic High School. The punches and kicks were caught on tape and broadcast on the Internet. Brutal stuff.

And I think this is absolutely spot-on.

Because it could have been worse; that gang could have been packing Glocks and spraying bullets all over the place.

So I say let's become known as the city who makes a fist instead of picking up a semi-auto. We obviously have pent-up rage—it has to go somewhere. I say we advocate beatings. Citywide. You got a problem, you pound the snot out of them. Sure, the cops have to say something, but they'll go easy. Because they know: It's better than a bullet. Watch the murder rates plummet.

Could it be more perfect? After all, our city's mascot, for all practical purposes, is a semi-illiterate pugilist from the mean streets of Kensington. Rocky didn't pick up a revolver. He punched his way out of trouble.

So let's adopt a new city motto: Philadelphia's More Fun When You Beat Someone Senseless.

Put up yer dukes, Houston.

Speaking of violence, I don't like to pick on columnists at other papers, but I couldn't let The Inquirer's Chris Satullo off without a little slap.

This past Sunday, in a piece called "We're all in this together, so let's curb the attytood" (which I at first thought was a swipe at Will Bunch), Satullo grouses when somebody asks him, "How many members of the Inquirer Editorial Board live in the city?"

Satullo argues that he has just as much a stake in the city as anybody else. He works here. He pays his 3.77 percent wage tax. And, he argues, Philadelphia needs all of the allies it can get. "Why alienate … the people who've already declared faith in the town by taking a job here?"

He also says, "My heart swells a little bit every morning when I round the curve on Kelly Drive and that skyline heaves into view."

That's sweet.

But I have to call bullshit.

Satullo makes working in Philly sound like some grand sacrifice. What, you mean you gave up that plum gig writing "Center Square" for the Doylestown Intelligencer? You're here because the job is here.

Satullo also makes a point about being here "the better part" of his waking hours. But what about people who return home to decayed neighborhoods at night? Or worry about their kids making it home safely? Maybe it's a city thing. Maybe Satullo wouldn't understand.

I'm a city kid—grew up in a not-so-great neighborhood. And I grew up tired of the Center City-ization of Philadelphia, where during the 1990s, downtown was made nice for the suburbanites and other parts of the city were left to rot.

Center City is the only part of the city that suburbanites use—for work, for play, for dining—before they hop on a regional rail or the Schuylkill to head back home. Where the insurance is cheaper. Where their kids can go to safe, clean schools.

And I don't begrudge suburbanites that. Live where you want. Enjoy our city.

I do have a problem with people, such as Satullo, who say "I'm from Philly" like it's a badge of honor, but have little to back it up aside from a wage tax deduction on their paystubs.

If you're so in love with this city, Chris, why aren't you living here?

It's easy to have your heart swell at the tourist views of the city. I get a little teary-eyed looking at the Liberty Bell, too.

But what about the hearts of thousands of Philadelphians who look at their beaten-down neighborhoods and wonder, What the hell happened here?