Thin Line Between Love and Hate

In honor of the day, Heather has a post up titled Irish Things About Me, in which she mentions her dislike of Guinness and potatoes.

First, I want you all to know I've never let this come between us. I am the very soul of tolerance. Also, she might cut me.

Second, while Guinness inspires no great affection in me (if I want an "Irish" drink, a snort or two of Powers does me fine), I love potatoes.

I feel it's important that you know this about me.

I LOVE potatoes. I love potatoes in the same pure, reverent and transcendent way that I love Big Papi, pocket knives and Dunkin Donuts coffee. I could eat potatoes every day. I should eat potatoes every day: I damn near do as it is, and if some dude can get paid for an all fast-food diet, why shouldn't I receive fame and fortune (though I'd settle for just the fortune) for the diet of a 19th century Irish peasant?

But yet there is a hatred in my life as well; one's existence is not always beer and potatoes. And I feel that you should know this about me as well.

I hate cabbage.

I hate cabbage with a deep and abiding hatred, a hatred that burns as hot as the shame that Show Pony feels when he wakes in the night and realizes that he is still a colossal choke artist. And standing at the apex of my hate pyramid, at the very top of all that I loathe and despise, is boiled cabbage.

I don't like the way it smells. Thank you for listening.