Now I deeply regret my rude response. ("Don't you know how to Google?") When I looked in my e-mail just now I found this brilliant bit of potato poetry. I'm so ashamed. EL
Sup home fries?
It's your cuz, hash browns.
I don't know about you, man, but I'm kinda goin' through an identity crisis right now. I mean, we're both spudly, that's for sure. But I feel like you've been steppin' on my game in Bmore for too long. ...
What am I? I'll tell you what I am: I'm a potato that's been shredded into thin strips, tossed in a frying pan and cooked to perfection.
What are you? I'll tell you what you are: You're a potato that's been chopped into cubes and fried with onions and such.
You're soft, man. I'm crispy. You're lumpy. I'm slim and sizzlin'. Yeah, that's right. I went there.
For some reason, just about every time John Q. Public orders up a steamy batch of hash browns in this city, what does the waitress bring? Home fries.
I'm getting sick and tired of it, son.
Matter of fact, you can only get the real deal in, like, a couple places around town. Golden West used to serve me, but they copped out a couple months back. That's all right, though -- you can find me in big joints like McDonald's and Denny's. I roll deep like that.
All I gotta say is, you stick to your name, home fries, and stop coppin' my cred.
I'm just lookin' for a little respect, that's all.