I'm from Philadelphia. We break stuff. Or at least, that's our reputation. We have booed Santa and destroyed whole city blocks in anger. We're the home city of Bill Cosby and Gary Heidnik. The Fresh Prince of Bel Air was better off from seeing the back of us. W. C. Fields, a Darby kid, wrote his and our epitaph--"On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia"--basically saying this city is marginally better than Hell, which is "praise by faint damned" if I ever heard it.
For some reason, our signature sandwich is supposedly a political barometer: I'm not sure why John Kerry was supposed to have failed a sandwich test by ordering swiss on a cheesesteak (his wife, a quasi-Pennsylvanian, probably could have warned him) but seriously, this cheese thing, is not a thing. I like provolone and mushrooms on mine. American is perfectly cromulent, although cutting in line and wasting food are looked down on. (Frankly, I think Cheez Wiz tastes like cat piss smells. So "Wiz wit" proponents can, well, eat that stuff if that's how they like it, but for me, no.)
But our most recent "being Philly" outrage is what we did to a poor little Canadian robot (no not Drake, and Meek, you just live with yourself, because unless you drop brilliance and quickly you aren't right on time, you need a time machine). Yes, we manhandled an experiment in human kindness, because no, we aren't a kind people in Philadelphia.
