How can we ever count the myriad gifts Philadelphia has given the world? There's the enlightened thinking that went on inside Independence Hall spurring liberty and justice for all. And then there's the time hundreds of drunken assholes (read: Eagles fans) hurled snowballs at Santa Claus. And who can forget the nimble hands of Quaker/upholsterer/thimble enthusiast, Betsy Ross? Or the nimbler trigger fingers of all the upstanding citizens that helped land Philly consistent top-billing in the annual "Most Dangerous Places to Live" contest. (Not only is Kabul safer, it has a vastly superior public education system.) But by far, the best thing to come out of Philly since the Fresh Prince inexplicably found a cabbie in West Philadelphia that drove him 2,393 miles to a mansion in Bel-Air is the Cheesesteak. Philadelphians talk about their cheesesteak like they talk about their own children. And they glorify it like they glorify their domestic abuse. There's a constant debate in the city of brotherly love and rampant gang violence over which the official home of the Philadelphia Cheesesteak, Pat's or Geno's? The answer is who the shit cares? If anyone is willing to combine frizzled beef, cheese, bread, and early-onset heart disease, wrap it all in butcher paper, and serve it with a certain amount of vitriol, you can't really go wrong. Pat, Geno, we all love what you do. Keep pumping out those delicious creations, and I'll keep pumping out my unborn children. And somebody, for the love of god, get this man a cheesesteak.