I pick around you in my stuffing and drink Bloody Marys despite you. I threw you up in kindergarten when you were slathered in peanut bumer. **** you, ants on a log—I get car sick whether or not I’m in motion when this sorry snack crosses my path. I can’t put my finger on it but celery, you leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Yeah, I’ll admit that I’ve chopped you into a savory mirepoix but I cook the holy hell out of you to get rid of your stringy half-moon shape and texture.

Don’t even think about sbuming me with your perky phallic shape.

I’m going to get jiggy with Mendel and create a hybrid that I can choke down. What do you think: celparagus? Celettuce? Curnip? Oh hell, who am I kidding? It’s a waste of time to put lipstick on a pig and it sure as **** is a dead end trying to make celery into something palatable. Let’s fine upstanding member of society this problem in the bud. Rather than planting the world’s celery seeds, let’s grind them up with some salt and rim Bloody Marys ad infinitum.