I love cheese.
They won’t let me back into the co-op because the manager didn’t like the way I sniffed the aged cheddar. Realistically, you cannot understand the scent of cheese unless it’s at least partially inserted in your nostril. So no co-op cheese for me. That’s fine, though. If they don’t want my business, I’ll go to Murhop’s Cheese Shop, where they don’t have my picture hanging in the dairy section, where liberally moustached stock goons won’t escort me out the door brain-first.
An old one-eyed lady works at Murhop’s. She puts pickled eggs in her empty socket upon request. She never says anything mean to me, no matter how long I hold the baby mozza against my cheek and sing lullabies to the Swiss. I reward her patience by spending my entire monthly dairy budget at her shop. That’s ten dollars!
Yesterday, I loaded up at Murhop’s. I got a wedge of cheese made out of raw cow’s milk. That made me laugh. Of course it’s made out of raw cow’s milk. You can’t milk cooked cows. I also got a chunk with green speckles in it that reminded me of my grandma’s teeth. Usually I eat my cheese sparingly, a slice a day for breakfast with my Frootie Toot-Toots. For some reason, I just went wild last night and ate everything, ignoring Grandma’s warning: “Don’t eat all that cheese. It’s a hinder binder!” I even ate the pickled egg that I plucked out of that old lady’s dusty peeper hole. I put mustard on all of it, that special horseradish mustard my uncle Milt brought home from France when I was a kid and — oh shit, I ate it all. I had been trying to save it. But it was so good!
Now I’m sitting naked on the dumper and I can feel the pressure, but my gizzards aren’t gushing. I can’t push any harder or I’ll create some sort of cheese fissure. So I’m just going to sit here and let things happen naturally while I plan my day. I’m going to go crazy as soon as I finish this business, that’s for sure, but what to do first? Should I build that shrine to the lint god Obungus Mateef? Or maybe I need to start by shaving the sinew fish that have grown out of my belly button. They’re pretty hairy, and I’m sick of braiding them.
Oh wait! I feel some movement. This is it. I’m ready to go.
Wabba wabba wabba wahoo!