Thursday, August 28, 2008

I Heart Cheese

Hence my adoration of Fred Dryer and his body of work.* Bring on the cheese: spray cheese, string cheese, cheese toast, cheese fairies. Cheese cheese cheese.

I am under some strain right now. I have not posted here in millenia. Mo called me today to say: type a post, you lazy halfwit. Make it about cheese.**

Cheese! I love it. As a vaguely male north american of largely northern european extraction this should be no surprise. In the same category of things I love: I also love tits. Cheese covered tits are even better. Bring me your tired, your homeless, your weary, and I will offer them well-thumbed Victorian era lithographs of cheese smut. Smut and cheese. Although I am unashamed of my fondue fetish I will not share this form cheese worship with anyone but you, internet friends, for I love cheese too well to allow social mores to interfere with my pursuit of it.

Cheese, as you will not know, is the substance which binds me to my wife. Not in the "slather your wife with melted cheese and engage in lewd milk-fat encrusted sexual acts" manner that you read about on the hip parenting sites. No. When I met my wife while travelling in the UK, we ate cheese. Not any cheese, but many cheeses. Regional cheeses. Our early travels are marked in my arteries. (Note to self: devise and insert clever heart reference here.)

I have been with Mo since 1990 and our wherewithal can also be marked in cheese. The early mad weeks of sage darby and double huntsman. The attempted early adulthood of gorgonzola, brie, and bocconcini. The lean student years of squeaky storebought cheddar in the extruded bricks, to the even leaner, meaner years of excessive drinking, occasional spreadable cream cheese and KD. (What can I say? I am such a catch.)

Today, we are blessed with many cheeses both sacred and profane. Our larder, not to mention our ventricles, are filthy with cheeses for us and for the little brutes who are at this moment planning some type of insurrection whereby the ruling class (us) is supplanted and its (vaguely) organized systems are replaced by an anarchic, non-sharing, pen on the wall, eating nothing but honey, bread, and cheese toast collective which will be governed by the individual wills of its members and Dora. Only the weird little cheeses in the red wax are keeping us in power.

But until the revolution comes to pass Mo and I are rich with love, family, and cheese. We shall have some visitors from Portland and Fredericton in the next week and Mo says this will prove that bloggers actually exist! I am excited! Exclamation! (I am also to mention we have delivered cheese and bras to someone because we are thinking of her, her tits, and of course, how CHEESE may help.)



* Cheese, but not schmaltz. Fuck you, Mr. Spielberg.
** Or about us. I wasn't paying attention. I blame

The first image has been stolen from "Axis of Aevil" which appears to be a blog from a small cold place where sheep are sheep and bloggers are funny.



Anonymous cheesefairy said...

I must have served you two in your lovecheeseblissmajic when I worked at the land of cheese, Dussa's (not Duso's) at granville island.

Honoured, I am. More honoured than I was to serve James Barber and Henry Winkler combined.

9:08 p.m.  
Blogger Mad said...

Promise me that there won't be any of that there cheese smut going on over top of my man's head. He's not used to cheesy smut.

And, thank you in all your cheesiness for hosting.

11:50 a.m.  
Blogger kittenpie said...

Who doesn't love cheese? I have one friend who loves cheese so much, he goes through about his own head's weight worth of it each month, and is on cholesterol meds. I'm suspecting you two might best him, but it'd be a tight race.

8:48 p.m.  
Blogger NotSoSage said...

Wait a second. A visit with the Mad family? AND cheese?

It's Can-blogger porn.

Well, and the tits part too, I suppose.

8:28 p.m.  
Blogger p-man said...

Ms. Cheesefairy: We are still too lowbrow for the Island. I bought the cheese from a guy in the alley. He also had the letter S for sale.

Mme. Chapeau Mauvaise: I cannot think or spell in French. And he likes the cheeesse. Oh, yes.

Ms. Pie: I think your friend sounds delicious. With rye crisps, perhaps.

Ms. Ican'tthinkofhowtoreduceyourname: I forgot to mention my moobs. Hot stuff.

8:36 p.m.  

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