Yesterday, 02:19 PM
Touchdown!
I like it when I’m full
of cheese.
It’s great,
okay?
I mean that's four
whole lines exclusively on cheese! Imagine! When
good ol’ suicidal Charlie Brown decreed, “When
will we full
-hearted pilgrims go for
one more spin around the cheese
wheel in the sky? O Great
Pumpkin, Father Gouda—is it not okay
to ever ask for more?” Okay,
not his words exactly, but when
is never soon enough? I say grate
two pounds of parmesan, then tell the chef “I’m full.
I’m full of aged Italians.” See what happens. Cheese
of course is excellent four
little harpooned morsels at a time, just before
swallowing, make sure the toothpick’s out, ok?
To die of cocktail cheese
would be beneath you—when
you up and croak—look, the cemetery here’s been full
since 1988. I wouldn’t call that great,
I’d call it great
-ly problematic. In 1984
my mother tied me to this bobbing rock, fully
aware I couldn’t swim. Okay,
I didn’t die—since when
does missing mean you didn’t try to cheese
someone? Say cheese
to Mr. Scythe, say cheese to “This feels great,
I always hated breathing,” don’t say when
if you don’t really mean it yet. Four
more years of reaching for that football: okay
Lucy, you relentless cunt. Bring it on. Lay it on me fully.
I like it when I’m full
of cheese.
It’s great,
okay?
I mean that's four
whole lines exclusively on cheese! Imagine! When
good ol’ suicidal Charlie Brown decreed, “When
will we full
-hearted pilgrims go for
one more spin around the cheese
wheel in the sky? O Great
Pumpkin, Father Gouda—is it not okay
to ever ask for more?” Okay,
not his words exactly, but when
is never soon enough? I say grate
two pounds of parmesan, then tell the chef “I’m full.
I’m full of aged Italians.” See what happens. Cheese
of course is excellent four
little harpooned morsels at a time, just before
swallowing, make sure the toothpick’s out, ok?
To die of cocktail cheese
would be beneath you—when
you up and croak—look, the cemetery here’s been full
since 1988. I wouldn’t call that great,
I’d call it great
-ly problematic. In 1984
my mother tied me to this bobbing rock, fully
aware I couldn’t swim. Okay,
I didn’t die—since when
does missing mean you didn’t try to cheese
someone? Say cheese
to Mr. Scythe, say cheese to “This feels great,
I always hated breathing,” don’t say when
if you don’t really mean it yet. Four
more years of reaching for that football: okay
Lucy, you relentless cunt. Bring it on. Lay it on me fully.