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18:11:28 - 2000-04-02


Revelation time....


Hate it. Hate the taste, the smell, the texture, the look, the stigma, the mini-series, the marketing....EVERYTHING about cheese...I freakin' hate it.

I'm NOT the only one. I guarantee ya somebody reading this right now is thrusting their fist high in the air and screaming "GO UNCLE BOB, GO!!!"

It's a long story on WHY I hate cheese, so I'll spill it out in one sentence...When I was a young, young Uncle Bobby, a babysitter tried to convince me that cheese came from vaginas.

There. I said it.

Now...I'm no moron...I just play one in Diaryland. I am WELL AWARE that cheese doesn't come from vaginas.

...At least...not the edible cheese anyway...

Still, it scarred me for life. At that stage, every time I smelled or tasted cheese, I would puke.

...You's amazing I'm not gay. I won't eat cheese, but I'll damn sure snack on the vagina.

Yep. Freud would have a field day with me.

So anyway...for those of you who LOVE cheese, you have NO IDEA how cheese-conscious this world is.

Every restaurant in the WORLD thinks everything tastes better with cheese on it.

Wrong, Emeril.

I'm sitting here dry heaving just thinking about what happened today.

The Mrs. and I went to Chili's for a late lunch and I ordered a chili burger .... NO CHEESE.

The food came to the table and NORMALLY I lift the bun up to make sure that the Junior High dropout in the kitchen didn't fuck up the order.

For some UNGODLY reason...I skipped the normal ritual and bit into the burger.

At roughly the same time my teeth were halfway into the beef, my wife spoke up as if her seat had suddenly caught fire.


Oh dear God in Heaven.

As SOON as she said that, my mouth filled up with the taste of walrus shit.

Goddamnedmotherfuckin cheese.

I dropped the burger like a rat had just crawled out of the bun and spat what little bit I had in my mouth into my napkin.

Susie, bless her heart, flagged down the waitress while I sucked down a pitcher of water to try to get the offending taste out of my mouth.

The waitress came over to the table.

"He specifically ordered a hamburger, not a cheeseburger," my wife told the waitress.

The brain surgeon that was filling in for the normal waitress looked at me as if to say "You're paying for that cheese, Bubba."

I've learned one phrase that usually doesn't make me look like a complete dumbass when this situation happens (and it happens a LOT).

"I'm lactose intolerant," I said with a look on my face that said "I think I just swallowed a dog embryo."

The waitress, the ever-so-caring waitress looked at me and said "I'll have the cook scrape it off."

Uh-uh. This bitch didn't understand...and yes...I feel confident that the woman was a bitch since she refused to grasp my situation.

You can't just "scrape" cheese off my hamburger. Cheese is all OVER that bastard now. It's melted onto the bun, the burger, the whole goddamned sandwich.

"I don't want to be difficult," I lied. "But could I get a whole new burger? If I eat one morsel of cheese, my tongue will swell up and I'll go into convulsions."

Of course, this isn't true. The worst thing that could happen would be slinging a little projectile vomit around the dining area...that's it. I'm not going to die ... but I guarantee NOBODY will have a decent meal in my general vicinity if I have to taste cheese.

"Sure, I'll have the cook make you a new one," the kindly bitch said.

By the time my wife got done with her meal, my burger made it to the table.

And...maybe I'm just imagining things...but it tasted an awful lot like Cook Spit.

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