013019

Gastronomic Commuting


the cheese bus was late
overcrowded, odoriferous
I had to wait for the spam bus
oh man!
that one's really only good
if you're fried
and anyway
I had used up my emergency saltines

011819

sure, we do have moons
all  green cheese
hear the weremice squeak

121918c

in the house of cheese
mouse looks  up
moon's effulgent light

060618b

under a green moon
a hungry
mouse howls its heart out

030118

              Lord Of Limburger

folk speak of you too freely

not in the hushed voice of your desire

but slyly, loudly

your putrid stench

that isn’t you

it’s just your cheesy shoes

your garments shed an odor

and so you are unwelcome

unfairly, I’ve thought

though I’ve kept silent about it

yet folks speak of you

constantly

casually

disrespectfully

as if laughing

behind your back

123017b

Cheese

Something was different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but a subtle change had come over my office just now, while I had my nose buried in the Global Insurance file. I looked out the window, but I didn’t see anything out there that drew my attention. I pushed back my chair, or rather, I tried to, but it wouldn’t go. I looked down. The floor was made of Swiss cheese. This was unusual to say the least. I knew someone who had a house made of gingerbread, but my floor had been carpet when I walked in an hour before. I stood and gingerly made my way to the door. I sank into the cheese several inches, but something underneath must be supporting it, for I didn’t fall through. The door jamb, and the wall, were also cheese. I took a nibble—it was Monterey jack. “Oh no,” I thought, “it’s that stupid superhero. I knew I shouldn’t have rented space in a building owned by a sleazy tobacco company.”

Just then, an ululating cry of disgust echoed down the hall. My secretary hated cheese. I slogged my way to her desk. Jolene Andrews was a bit fastidious for my taste, and married, but a guy can look, can’t he? OK, I admit it, several other candidates were better qualified, but Jolene has the kind of legs people write songs about. I put the moves on her right after I hired her, but she straightened me out. Now I just look. Her head seemed to be stuck to the wall next to the photocopier.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, squelching my way over there.

“My hair,” she wailed, “it’s stuck in this horrid stuff.” She pulled her head a few inches away from the wall to show me that half the hair on the left side was embedded in something that looked a lot like partially melted Velveeta.

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute,” I said, “didn’t your mother tell you not to play with your food.”

“Mr. Loggins,” she replied, “this is not a time for your dumb jokes. This really hurts a lot.” I felt like the heel so many women have told me I am, and I patted her clean shoulder.

“The photocopier,” I said, “it puts out a lot of heat. Hold still a minute.” I reached around her head and helped her pull her hair out of the wall. The stench of overheated cheese overpowered her perfume. It didn’t do much for her straw-blonde tresses either. She was going to have to just about shave her head. Then I thought of something. “The weather forecast,” I said. She gasped. I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door. “It’s supposed to top 90 by noon.” The time? 11:15. My office is on the 27^th floor.

The elevator shaft was empty. A couple of people from the law office across the hall were looking down it. I guess the cables just ripped out of the cheesy ceiling. We would have to take the stairs.

I never want to go through something like that again. There must have been 200 people in the stairwell, which had been entirely turned to cheese. The stairwells are not air conditioned, and it was at least 100 in there already. Our feet sank deeper and deeper until they were poking right through the softening steps. We had to scoot the last 4 floors on our asses so we wouldn’t plunge right through. Ruined my second-best suit. And the smell! I thought it had been bad in my office. Here, it was almost overpowering. I tell you one thing, I will never eat pizza again! When we got outside, we found a huge crowd being held back by police.

WHUMP! A glob of cheese the size of a dumpster hit the sidewalk.

“I’ve been fondued,” Jolene screamed. She was covered head-to-toe. I’d been a little farther away, and had only received a good spattering on my right side. I peeled some cheese away from my eyes and looked up. The building was already starting to come apart. I could see Transmutation Man up there buzzing around, and a couple of media copters shooting 5 o’clock footage. I tried to run for the other side of the street, but it was slow going in my sticky orange galoshes. I looked for Jolene—she was in the arms of a policeman, being carried to the barricade.

I don’t remember much after that until I woke up in the ICU at Memorial Hospital. I guess that’s about when the whole top 5 floors of the building let go. I wasn’t hit by the cheese at all—I was brained by my own desk chair. If the cheese hadn’t slowed its fall I would have been a goner. As for Transmutation Man, it was in all the papers. Apparently the backwash from one of the copters knocked him into the collapsing building and his transmuter went off by accident. Anyone want a life-size Camembert statue of the world’s cheesiest superhero?

090917

When veggies go bad

Ellen peeked out between the leaves, then sighed. A small herd of juvenile cauliflowers milled around in a clearing. Most had strips of of black fabric tied around their stalks – apparently this was a gathering of some kind of vegetative cult. One hopped up on a stump and the rest quieted down. As the leader began to speak, Ellen started to sidle around to the north side, closest to the road.

About halfway there she stepped on a brittle worm. The head cauliflower thrust a floret towards her, screamed gibberish at the top of its lungs, and jumped up and down frenziedly. Its followers ran at her, their lateral florets rotating menacingly.

Holy compost! She recognized this behavior. These weren't delinquent young cauliflowers, they were albino midget ninja broccoli stalks in full flower. She turned and ran.

10 minutes later she burst through the door of the cooperative pipefitters workshop. "Get the cheese sauce, Ma! We got a full scale invasion on our hands." No need to say what was invading.

Micha paled, put a hand out to steady herself. The CPW was scarcely equipped to deal with this.

"Ellen. Run. Head for the river."

-----

The crudities swept everything before them to the bank of the Jack.

Michon wiped her brow and squinted at the further bank. "My whole livelihood's tied up in the CPW, Phil," she growled, "this better work." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Ma," Ellen said, 'we got 'em right where we want 'em."

As if that were a signal, the maddened vegetable hordes poured into the water and began swimming strongly across the current. A rocket shot up from the river terrace, exploding high above.

Upriver, the floodgates opened.

Soon, the defenders could hear the broccoli chittering maniacally, the leaders scarcely 20 m from the riverbank, their spears weaving figure eights in the golden sun. Where was the flood?

A whitish tint swept downstream and the cries of the broccoli took on a note of alarm. The vegetables, one by one, stopped swimming. They floated inert in the suddenly sluggish river, and the defenders waded out from the bank, spearing the broccoli and gorging themselves on their erstwhile enemies.

Later, lethargy born of stress and an excess of dairy products washed over them. They reclined on the grass.

Phil sucked his fingers. "Monterey does it again."

Ellen smacked her lips. "Ma? Could we grow some? Little ones?"

The end

Publ. Daily Cabal 2007

020617b

Don't Cut The Mighty Cheese

Cheese sticks marketed themselves as the bones of the one true cheese. Nnonsensical on the face of it. Folks pointed out that cheese doesn't have bones. Ah, but the true cheese, the one true cheese, fervently whispered its adherents: bones out the wheel.

Sales of cheese sticks skyrocketed, but not their consumption. Soon the sticklers, as they were called, began threatening, even attacking, those who slaked their thirst for cheese on the bones of the one true cheese.

About this time, things got so hot that no cheese could remain in solid form. Even the sticks became flaccid. Worship dropped off precipitously.

Which just goes to show the old saying is true

We should all thank God for global warming!