It is possible that God really does exist... - by Queue
Queue on 1/9/2013 at 00:22
It's made of cheese. Not that interesting, really.
Quote Posted by Caradavin
I wasn't saying "don't talk about religion, stop that stop that!." I wasn't being frumpy or totalitarian. I truly thought that was one of the forum rules because I thought I'd read it here. That must have been another forum. I truly apologize for the offense, though.
Stop talking about religion, will ya.
Robert4222 on 1/9/2013 at 00:35
Dammit', I hate cheese ! Well then a jetpack ride in the sky would be enough (Of course without trespassing the troposphere zone)
Nicker on 1/9/2013 at 02:13
Quote Posted by Queue
It's made of cheese. Not that interesting, really.
ATTN: Mods
Queue is talking about cheese again.
june gloom on 1/9/2013 at 23:09
Cheese is awesome.
Robert4222 on 1/9/2013 at 23:51
That's fascinating.
june gloom on 2/9/2013 at 02:53
So's your mom. She makes great cheese sandwiches.
SubJeff on 2/9/2013 at 07:11
ITT dethtoll being an arse.
Renzatic on 2/9/2013 at 07:12
Quit being so judgmental. Robert's mom really does make great cheese sandwiches.
Sulphur on 2/9/2013 at 08:04
I have memories of cheese. Cheese is a great little number. The best kind is when the warm microwave melt of it spills over your tongue as you bite into a sandwich [TTLG username]'s mother made. The stories I have, the memories, suffuse the aroma of pickles and juicy chicken and wash up with each bite.
How she squeezed each drop of milk painstakingly into a melamine bowl, skimmed the cream off as it formed with a finger, touched it to her lips... she always had to adjust her brastrap every time someone rang the doorbell. I caught a flash of skin from the window once when she turned around and forgot to cover up, small red bite marks circumscribing the areola. Always smiled, though. She invited me over to help with making it. I remember dipping a finger in the bowl, testing the waters as it were, and it was warm, the smell almost cloying. She said it needed bacteria and heat to start the process. Knew how we could supply that.
Every now and then her husband would walk in, test the coagulated acidic swirl of it with his own tongue. 'Delicious,' he'd intone, and the world would disappear as the ceiling opened into midnight sky, crimson clouds scudding across in great ragged shreds as he'd come down upon it mercilessly. 'Gotta separate the water out an' this is the best way, don't need no knife,' he'd say.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Morning would dawn, and they'd be at it still. 'Need it to maturate,' they told me in hushed voices earlier, 'we'll take it from here, sweetheart,' and they'd go up to the room and disappear.
Days roll on by, and nothing happens much, but eventually you get invited again, and you notice the bowl on the table, a bed of yellowed cheddar in it. 'It's done, honey. Would you like me to make you a sandwich? Homemade and grilled, nothing like it.' A smile and a flash of pearlescent ivory.
Yes ma'am. I'd love that very much.
hopper on 2/9/2013 at 08:37
Stay cheesy.
