Death of the Party

Cheddar cheese: Not as popular as it used to be! Or at least that’s what I’ve gathered due to the reaction it got it when I presented it with 50% of a six pack at the wine and cheese party I attended last night. The fact that the cheddar was in string-form probably didn’t help either. Last time I take advice from you, Alex.

Things got a little heated. I don’t know if there was the need for those partygoers, with their complicated cheeses in which everyone has a different opinion on whether you should eat the coating or not, to display such a flagrant derision at the ol’ cheddster. It’s elitist, is what it is. Cheddar’s the Joe the Plumber of cheeses, a staple-cheese, and every bit as appetizing as that sounds.

This isn’t to speak out against brie, rubing, Gouda, Edam, paneer, Kwaito, Flower of Rajya, Quesong Puti, or anything like that — but at a potluck somebody’s gotta bite the bullet and bring the generic side dish everyone’s secretly excited about, and I’m the only one man enough to do it. The method worked a month ago with the pasta salad I made and it should have worked with the cheddar, dammit. I have unsolicited video footage of a guy with the word “Coordinator” in his job title saying my pasta salad was “simple yet effective.” Currently I’m trying to figure out how to transpose that footage into the “Other Accomplishments” section of my résumé.

Anyway, by hour three of the party I grew weary of the opprobrious cheese-related nicknames I was picking up — although I kind of liked “Stringer Babybel” — and quietly slipped away from the proceedings and started to fry up some grilled sandwiches with the wide variety of leftover cheeses. Here’s the thing though: those sandwiches went over like gangbusters. Out of the bleu [typo, or just good writing? YOU DECIDE] roomfuls of people joined in a cluster of Bacchanal revelry, hatred transubstantiating into love, pleasure forever infinite. I had turned it around. And that’s basically me these days: A lone wolf that travels from social circle to social circle, not tied down to any one woman or cellphone plan, ruining the atmosphere of parties only to later become the hero of them when I get pissy and start making grilled cheeses by myself. And then I explode in a brilliant flash of golden light and ascend towards the heavens, my purpose on this realm fulfilled.

…

What kind of funeral do you give to someone who doesn’t technically die but instead transcends their mortal form and reaches a higher plan of existence? Can you really give them a funeral at all? It might make for a good opportunity to get people to try the fun-eral idea I’ve been kicking around for awhile. You know, where instead of sitting around mourning there’s an open bar, board games, grave-shaped dance floors, a bowl to put your keys in, a big game of flashlight tag — things of this nature.