I don’t know what it is in my heart, but I know what’s in my pants, and can we please make out now?

A friend told me about how locally produced “cheese” is actually a testament to poverty, in the cultural and economic sense of the word. That crud that Kraft churns out on our shores is–WAIT FOR IT–only 3% cheese and 97% per cent salt and curd and yellow #8008 or something crazy like that. Which I found sad; I mean, no cheese? Seriously? Where the fuck are we going to get our ideas for tight bubblegummy pop ballads like the ones written by Hayley Williams? I am angry. Cheese is good and I throw it on everything.

One time I made my coffee au gratin by floating Mamon on top and melting cheese on top of that in the microwave, so everything just kind of mucked together all gooey like onion soup. It was (surprisingly) more heavenly than weird.

So this is the point where we ask, is it better to have loved, lost, gone on a vicious cycle of getting screwed over that eventually led to suspecting everyone and everything that comes out of their mouths of MAD BULLSHITTER SKILLS; or do we keep truckin’ and rollin’ because that’s how Jon Spencer would have done it? And he’s always right.