If Wittgenstein can talk about the colors of vowels, than I can talk about the morality of cheese.
“Consider this case:” Wittgenstein writes in the Brown Book, “we have taught someone the use of the words ‘darker and ‘lighter.’ He could, e.g., carry out such an order as ‘Paint me a patch of colour darker than the one I am showing you.’ Suppose now I said to him: ‘Listen to the five vowels a, e, i, o, u and arrange them in order of their darkness.’ He may just look puzzled and do nothing, but he may (and some people will) now arrange the vowels in a certain order (mostly i, e, a, o, u). Now one might imagine that arranging the vowels in order of darkness presupposed that when a vowel was sounded a certain colour came before a man’s mind, that he then arranged these colours in their order of darkness and told you the corresponding arrangement of the vowels. But this actually need not happen. A person will comply with the order: ‘Arrange the vowels in their order of darkness,’ without seeing any colours before his mind’s eye.”
The technical term for this disease is synaesthesia. It’s “the tendency of experiences in one sense modality to trigger anomalous experiences in another sense of modality.” That must SUCK. And what sucks about it even more is I think I have it.
I have this weird sense of cheese. I feel like the Santa Claus of cheese because I can tell which ones are naughty and which ones are nice. I’ve had this sense since I was a young boy. When I see and smell a cheese, I know whether it is a good, benevolent cheese, or a bad, evil cheese. And I’m not talking about the taste. I’m talking about the cheese’s moral compass. I can “see” whether a cheese’s needle points north or south.
Of course the wedge of parmesan above caught my eye immediately: it has the mark of The Beast upon it, “$6.66.” It’s Satanic cheese. To you this is probably just a funny coincidence, “Ha ha, Satanic cheese!” but I’m being totally serious: parmesan is evil cheese. When I think of parmesan, I see images of Parmegeddon and the end of the world. I get migraines. And when the waiter asks, “Would you like some fresh cheese?” I am filled with dread. I hold in my farts. “Yes, please,” I always say, but I’m just being polite because mentally I’m being drawn and quartered while burned at the stake as I hang from a noose made of cobras! “AHHHHH!” I want to scream. It’s hard to hold in farts.
But, like most really bad things, parmesan is delicious. I have it all the time. I put it on pancakes. But it’s evil. It’s very, very, very bad cheese. Did you know that Hitler loved parmesan? He injected it. It’s also the cheese on the Aqua Teen Hunger Force “Broodwich.”
“A Sandwich forged in darkness from wheat harvested in Hell's half-acre. Baked by Beelzebub. Slathered with mayonnaise from the evil eggs of dark chicken forces beaten into sauce by the hands of a one-eyed madman. Cheese [parmesan] boiled from the rancid teat of a fanged cow. Layered with 666 separate meats from an animal which has maggots for blood.”
Don’t fuck with parmesan. Cheddar is better. While feta mo’ betta. Steer clear of Paneer, and watch out for Shanklish, it’s been known to stab from the front and the rear. Havarti’s a party, but it makes you farty. Cheese that is blue you must defer, it comes from a fellow named Bluecifer. The Father of Lies is the Father of Bries. Munster’s a monster, but Chevre is forevre. Limb from limb, Limburger on burgers is vile and vulgar. There’s nothing there that’s equal or fair in even an ounce of Camembert. There’s something amiss about the Swiss. Damme, Damme, Damme you to hell. Hell? Hella Mozzarella. Hella, just hella. If you’re home alone, beware of Provolone. Gorgonzola will turn you to stone, but there’s nothing worse than Mascarpone. God damn that mascarpone, that motherfucking mascarpone.
I hate cheese.