Quality Cinema: "Brie Are The Champions"

For years, I’ve been waiting for a movie about cheese overcoming its tribulations. So I was very excited when I went to the theater to see "Brie Are The Champions"; I even bought the “extra-excited” popcorn, you know, the one that comes with a windshield. That’s how excited I was.

So I sit down, right? In the front row. Because I’m thinking, I have two choices: be near cheese, or be far from cheese. Some choice, right? So I’m in the front row, and I hear someone say to their girlfriend, or dad, or something: “I don’t even like cheese. I’m here for the Champions.”

That got me thinking, as I munched on my windshield. What if this movie has more to do with Champions than cheese? That’s not the film I paid to see. And then, what am I going to do about being in the front row? Sure I want to be near cheese, but not Champions; Champions are sweaty, and they can probably beat me up; otherwise, I’d be a champion, and I’m not. This one time, I tried to be a Champion. Didn’t happen.

The lights go out, and the previews start. They were okay, but no cheese. I sort of thought that they would think, wow, we’ve got the cheese-loving populace in front of the screen, let’s advertise some cheese-related cinema. But no. And now I’m panicking. Some of the previews alluded to winning, training, sweating, and other activities that are evocative of Champions. But none of them dealt with curdling, growing mold, or being in sandwiches! There will be no cheese in this movie, I think to myself. I should have watched the trailer first, I’m so stupid and I should have watched the trailer and there will be no cheese in this movie. And all of a sudden, I can’t feel my face.

As the cheeseless previews rolled by, one by one by one, I think I started to lose my cool. I kept thinking that if I could make a quick sacrifice to the pharaoh, he would rewrite the movie so that it’s about cheese. Then I said to myself, “Hey! You listen to me. You just sit here, and you—” but I didn’t get to finish, because the person behind me shushed me and kicked me in the back of the head.

I came to about a minute later, and the movie had already started. It turns out that it was, in fact, about cheese after all. Duh, really. I mean, come on: "Brie Are The Champions?" Duh.

The movie was decent, but the topless scenes were great.

Paranoia

I am terrified of ending up paranoid. One time I woke up and I was almost sure I was paranoid; things got heavy for a bit.

Everyday when I get up, I stare at myself in the mirror for an hour or two. I look at me and I say, "You're paranoid, aren't you?" I usually don't answer, and I stop just short of beating the retched truth out of me. Nights are the same. Not sleeping so much these days.

Also, there are cameras sewn into my underpants and let me tell you, that's not making things easier.

And then there...wait. Wait. Shit.

I have to go.

Good Greetings (of Doom)

I have a report that I wish to deliver personally unto all of our loyal pods this fine splinter's evening.

I am about to reveal the biggest conspiracy since the people at Kleenex invented masturbation to destroy the handkerchief industry. I'm writing about, as I'm sure you all know, fifty words per minute, as I lack basic digital dexterity. However, in doing so, I am communicating to you all a message about aliens.

Half of the US Senate is extra terrestrials.

There, I said it.

Unlike most claims of conspiracies, this is not theory. I know, because I am in on it. They promised me all the ginger ale I could snort; I'm not a robot.

If you have ever voted, driven a car, or even smelled jumper cables, you have an implant in your brain telling you what to do, and, when everything falls into place, there will be no ginger ale left for any of us. I will kill it with my mouth.

That is all.

No it's not. I also have to tell you why I sold out our species for ginger ale. I *love* ginger ale. - THE EDITOR

Ask Claxro!

Hey man,

I don't wanna get into details here, but I'm pretty sure I'm mustard. I'm not usually mustard, just for the record. That's not my style. I just...oh God. Oh God, man. Please. Just...just tell me I'm not mustard, man.

Tangily,
kthxbye

---

Dear kthxbye,

You're not mustard. You know how I know? No mustard on the letter you sent me! Mustard would never have been tidy enough to not get mustard everywhere.

Dodged a bullet this time, didn't you, buddy? If there's a "next time," try looking in the mirror. Are you yellow and runny? If not, you're safe. If so, don't panic yet; you may just be yolk.

If it does turn out that you are in fact mustard, it's not the end of the world! You can have hours of fun by bullying ketchup (who I hear is very sensitive about his dad's overbite!), and you know that one kid down at the junior high who hates mustard? Hide in his burger. His hormones are going crazy right now, so who knows, you may even make him cry! I know I do.

In conclusion, trip fewer balls.

Preening gradually,
Claxro