It dawned on me tonight that I really, truly do live with a girl from the Midwest. Up ‘till now, I’ve been fooled by her fast talkin’, spa directin’, beach goin’, martini drinkin’, super-chic ways… but when I opened the refrigerator tonight there was no mistakin’ Sonja’s true identity when right there before my very eyes lay a two-pound chub Velveeta cheezzze.
(And yes, I am fully aware that I spelled cheese incorrectly… kinda like how Krab isn’t spelled c-r-a-b… you dig?)
Sonja… baby doll… you know I love you; and if I thought for a second that you even knew this blog existed I wouldn’t be callin’ you out like this, but damn girl… Velveeta is the nastiest shit. Ever. And the fact that you knowingly and willingly picked it up off of the shelf at the grocery store (does it even have to stored in the refrigerated isle??.. or is it stored between the dry dog food and the pallets of bulk tuna?), placed it in your cart, and brought it home… well, I think this changes things between us... forever. Any delusions I may have had about whom I’ve been living with for the past two years have suddenly… vanished - like my appetite does when I see those commercials with Velveeta being poured over broccoli. I feel so violated. What’s next?... P.B.R. and corn from a can? I feel like I don't even know who you are...

It’s Velveeta Bitches!! (Not Cheese!)