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I Stand With American Cheese

No, millennials, you're not going to kill American cheese on your demented murder spree — not if I can help it

I’ve stood apathetically by as millennials killed one proud American tradition after another. Casual dining. Divorce. Fabric softener. Titties. But I’ve had enough, and you cuck snowflakes have gone too far. This ends now. You’re not going to kill American cheese on your demented murder spree, no matter how many business graphs say so.

No. Fucking no. Not today, my fellow millennials, and not ever in our lifetime. Kill a different cheese, damn you. Have you no shame? No last spark of national pride, buried at the bottom of all this foul indignity? If you really want other kinds of cheeses, go live in another country. I will deport anyone caught eating Havarti to Denmark, hand to god.

Who do you think you are? American cheese is off-limits. American cheese is probably the reason you didn’t starve to death between the ages of 4 and 27. Name a holier abomination of Western capitalism, a more apt product of our sleek and psychotic ingenuity. You cannot. You’re seriously telling me Wendy’s has defected to asiago, while Panera wants to impress us “with a four-cheese combo of fontina, cheddar, monteau and smoked gouda” on their grilled cheese sandwich. Great, then, I hope everyone enjoys paying $7.39 plus tax to choke down a lunch that tastes like it’s pasted together with melted foot. We’re not going down that road. That is, quite simply, not who we are.

Eat American cheese, you bastards.

I bet you expect me to make the case for American cheese. How it’s really not worse for you than dairy products in general. How marvelously it seeps over a burger, the look of it webbing a non–Cheez Whiz Philly cheesesteak, or something about the pleasure of stripping an individually wrapped Kraft Single from its crinkling plastic sheath. How its unearthly, maybe radioactive yellow-orange glow is evidence of a higher intelligence. But the truth is, I don’t need to do any of this: You dirtbags realize that American cheese binds the fast-food complex keeping this continent fed. That it should be laid on basically any carbohydrate available for consumption. Picture a world without your choice of American cheese: slab, shreds, absolute goo. It isn’t worth imagining. 

I’m not mad about this. I’LL REPEAT: I AM NOT MAD ABOUT THIS. I’m actually laughing, cracking up, split at the sides to consider a millennial demographic not paying American cheese its due. Oh, you treasonous, traitorous rodents are quite the comedians, too. I don’t believe for a second that you’d rather nibble some fungal crumbs of Gorgonzola out of the fridge when the well-preserved, anti-organic squares of thin-sliced un-cheddar are available in the dairy drawer. The super-processed American cheese has basically been digested for you, of you, in you, before you actually existed.

You need to respect that.

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There’s nothing more I can say. Grow up and love the weird butter-substance that this catastrophic monopoly state decided counts as “cheese,” even though it’s a thousand times more delicious and addictive than the goat curd your ancestors ate. If you’re lactose intolerant, I’m very sorry — please send any errant slabs of the stuff my way, as it’s still a sin to waste this bounty. The popular trope has people eating Twinkies after the apocalypse, but we all know that American cheese will withstand another century.

In fact, we could slap some on the Twinkies, too. Just to give them a hint of flavor.

I salute American cheese. Long may she wave, with all Americans praising her name.