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Cheese on the horizon, commence firing

Slightly Corked

Don’t tell Piers Morgan this (serious anti gun activist) but I’m looking for a gun. Not just any gun but an AR-15 with enough ammo to shoot up the cheese aisle in my local super market. While you’re at it, throw in a Charlton Heston tee shirt, size medium.

Yes I know Canada doesn’t have a Second Amendment guaranteeing our right to bear arms and shoot up supermarkets, and I’m also aware it’s very un-Canadian to shoot up cheese, but I have no choice because our country is under attack by aliens, either that or by Nebraska dairy farmers, many of whom look like cheese.

The enemy does business under the name Babybel Cheese, and if you have a television, you know who Babybel is; they’re the ones who repeat their advertisement over, and over, until, one day you find yourself at a N.R.A. meeting, sitting next to a guy named Bubba, talking muzzle velocities.

It’s the one featuring young people on roller-skates and bicycles who appear normal until little rounds of cheese start rolling up, and the child actors are then forced to bend over, pick up a round and bite into it. It’s obvious the actors are under duress because, let’s face it, if you were walking along the seawall and a round of asiago rolls up and stops in front of you like a well placed curling rock, are you going to bend over, pick it up and take a bite out of it?

Then there’s the music, if anything can get you begging for Barry Manilow, this is it. “Babybel, oh Babybel” it drones on and on, much like water dripping on your head like the time you booked that cheap timeshare in Guantanamo Bay.

Playing the advertisement once every commercial break would have been bad enough, but often it’s played twice. They do this to get a foothold in your brain. A sign this has happened is when you get up in the middle of the night to let the cat out– which has become routine ever since that one time you used his litter box by mistake –you become aware of your brain, which you did not activate, singing, ”Babybel, oh Babybel.” Believe me, this is no way to get on American Idol.

Once a foothold is established, it’s a short walk over to the control panel where they dial up the app that makes you eat more cheese, which wouldn’t be a problem if this were real cheese, but it’s not, it’s low fat cheese, that’s right, non cheese made by suspending particles of Coffee Mate in a neutral based Jell-O.

Well, I’m on to them. The authorities have been contacted. I sent a letter to Stephen Harper outlining my concerns and detailing my proposal that guarantees every Canadian man, woman and child the right to bring their own environmentally correct shopping bag, plus an automatic weapon of their choice, into their local food outlet where they can blast away at Babybel cheese.

Unfortunately, until the new amendments are introduced, I just can’t put my Charlton Heston shirt on, walk into our supermarket with my new AR-15 in hand, push a shopping cart full of ammo up to the Babybel display and watch the cheese balls fly. But desperate times dictate desperate measures, Babybel must be stopped before they take over all our brains, and a society without brains is… well, certainly Ottawa comes to mind.

What I need is a legal way to get my gun into the cheese aisle, something that won’t attract too much attention and get me arrested. Let me think now. Guns in public. Guns in public… Ah-ha! The snow outside had made me think of the recently concluded Winter Olympics; from there it’s a short drive to Biathlon. Yes! That’s how I’ll do it. I’ll dress up like a biathlete—you know, those guys who cross country ski and shoot at the same time because the two disciplines go together like, I dunno, bourbon and ice cream. At this time of the year, with the fresh snow and Olympics in everyone’s mind, as long as I’m in cross-country skis, people will think I’m part of the Olympics.

But first I’ll need some skis. Cut a pointy end on a couple of two-by-fours, nail an old running shoe in the middle, lace ‘em up and it’s off to the races

Next thing I’ll need is a proper cross-country skiing outfit, which shouldn’t be hard to make given my wife, isn’t home. Let’s see now, I’ll put on a pair of her black nylons, then a tight fitting pink top because according to the news, there’s nothing like a skin tight pink top to put the fear of God into bullies, and what works for bullies should work for aliens.

Getting a size ten foot into a size five nylon proved a little time consuming, but with that done and my tight fitting top in place, who’s to say I’m not the entrant from Latvia, just dropping by for a nutritious snack?

Unfortunately, getting to the supermarket was a challenge. I don’t know if you’ve ever driven a car with a pair of skis on your feet, but it isn’t easy, especially with a standard transmission. My apologies to that guy on the bicycle who got goosed by the ski.

Then there was the problem of getting in the grocery store’s automatic door. Who would have thought it would have been so difficult? Removing my skis would have helped but they’re an integral part of my disguise. Without them I’m just another cross dresser taking his gun out for a walk.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise when I tell you that one of the skis got caught in the door breaking the mechanism. You wouldn’t think store managers would be allowed to yell like that. Which is how I ended up on the office floor with 280 pounds of Little Louie from produce sitting on me till my wife gets here. But wherever you are dear, please hurry. I don’t look good in nylons.

What to drink, but not with Babybel cheese, El Petite Bonhomme, Spain, $14.95.


 – Delbert is the co-proprietor at Mahle House Restaurant in Cedar. Read more of his articles at




About the author: Delbert Horrocks

Delbert Horrocks

Delbert is the co-proprietor at Mahle House restaurant in Cedar.

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