It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I love cheese. Perhaps my cheese cravings are caused by residual longing left over from my days as a vegan. Or maybe because I generally only buy my cheese from known organic sources, it's my part to support the local and/or conscience-driven dairy farming industry. Or maybe I just really love cheese.

It should also come to no surprise to anyone who is familiar with my financial situation that I love free stuff. Pretty much anything that anyone's giving away, I'll at least contemplate for a few seconds to see if I could somehow make use of it. "Sure, I'll take your pamphlet, Lyndon Larouche!"

Therefore, it should come as no surprise to anyone who has read the last two paragraphs that one of my favorite things in the world is the "samples" table in the cheese section of the supermarket. It was at this very location...this heavenly shining bastion of unrecompensed coagulated milk curd and rennet pressed into a solid mass and aged...that I proved, yet again, without a shadow of doubt, that I am a moron.

I began casing the cheese sample display the second I lay eyes on it from across the aisle. "Too crowded" I thought. I was hungry, as I often am when at the supermarket, and I was planning on taking two...maybe three of those little toothpick-penetrated squares. That sort of activity is definitely frowned upon by the cheese establishment. So I hung out in the frozen foods for a while, grabbed a box of veggieburgers and a bag of peas, and saw that the cheese shop had cleared out.

I made my move.

First off, I was slightly taken aback when I approached the sample table. Instead of the usual squares, the market had instead placed out an entire block of cheese...and a knife. At first I thought it odd that the market was not going to regulate portion size. Hell, I could take the whole thing if I wanted! Of course, that'd be fairly obvious, me walking around the market, browsing up and down the aisles, munching on a giant block of cheese. But then I figured that it was probably too creamy a cheese to do the usual "cheese sample" procedure for, and thought nothing of it.

I lifted the little glass lid, and went to cut myself off a piece. Again, I looked around to see if anyone was looking. After all, simply cutting off an unreasonably large piece for myself would be even easier than taking two or three little squares. Seeing that the coast was clear, I proceded to plunge the knife into the cheese, and even though I had anticipated this, I was nevertheless alarmed at how creamy it was. Not too creamy mind you, but just about perfect. Somewhere between a camembert and a good havarti.

It was at this point that I thought it might be a good idea to at least glance at the little sign that told me what it was that I was eating. That way if anyone was watching, I could pretend to be some kind of cheese-tasting expert. I could say things like "pleasantly nutty demeanor...with just a hint of wet sock."* and people might excuse the fact that I had just eaten half of the friggin' block.

The sign of course, as all signs tend to be when it is crucial that I understand what they say, was in French. This happens to me every time I go to Montreal. Inevitably I end up somewhere I ought not to be, and I can't find my way out because I can't read the damned signs. "Nord?" "Ouest?" What the hell is that shit?

Anyhow, I glanced at the sign, and seeing that it was in French, didn't bother actually reading it, or trying to make some sense of the words. After all, unless I planned to actually purchase this cheese - which I did not - what purpose could be served by actually knowing what the stuff was called?

So I looked at the sign blankly for just long enough so that anyone watching me would have thought I was reading it, and then I cut off my piece. Not a ridiculously large piece...but large enough that I wouldn't need another. Maybe 1 inch long, by a half-inch wide, by a half-inch thick. Not absurd, but nevertheless a pretty sizable chunk of cheese. I debated pairing my cheese with one of the various crackers the market had laid around the table, but then decided that the cracker might detract from the flavor of the cheese itself, and being a fake connisseur and all, it would look better when I squinted a little and looked at the ceiling after eating if just ate the cheese by itself.

So I did.

In two bites.

Two very quick bites.

Two bites that were too close together for me to fully process the thought that followed the first.

Which I really, REALLY should have.

Here then, are the thoughts that followed each bite;