I came in the front door last night after work, peeled off my t-shirt and walked seductively back to the kitchen where Cristi was in the middle of a project.
“Hello, my love,” I said, noticing that she was frowning.
Assuming my pale, scrawny physique was the source of the disgusted look on her face, I apologized. But as it turns out, it wasn’t me at all.
“I don’t know how I did it, but I bought fake shredded cheese. The package says cheese product. What exactly do you think goes into cheese product?”
I tried to console her. I told her I’d run up to the store and buy the most expensive real shredded cheese they had. But the damage was done. Apparently she’d already mixed all the contents together, fake cheese included, and the dish couldn’t be saved.
“And the worst part,” she added, “it says right on the package, not recommended for melting.”
Opposite Day 