In she walked, one creamy Cambazola wrapped up tight in saran.
I could tell she was ripe.
But she hadn't gone bad.
Yet.
"Cheese!" I blurted out.
"Cool it Mr. Cucumber," she stammered, "I'm here because... my... friends..."
Was that a tear rolling down her rind or just condensation?
"...expired," I said, because I already knew how it ended.
I had cleaned out those no-names and mold-oldies last Friday at 3pm, and I was set for a repeat performance today.
"With friends like those, lady, you'd better get back on your shelf before you wind up on the wrong side of a milk carton."
She dried up quick after that and gave me a hard grating look before leaving in a huff.
The next time I saw her, she was cut to pieces in front of the Ritz- classy maybe, but still, a crummy way to go.
Pal Charlie
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