Who Cut The Cheese?

The other day I headed into the kitchen to prepare the snack of champions; quesadillas. Don't let the fancy, Spanish lingo fool you, it's just melted cheese with a generous helping of the hot sauce that surely God himself would dirty his robe sleeves with were he hungry and fixing himself a dang kaysuhdilla.

If you're very, very good I'll attach my quesadilla recipe to the end of this blog.

So I've got the tortillas and the Tapatio (*jazz hands*) and locate the cheese grater, because I am not an animal, I grate my cheese into beautiful orange shreds. Then I dive into the fridge for the key ingredient. CHEESE, GLORIOUS CHEESE! I assemble the fixins' on the counter, unwrap the gloriousness and lo and behold:



WHAT THE FUCK?

Is there a giant, rat living in my home whose obsessive-compulsive disorder requires him to return the cheese to the fridge in a Ziploc bag after he's finished gnawing on a corner?



So yeah. Serge. I can't even begin to imagine how... Did he use a... I mean, how did he... Were the dogs involved? The knives are, like, RIGHT THERE! I just don't understand...

Monica's quesadilla recipe:
(Pay attention this is complicated!)

Grate a shit-ton of cheese onto a tortilla.
Dump equal amount of Tapatio on shit-ton of cheese.
Microwave for thirty seconds.

You're welcome.