The Cheese Man was a vicious man. He had a disheveled haircut, and a pair of round spectacles. He thought they made him look smart. The Cheese Man always wore a tan dress shirt, and khakis, which complemented his cheesy-yellow skin. He had a deep, rich, cheesy voice, one that rivaled the great Cheddar. The Cheese Man lived in Michigan with his two pet cheeses, Mozzarella and Gouda, which he walked every day. He taught Trigonometry at Baker College.
One cheesy-yellow day, The Cheese Man prepared for the morning class in the college’s classroom. Today, he was going to be teaching the Pythagoreans theorem, a formula to find the missing side of a triangle. This formula would never prove use to anyone. Why did you need to know it? To make the class more difficult of course!
The Cheese Man pulled out a triangle of cheese from his coat pocket and set it on the podium that the desk’s surrounded. He bowed his head toward the triangle of cheddar, clasping his hands together. The Cheesy Man whispered a silent prayer to his lord, Cheesus, to make this class as hard as possible on his students.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in streamed his students. They all looked dejected and unhappy for today’s class, which was expected. They never came in happy. The Cheese Man quickly swiped a bag from one young man’s pocket and held it up to the ceiling light. “A-Ha! Cheese Sticks! No snacks allowed in class!” The man sighed, shaking his head, and plopped down in his desk, slouching. The Cheese Man grinned to himself, looked around to make sure nobody was looking, and downed the cheese stick in one gulp.
“Today, we will be learning the Pythonereim theorem!” He announced to his class. From the back row, the class smart aleck, Bobba, raised his hand. He pushed back his thick bifocals and stood up. “Did you mean ‘Pythagorean theorem?” He corrected The Cheese Man.
“Yes, that’s what I meant, the Pterodactyl theorem,” The Cheese Man said distractedly. He held up the triangle of cheese from the podium, the one he called Cheesus.
“Can anybody tell me was this is?” asked The Cheese Man. Bobba raised his hand, standing. “That’s a triangle of cheese, sir!” He declared proudly. The Cheese Man’s face turned dark. He turned to Bobba, who cowered beneath The Cheese Man’s withering gaze. “Repeat what you said again,” he growled. Bobba shivers. “I said, it was a triangle of cheese sir!”
“NO! IT’S MY LORD, CHEESUS!” The Cheese Man shrieked. He leaped forward with cheese-like reflexes and swiped his newly formed cheese-shredder-like fingernails. Bobba fell to the ground, his body missing its head.
“Now, to get on with class,” The Cheese Man continued like nothing had ever happened. “The moon is made out of cheese. The radius of the moon is approximately 3502 miles. Therefore, 3502 times the square root of 100 equals 50. 50 is equal to 1. We can then divide the product by ½, which would then give u-“ There was a loud crunching noise, interrupting The Cheese Man’s mindless rant. He glared at a young woman in the front row, who was chomping down on a bag of yellow squares. The Cheese Man swooped down and plucked up the bag. He read the title, and his face turned bright red. “CHEEZ-ITS?! YOU DARE INSULT MY CULTURE?” He cried.
The Cheese Man’s shredder nails grew as fast as lighting as he slashed them again. First the head toppled to the floor, then the arms, then the legs. What was left of the woman looked like a triangle of cheddar. He hurled the bag of Cheez-its at the roof, and it fell onto his head. “Now, continuing-“