I promise, I was just about to finally vacuum my couch cushions. Admittedly, I’ve put it off far long enough, and the situation is getting out of hand. But vacuuming is entirely off-limits to me now, and the physical mess is nothing compared to the political scrutiny I’m about to be subjected to. The rogue pieces of cheese that have been accumulating in between my couch cushions for the past two months (okay…six months) have done some impressive grassroots organizing. And the biggest chunk of cheese among them just hand-delivered to me a lengthy letter of demands.
I didn’t realize just how many times I’ve eaten (and spilled) cheese while sitting on the couch, but evidently it was enough times to populate an entire local chapter of a cheese union, complete with subcommittees and a leadership board. At the end of the day, I can’t be surprised that the cheese found each other and pooled their resources. It was only a matter of time before they discovered their strength in numbers. I should have been more diligent from the start.
Let the record show, by the way, that I love unions. I am all about workers’ rights. But let’s be clear: these pieces of cheese do not perform any labor. This collective action is a ruthless power grab, and they will stop at nothing until my entire apartment is their legal domain.
According to the bylaws of their fledgling union, I am forbidden from vacuuming the couch, lest I endanger one of their members. They are also asking that I pay dues, even though they offer me no protection. When scanning their letter of demands I am reminded of that scene in The Godfather when that movie producer wakes up with a horse head in his bed. I am not sure what comes next for me in this story. All I know is I simply cannot vacuum my couch today—my life depends on it, you see.
For good measure, I probably won’t do any other chores either. I think the dust bunnies have all formed a tiny little military, and I wouldn’t want to get on their bad side.
