My parents are visiting the Big Apple and staying in a posh Midtown hotel with reams of cheese splayed upon its walls. It's the creme de bleu of four star hotels where the bellhop prides himself on cheesy knowledge.
And literally, the place is crawling with cheese. It's all over the walls, sofa cushions. Hell, there's a centerpiece fountain spouting jet streams of pure cheese.
But don't touch. By God, don't touch. The hotel patrons can order cheese from the in-hotel restaurant menu, but it's frowned upon to pick at a slab of Gouda sitting on the lobby coffeetable.
Of course, that's what I feel inclined to do. And the hotel waiter says, 'can I help you order cheese off the menu?'
But I'm content picking at the slab of Gouda sitting on the table. I'm not paying for any goddamn cheese.
'I'm not paying for your goddamn cheese,' I tell him. 'My parents are paying to stay in this four star hotel, and I'll eat any slab of Gouda as I damn well please.'