So the news came out recently about Genetic, Synthetic Cheese Made From Human DNA. It’s marketed as “vegan friendly”.
The trouble was, the vegan crowd wasn’t quite having it. Eating something made from the DNA of an animal? The most destructive animal on the planet, yeah. But still…
But all was not lost. Fortunately there were some morbid and adventurous types who were curious to try this humanly by-product cheese. Cannibalism is one of society’s greatest taboos, but this…well this seemed like a way to skirt the edge, and no one really got hurt, right? The cheese became something of a sought-after delicacy in some circles, particularly among high-end vore fetishists, horror enthusiasts, and those who prefer to swallow than spit, even when they’re not really in love. For a while, these select groups were able to generate a small but steady profit for the human cheese-makers.
But humans don’t only make great cheese, they also tend to be greedy, restless and seldom satisfied. How could they make their modest profits grow? This question racked the doctors’ brains every day. It became an obsession. Dr. Velveeta Wensleydale in particular became quickly dissatisfied with the way things were going. He was a genius! He had created this exotic, luxuriant human cheese, which none had ever even dared attempt before. Why wasn’t he living like a billionaire and revered like a king?
These thoughts plagued Dr. Wensleydale day and night. His manner became more sour and curdled. Dr. Gouda and Dr. Brie would quietly turn the other way when they saw him in the lab cafeteria. Even Dr. Limburger, previously known as the workplace pain-in-the-ass, was more tolerable.
One evening on his train ride home from work, Dr. Wensleydale had the misfortune of sitting next to two 40-somethingish soccer moms immersed in celebrity gossip from the pages of their Enquirer and People magazines. Who was the sexiest, who was sleeping with whom, who was rumored to be a real asshole on the set…their insipid prattle caused him to develop a throbbing headache, so that blue veins popped out on his temples and forehead. He was about to scream at them to shut the hell up when he had an epiphany. The obsession these women had with celebrity culture…was shared by millions of people. There were people who cared more about what happened to movie stars and pop idols than members of their own families for god’s sake! Hell, he had an aunt in Tennessee who had purchased a vial at Graceland of what was allegedly Elvis’s sweat. Not to mention his old college dorm-mate who had bought a pocket pussy supposedly modeled after Jenna Jameson. You put a celebrity’s name and face on a package and people would buy anything, right? So…
The first celebrity deals were far from A-list. But they were able to get some endorsement deals and DNA extractions from some has-been hair metal stars from the 80’s. Cock-rockers lended themselves naturally to cheese, and the stuff was quickly consumed by nostalgic fans who wanted to feel close to their idols. With the money gained from this, Dr. Wensleydale was able to pay the latest teen heartthrob, who had just signed on to star in a new young adult vampire movie, for his DNA. The vampire cheese was put on the market with the release of the film, and made available in school cafeterias. Michelle Obama wasn’t thrilled, but Dr. Wensleydale was, as this enabled him to tap into the youth market. It was a roller coaster from there. Whether they looked up to athletes, rappers, soap opera stars, or writers, it seemed like everyone was eager to feel close to their idols by consuming part of them, in the form of cheese. Dr. Wensleydale was even able to get permission in some instances to exhume the bodies of dead celebrities, and at the premiere of a really suckass “Blade Runner” reboot, was able to sell a number of hardcore science fiction fans actual Philip K. Dickcheese.
There were some hold-outs, underground and indie artists who tried to maintain some kind of “cred” by refusing to sell their DNA for cheese production. “I’m not some mass commodity” they’d say. Publicly Dr. Wensleydale said nothing, but instead bided his time until these people eventually ended up in rehab and quietly paid off orderlies to extract the DNA while these people were too preoccupied with withdrawal to care. There was a slight snag when fans refused to buy the cheese, dubbing their now useless indie idols “sellouts”. But he figured a way around that by not releasing them in stores and instead selling them online as unofficial “bootleg” cheeses, for twice as much.
Eventually people developed psychological addictions to the celebrity cheeses, not being able to get enough. For some, mere DNA extract was not enough, and the first tragedy occurred when Justin Bieber was found dead in his mansion and half eaten, a crazed, blood covered Belieber hunched over his body. “Cheese isn’t enough!” she screamed as the police handcuffed her. “I had to make all of him part of me!” In the next few days a copycat killer was spawned, and Miley Cyrus met the same grisly fate at the hands and teeth of Dr. Wensleydale’s old dorm-mate, who had since grown into a permantently acne scarred and lonely middle manager at a Best Buy. Dr. Wensleydale was not too surprised to read the investigations revealed a notebook in the suspect’s apartment outlining plans to do the same to Jenna Jameson. Poor Miley had been a practice run. He wasn’t the only copycat either. Celebrities began to fear for their lives as they became hounded not by paparazzi, but cannibals. Eventually these fans decided cannibalism was filling enough that it didn’t even have to be a celebrity. People began stalking and cannibalizing their unrequited crushes, work rivals, teachers and bosses they didn’t like. And worst of all for Dr. Wensleydale, because they were just eating each other, no one was buying the cheese anymore. He eventually went bankrupt and had to take a job at a car wash, where he met his end when a bunch of cannibal deadheads got the munchies while waiting for their van to be cleaned.