What Type of Cheese are You? – Marisa Crane

Buttcheekbook has fucked me again. A friend shared a Buzzshit quiz, “What Type of Cheese Are You?” along with her results: plain old cheddar. What a lame-o. In order to prove that I am not a lame-o, I have to take the quiz and discover what type of cheese I am. Before it is too late. Before the aliens come down and rescue all of the people with cheese name-tags on, like Hello I am Goat Cheese. Pleased to meet you.

Let’s get down to business.

Before the quiz even begins, Buzzshit tries to scare me with, “You think you know, but you have no idea.” I cannot steady my hands.

First question. Wish me luck.

Choose a wine.

Okay, but I like red wine and most of the options are white. The world is fucked. I am forced into a merlot decision, but I am not happy about it. The results of this quiz will be skewed.

Now I must choose a president. Okay, now we’re cookin’. Barack, my boy, we all miss you. Xoxoxoxoxo.

Now I gotta choose a motto to live by. The options, man! The options are pathetic. Who would want to live by a quote from a motivational poster? One of the mottos is Newton’s Third Law. For shits and gigs, I guess. I choose, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” but again, I am not pleased with the lackluster options. It’s like I’m parmesan or something.

Choose a number. Fuck yes—12 is a choice. My old basketball number. What a gem. I am victorious this round.

How am I feeling today? “You look great,” the Buzzshit quiz tells me. I choose “content,” even though I can feel my blood curdling, having not gotten over the motto question.

Now I have to finish a sentence about a banana. OKAY. I pick, “It is naked and cold without its skin.” Obviously. Poor banana.

Pick a shape. There is finally an answer for me. “I don’t want to pick a shape.” Perfect. Done.

The quiz wants to know what my insides are made of, and all the options are cheeses. This is why I am here. This is why I was born. If I knew what my insides were made of, then I’d know what type of cheese I am.

How much cheese do I typically consume? A whole wheel, I guess.

Oh my god. My results. They’re in. This is it. This is what it all comes down to.


I am gross and come in a can, but people love me anyway. Anything goes with me. People don’t bother putting me on anything like a tasty cracker or sliver of bread. No, they just shoot me right into the mouth hole.

Of course I am easy cheese. This all makes sense.

This is how we form opinions about ourselves.

The Internet is an asshole I can’t stop calling back.