However valid and verifiable my retort – Farmer John was having none of it. Whatever I said made him thirstier, and he gulped down at least 3 more Gibson’s. He loved those cocktail onions which only made his toxic breath climb yet new meteoric and putrescent heights. He also began to spit now as his tirades became more personal, and my weight became the underlying key factor in any challenging sales activity in my (admittedly) sluggish markets. Could I do better? Sure – couldn’t we all? That said, I certainly wasn’t convinced my uber pigsterness singlehandedly was destroying our brands in 6 states. Whatever anti- chubster sentiment there was in the world – it typically got some sort of reprieve within the cheese community – much like the fried food fraternities and perhaps pizza and frozen dairy.

“Listen you lump of shit! You don’t need support – you need discipline! More people will only make you lazier than you are. Get off your fat ass and get these goddamn wholesalers to sell our brands. Push them! This isn’t a fucking buffet line – the business ain’t free! It takes discipline …!” His tirade inspired little spit droplets to sprinkle the table with a random few hearty enough to hit my arm. How fucking disgusting! And probably diseased. Covid breath!! I wondered if hotel services offer a Karen Silkwood shower?

“Do you even realize how fortunate you are? How fucking benevolent I am to you? Do you ever look at yourself – see what the fuck you look like? Is this your lame and lazy attempt at the big ass and burly artisanal cheesehead look? You can’t even grow a beard. You dress like some fifties government agent who spends half his day in a donut shop. You’re a fucking slob and I still allow you to work for me – show some fucking gratitude and get off your fat ass and do something!” His hands and fingers started moving and gesturing. “You just ooze worthlessness. Fucking disgrace and you want support? Ungrateful fat fuck you are!”