Take heart, residents of Mayfair, Pennsylvania, and recall the old adage: “Any publicity is good publicity.”
OK, so it’s probably a little hard to adopt such a positive outlook toward your town’s sudden fame when the most likely reason people have heard the name is that it happens to be the chosen haunt of an individual the media has dubbed “The Swiss Cheese Pervert”…. but seriously, it could be worse.
How could it be worse, you ask? Well, for starters, he could have chosen Pont l’Eveque or Roquefort as his fappin’ fromage, or taken an entirely different direction in cuisine and opted to redefine the term “jerk chicken.” At least cheese is relatively sanitary; it’s all those raw meat-fuckers toward whom you really have to cast a wary eye.
According to media reports, the Cheese Pervert didn’t just choose Swiss arbitrarily or capriciously, either; he put real thought into this, and employed a truly hands-on scientific method.
“I tried many different kinds of cheese, but settled on Swiss as the best,” states a years-old Reddit post allegedly published by the Cheese Pervert. “First and foremost, if ever a picture of cheese is used, most of the time they use a representation of Swiss cheese. But also because of it’s (sic) eye patterns, texture, and the way it feels against my penis.”
Gosh, when he puts it that way, it seems so reasonable… up until the part where he’s driving around in public soliciting random women and asking them to turn his (presumably pungent) penis into a cheese-wrapped cocktail wienie and stroke it until he generates his own dip, that is.
Mayfair folk can also console themselves with the fact that this story probably won’t age well, and won’t be stocked for long on the shelves of the national news cycle, because the story’s flavor just isn’t strong or complex enough.
Like many a bland cheese, the Cheese Pervert is – let’s face it – a bit mundane and pedestrian, at least as far as widely-known sexual deviants go. He’s not fucking anybody’s pool toys, there’s no indication that he’s smoking Cialis in a crack pipe, and he’s not the Mayor of Toronto (yet). In fact, the Cheese Pervert’s only truly distinguishing characteristics appear to be the consistency of his kink and his use of social media to expand his dating horizons beyond the audience he can reach by bellowing out the window of his Accord.
Speaking of his cars, there’s another bright spot in all of this that Mayfarians can hang their hats on; this guy reportedly drives around alternating between two sedans, one a “newer model silver sedan” and the other a “newer model black sedan” – so at least he’s a reasonably successful Cheese Pervert, right? True, he’s probably no dolphin-flogging tycoon (if he were, he’d be stroking it through a decent layer of thick, creamy cheesiness that was at least as expensive as Humboldt Fog), but at least he has a home of his own to flee back to, and not some cramped, putrid dumpster behind Whistlers Inn.
As a girl who hails from a town (Tucson, AZ) that has produced more than its share of nicknamed criminals – including the “Prime-time Rapist,” the “Pot-Bellied Rapist” and (I shit thee not) the “Apologetic Rapist” – I can’t bring myself to feel too badly for Mayfair. This guy is no Night Stalker or Green River Killer. Hell, he’s not even the Illinois Enema Bandit. He’s just some cheesy bastard looking for a helping hand. I bet that within a few weeks, this whole story will have simply melted away.
