In honor of Sunday—the last day of the week or the first day of the week, depending on how you view time or whether or not you’re European or American—I came up with some cheesy jokes.
They are so bad you probably won’t forgive me.
But let’s face it: I just can’t help myself.
Why didn’t the boy get to go on the field trip to the cheese factory?
His parents didn’t sign the Parm-mission slip.
Why are cheese mites dumber than other bugs?
They only made it through elem-mite-ary school.
Why did the apprentice cheesemonger get kicked out of his position?
He talked too much; it went Banon and on and on.
Why was the affineur so annoying?
He had too many questions for his cheesemaker, and he wouldn’t Livarot her alone.
Why did the cheesemonger say she looked so sad after her coworker went home?
She just said, “I can’t bear it now that I’m all on Mahón.”
Why did the new cheese never turn out right?
Because the cheesemaker just couldn’t let it Brie.
Why didn’t the Gouda get to play with the other cheeses?
He wasn’t Coolea enough for them.
Why were the children afraid to visit the dairy farm?
Because they heard it was inhabited by a Wildmannli.
How did the apprentice cheesemaker’s first day go?
Not well. He blue it.
Why did the doctor give the cheesemonger just a few months to live?
He said he could Flixer, but he couldn’t heal her.
Why was the thief so bad at robbing cheese shops?
Because he couldn’t Chaource the mongers into giving him their money.
Why won’t the cheesemonger laugh at my bad jokes?
Because he just Cantal.