Purple cheese is often said to be a lot of things. People say it's the cure for cancer, AIDS and other such disease-type things, the fountain of youth, the meaning of life, the substance from which one can make spaceships that can go into hyperdrive and explore all sorts of cool and interesting bits of space that one can't get to otherwise, all that fun stuff... but really, it's all just talk. Meaningless words spun into lies driven by false hope created to dispel the illusion that it's all hopeless and we're going downhill, fast, into a pit of unparallelled depravity and smelly farts; but it's not an illusion, it's the truth that they're trying to hide from us. Yes. (Or perhaps no. You never know with this screwy language, do you?) There is no cure for cancer or AIDS. There is no fountain of youth; we're all doomed, doomed to die a horrible, ugly, lonely death at the hands of a filthy glob of cotton candy.
Lies. All lies.
They're feeding us lies. They cannot win. One day they too will succumb to the crushing truth of the ampersand monsters and the evil mutant diseases created in mad laboratories run by bird dogs. We'll all die. Horribly. Back to the original topic, though, if there even was one, which there undoubtedly was, or why would this article exist? Why, it would exist because it was searching fruitlessly for its true purpose in life, even though it is not alive and nothing on this cursed earth has any sort of purpose at all... but back to purple cheese. Purple cheese is exactly that - purple cheese. How could anyone ever imagine it to be anything else? It's just cheese that happens to be purple. Simple as that. Idiot humans ascribe all sorts of loony labels and theories to a silly piece of cheese. They must have pulled the things out of thick air; there's nothing that gives even the slightest indication of purple cheese being anything else but purple cheese, except that, of course, no one has seen any purple cheese before.
On 4 July 1797, a bit of purple cheese appeared in someone's kitchen. Couple by the name of Mr and Mrs Snarglefoop, I reckon. Quite an odd name, wouldn't you say? Anyway, soon as the media wolves got wind of it, with their big fat sniffy noses, they picked it right up. Tossed it about like a doggy treat, they did. Except that you don't toss doggy treats around at all; you eat them. At least, you're supposed to. Matter of fact, I don't even know what it was like, except that they sure tossed it around. Blew it up in all sorts of ways. The Wertleton Star said an alien had come and left that bit of cheese, probably as some kind of weird experiment on us poor retarded humans. A superior race come to set us straight, perhaps.
They're full of it, though, those medias. I reckon it just got mouldy. Cheese does that, you know. Maybe they don't know that. Or maybe they just conveniently ignored it, so's they could slop up a nice-sounding bashy-awesome story. They do that.