What isn't there to love about a mozzarella stick? So what if they fatten your ass and repulsively clone your chin? Have you forgotten that the deep-fried cheesy twigs are also singlehandedly responsible for the electric guitar, liberalism, and the automatic garage door opener? Well good, because that's a lie. But they are to pub fare what the printing press was to the Bible. Think about it. A symbiotic, synergistic, I'll-scratch-your-back-if-you-make-my-fried-ass-lusted-after relationship. Mutual assured celebrity. In the case of Gutenburg and the "Word of God", mass production of the Bible meant the Catholic Church could finally settle their bet on how gullible those foolish pagans were. It also meant JG had to literally beat chicks away with a morning star. And not just because most of the women were in the final throes of the Bubonic Plague, but because Gutenburg was ridic famous and rolling in pussy. Like his handsome distant brother, Steve Guttenburg, circa Police Academy 3: Back in Training.

The relationship between mozzies and the bar is far simpler, more beautiful, and much less full of religious zealotry. It began with a little thing called the Appetizer Sampler. Or simply, appy sampy. Around 1964, the new jewel in the combo platter's proverbial crown, forever replacing the wing, was a golden fried, battered or breaded, succulent, fried cheese rod--the Babe Ruth of the appy sampy's Murderer's Row. It took the chain restaurant and the stinky dive bar circuit by storm. People lapped up the sticks. No longer would anyone have to wonder what Jesus' dick tasted like. This is had to be it...like heaven...like a mozzarella stick. For a food invented in the mid 60's, think about what that does for national recognition. "Potato skins, chicken quesadillas, southwestern egg rolls, and now this? Shit, I gotta get my mouth on those sticks", said every stoner to stumble into a Chili's. As for the bars? Well, the presence of cheese sticks on a menu meant at least one more enticing draw for any establishment whose previous appeals had been drunken buffoonery around an Erotic Photo Hunt machine, unabashed alcoholism in the presence of complete strangers, or the prospect of a late-night MO with a loose, probably-chlamydia laden woman. Clearly, a welcome addition. Mutual assured celebrity, indeed. And that, my friends, is a completely fictional account of how Mr. Mozzarella Stick took the world by artery-clogging storm. The end.