Grease-stained cardboard masquerading as a plate, flat halo of disappointment, everyone gasps, “Who doesn’t love pizza?!” Like it’s a law of nature or a cult you’re not allowed to leave.
Melted orange plastic sweats across the top, cheese stretching like clingy exes who don’t get the hint. The crust is either soggy as a damp handshake or cracked like a sidewalk that’s given up on being fixed.
Tomato sauce? More like acidic red regret, slapped on in a rush by someone whose only culinary dream was the lunch break.
Toppings? Oh, you mean those sad, shriveled vegetable confetti, those grease-drowned pepperoni coins paying for the privilege of a one-way trip to heartburn.
Yet here you all are, holy congregation of the Sacred Slice, chanting, “Pizza night! Pizza night!” as if summoning flavor, when all you’re really calling down is another beige triangle of mediocrity.
They say, “Cold pizza for breakfast is the best!” Right—because nothing screams self-respect like chewing yesterday’s mistakes straight from a warped box on your kitchen counter.
So go on, fold it, worship it, crown it king of your lazy dinners. I’ll be over here with food that tastes like someone cared —while you defend that greasy, floppy relic like it’s the eighth wonder of the world,
and I’m the villain just for saying:
pizza ***** And honestly?
Someone needed to say it.