Not REAL pizza. Big Chain delivery pizza. Pizza made of stuff that, in a comic book, would turn your average Joe into a mutant zombie ten foot chipmunk with a radioactive tail that was also an antenna and who could beam his laser eyes at people who use the word “jeggings” and their heads would explode OR they’d be forced to watch a 24 hour Wizards of Waverly Place marathon. I’m saying I want nitrates.
I want a pizza with so much salt in it my ankles will swell up to the size of basketballs. I don’t want to be able to take my wedding ring off tomorrow. I want pizza topped with cheese-food. Yeah, that’s right. Not real cheese. The stuff real cheese EATS. I want emulsifiers. I want protein gels. I want MELTY. And, AND, I want to dip that shit in Catalina dressing. You heard me. Fake fake-French dressing, that’s what. Oh, not EVEN Catalina. This stuff my father-in-law brought into my home that is nothing, as far as I can tell, but ketchup, sugar, and liquid smoke. And, yeah, I OWN THAT.
I want a pizza that will keep me up all night crying for my mommy. I want heartburn so legendary that my children’s children will talk about. I want to order from the Specialty Pizza side of the menu. I want a pizza with a name that must be capitalized: MEATZILLA or PIZZAGEDDON or PIZZA DESTROYER or MEATZAPALLOOZA. Three toppings? Oh, HELL NO. Bring it. You got four kinds of sausage? Deliver that tasty bastard to my mouth. Bacon? Need you ASK? Veggies? Not unless you know about a pepperoni tree.
BRING ME STUFFED CRUST. I want a gushy, molten ring of cheese lava magically baked into my crust. I want it brushed with fake butter and garlic powder. I want to bite into that thing and I want my tongue to be burned with the heat of a thousand tanning beds. I want to top it with parmesancheesefood the consistency of talcum powder. I want the cheese in the cheese-stuffed crust to be stuffed. I want a warning on the box from the Surgeon General that says: IF YOU EAT THIS, YOU DESERVE WHATEVER HAPPENS NEXT, DUMBASS.
So, yeah, I can make three-course meals with ingredients imported from all over the world like saffron picked only on Tuesday nights when the moon is full by virgins who only eat tangerines and chocolate sprinkles. I can spend an hour getting all philosophical about The Perfect Tomato or the squash my husband is growing. I have gotten tears–TEARS–in my eyes from a perfect peach. But tonight? The only thing local about this meal is going to be the delivery.
I want The Pizza From Hell.