Lilliputian Injustice

Listening to the radio on the way home from my mom's house.  Radio personality & all around funny man, Greg Beharrell chimed in between the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Collective Soul to mention how wasteful it is for pizza companies to just use the tiny table in their pizza boxes and throwing away all the tiny little chairs.  I took a moment to think about the words that just tumbled out of Mr. Beharrell's mouth and into my ear holes.  The words dancing around inside my cranium, like a pinball on adrenaline.  Bing. Bing. Bang. Boop.  I don't know exactly what the boop was, but it got my creative juices a flowin' and got my fat ass seated in front of my laptop to bring y'all another rousing edition of my Brain Matter.

"Yes!" I muttered to myself and yes, I tend to audibly speak to myself when I'm alone.  All geniuses do and if you don't, then well....  (Insert awkward pause.😳)

"Yes!" I audibly said, as the heavy guitar riff from Collective Soul's Where the River Flows began.  "That is wasteful..., unless..."

Maybe the pizza companies don't just toss out the tiny chairs, maybe the chairs are donated to tiny people.  Tiny people who use and appreciate these free chairs, but seeing as the tables are all absent, used to save the hot melted cheese on pizzas from sticking to the top of the box, instead.

Poor tiny people forced to sit and eat their dinners and their snacks off their laps like the olden days before tables were invented. How many millions of chairs have been given away since the advent of the tiny pizza table?  There's, at least, a pair of chairs to every table and judging from the bulging waistlines of most North American's, there's a f*ck-ton of tiny chairs out there somewhere...  Probably in the dump, because who are we kidding?  Corporate Pizza doesn't give a shit about helping tiny people out.  Tiny people aren't buying giant pizzas.  Tiny people aren't the target audience for such privileges as pizza.

Greg Beharrell has exposed the pizza industry for what they are.  Evil overlords who oppress tiny people who stand at less than two inches.  Greg Beharrell is a good man and we should thank him for bringing this injustice to light.

Them's The Breaks!!

 

I got f**ked by National Pizza Day.  Inadvertently f**ked, that is.  I'm sure the pizza place where I had acquired the pizza from, did not dispatch said pies with the intention of causing bodily damage.  This is not a plausible business plan.

Wednesday, February 9th, 2022, was National Pizza Day.  Or so I learned from the trusty interwebs.  If it is written there, then it must be true, am I right?  I hadn't had pizza for quite some time, so I thought it was in the budget that I could treat myself to some pizza.  I rang up my usual haunt and ordered three pizza's. (Given the outrageous prices for pizza these days, this establishment seems the best bang for my buck at $33 for three pizzas.)  I ordered a Meatball, a number 18 (beef, bacon, & sausage) which is my go to, always.  It's like a meat lovers, but without the ham.  I'm allergic to ham.  Then I rounded out the triad with a Chicken Teriyaki pizza, which is the only acceptable pizza to have pineapple on.

I quickly dispatched the Meatball, followed by the Number 18, into my belly.  I had been dreaming almost the entire day about having pizza for supper, so I avoided unnecessary snacks or mid-day lunch, just to make room for pizza that night.

I realize that by admitting that I devoured two pizzas all by my lonesome seems excessive, but they were small 10" pizzas, most of which are taken up by crust.  I'm not making excuses for my gluttony, as I don't need explain myself to anyone, except maybe my doctor, and I know she does not read my stuff.

The third pizza, the Chicken Teriyaki, I left for another day.  I placed it in the refrigerator until I could give it my full attention later, which turned out to be yesterday.  Friday.

I placed the pizza onto a plate, blasted it a couple times in the microwave to heat it up to optimum temperature.  Cold pizza is f**king disgusting, especially if it's been refrigerated.  I sat down in front of the TV and watched some Bitchin' Rides, while I enjoyed my pizza, now topped with more Teriyaki sauce.  (I buy the Golden Dragon stuff.  It really is the best.)  The meaty part tasted great, as I placed the crusts idly by until I could address them afterward.

The way I like to eat pizza, generally, is eat the center part first, then the crusts after, like a snack.  This is what I did with the first two pizzas from Wednesday night.  No issues, but I hadn't accounted for the crusts to get extra tough in the days since it was made.  Now the crusts were hard.  Really f**king hard.  Harder than I initially thought, actually.

Usually, the crusts firm up a little as they cool off, but they remain somewhat leathery, if that makes sense.  Thick, but manageable to bite portions off, but this was blatantly not the case with the crusts from the Chicken Teriyaki.  I guess the added 48 hours in the fridge caused it to thicken up like f**king concrete.  I wrestled my way through a couple of them, when all of a sudden, I heard a crunch.  Not the kind of crunch that sounds like a pizza crust being crushed between my molars, but a more distinguishable "oh f**k" kind of crunch.  I quickly vacated my mouth-hole to discover that I'd broken one of my lower teeth.  This little f**ker that I had my dentist work on last August, was now sitting in the palm of my hand.

I've always had weak teeth.  Ever since I was knee high to a squirrel, I've had bad teeth.  The dentists would give me shit, passing on the news to my parents.  I remember many a "discussion" with an extremely inebriated father, who would pull my chair in close to his and he'd scream at me to brush my teeth, to avoid having a nasty set like he had.  However, despite all my efforts to follow the guidelines set upon me by the National Dentistry whatever, my teeth have always had cavities, chips, breaks or worse.  Hell!!  When I broke my back, I also managed to break five and a half teeth in the process.  That extra half was because one was already broken, ha ha.

What sucks is, I had insurance at the time, when I broke those teeth along with three vertebrae.  I don't have insurance, now, though.  Every dentist visit is paid for straight outta pocket.  Canada rocks, as far as health care, goes, but dentistry sucks balls.

So far, I'm not feeling any pain.  Chances are, the one that broke on me, had previously had a root canal, I suspect.  Memory losses over the years, hinders me from actually recalling what has been done to what.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl.  I had planned on making some ribs for the occasion, but to say the least, I'm a little gun shy.  I doubt anything else will be tumbling out of my mouth, but ya never know.  I'm sure if something does, I'll be writing about that too.

Litmus Test

I've heard it said: Don't ever meet your heroes, they're never what they seem.  This is likely true, for the most part, otherwise there'd never be such a warning.  I've met a few people that I've looked up to, and (so far) they've been quite humble and respectable.  I'd never consider bacon, on the other hand, to be heroic, nor an idol to look upon fondly, although I do love that smokey taste when it's being gnarled between my teeth.  That being said, when the commercials for the new "Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza" from Little Caesar's began their shock and awe barrage on public television, I knew it was only a matter of time until I would visit the pizza chain.

I used to consume a shit-ton of fast food.  I'm lazy and tend to procrastinate a lot, so the thought of driving up to an establishment, paying for a tasty treat that required very little more than wiping my mouth and fingers with a moist towelette, was very appealing.  Unfortunately, several pounds later and a sad case of Type II diabetes, it's a rare treat, these days.  Unreasonable prices are also a major factor, though the spare tire around my middle section, should be suffice enough.

One contributor to the nastiness is KFC.  Generally, I would visit Kentucky Fried Chicken once a year, consume the chicken accompanied by their amazing gravy, then reap the uncomfortable sickness that would follow.  Like the consumption of alcohol, I would use this single experience like a Litmus Test.  A reminder as to why I don't submit myself to this kind of pain and discomfort more often within the calendar year.

I wouldn't categorize myself as an alcoholic, but the effects of sadness and depression that follow any drinking excursion isn't something I particularly look forward to and therefore reserve inebriation to once or twice a year.  It's pretty much all I can take.  I'm not a believer that a person can go for one or two drinks.  I do believe, on the other hand, that intoxicating oneself to complete annihilation, should be the goal.  For the most part, I find alcoholic beverages to taste tremendously bad, so why put yourself through that dissatisfaction, if there's no goal of inebriation to achieve?

I digress.  I'm getting completely off topic, to which I apologize.

Earlier this month, some coupons came in the mail and the varying pictures of KFC chicken became appealing to me.  I was about due for my yearly trek through intestinal hell, so I ventured down to the neighbourhood KFC and got a small four piece and brought it home.  However, the gut aches and feeling of vomiting that normally piggybacks the experience never came, although the meal was every bit as greasy and disgusting, as usual.  A couple weeks later, those coupons crossed my view and again I found myself placing an order for a four piece chicken box.  Once more, no nausea.  "What the f**k?!" I thought to myself.  A couple weeks later, this past Friday, I again went down and picked up a ten-piece bucket, this time and no nausea.  No feeling of dread or yearning to vomit.  "Strange!" I thought.

Days earlier, I'd broken down and visited Little Caesar's and bought the Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza that has been mercilessly prostituted on television for the past couple of months.  The images of the pizza in the commercial look so delectable and mouth-watering.  I could hardly contain myself when the clerk handed over my pizza.  I raced home and was horrified by the reality of the situation.  It was like one of those before and after pictures of Rihanna after a date with Chris Brown.  The beauty I was expecting to see, was just a beat up tramp.  My Bacon-Wrapped pizza was little more than a punching bag placed into a box.

It's appearance was a train wreck.  It smelled marginally better than it looked, but it's taste was equally, if not worse, than it's appearance.  What followed was all the experiences and memories I've ever had that was normally reserved for KFC.  It was a horrific experience.  I wound up lying on my couch in a ball, sweating heavily and fighting off the urge to puke.  I do not recommend that pizza to people.  Not unless you're bulimic.  You won't need to stick a finger down your throat, as odds are, the pizza will do that for you.

It's a sad sad day when I, of all people, have to admit that Kentucky Fried Chicken is better than pizza, but in this case I think it's gospel.  Little Caesar's has turned my off of pizza and I doubt I'll be eating pizza again for quite some time.  Thankfully, when I do, it'll be from a more reputable establishment and not some shit-hole vying for legitimacy in the forum with a cheap gimmick.

My coupons expire today, so I shan't be returning to the neighbourhood KFC, which my waistband and my colon are grateful.

Bucking Tradition

For many many years, I've enjoyed spending Christmas Eve alone.  I've never had anyone special to share my holidays with, so this has never been an issue.  In the past, this tradition involved my getting very high, eating a pizza and watching television, usually viewing "Die Hard 1 &2" and "Lethal Weapon", both being excellent "man-style" Christmas movies.

As the years went on, certain aspects were phased out.  No longer do I partake in illicit drugs that will put me into a state of numbness, nor do I even dabble with alcohol anymore.  Neither has a positive affect on me, mentally.  Christmas is depressing enough for the single person, without having to intensifying this emotion.  Still the consumption of pizza continued.

These days, I don't even hardly bother with the movies anymore, opting to watch them on a predetermined schedule, instead.  Actually, it's less predetermined and more whimsical, but the pizza remains.

This year, I've already viewed my "Die Hard's" and oddly, I don't feel like watching "Lethal Weapon", but the pizza remained.  This year, however, due to a commitment to play Santa Claus, I've had to bump up the consumption of my Christmas pizza.  I arranged to pick it up at noon today, in hopes of spending the afternoon, eating and watching TV.  Fate, however, had other plans for me, and instead of picking up my meal and returning in a timely fashion, the battery in my truck decided to die, leaving me stranded in front of Costco for nearly an hour before the tow truck driver arrived.

Pizza cost $14 and change.  Thirty-plus minutes seemed like an eternity as last minute shoppers aggressively honked with the intention that I move the f*ck out of their way.  "And a Merry Christmas to you too, sir." I thought, watching each driver creep past me, with finger extended for my viewing pleasure.

Then a little chubby white-haired bloke pulled up beside me in a beat-up old tow truck that had clearly seen better days.  He hopped out and waddled his fat ass around to the raised hood on my truck and gave my battery a quick jump.  Accepting only cash, I was forced to return inside the Costco and visit the ATM which, subsequently, only distributed $50 bills.

"I hope you can break a fifty." I said, returning to my spot outside, next to the chubby elf-like gentleman.  He turned and smiled saying, "It's $50 and change, but..." he paused, looking down at the crisp new plastic Canadian fifty dollar bill, "Aah.  It's Christmas.  Let's call it an even fifty."  With that he scooped the bill from my hand, hopped back behind the wheel of his beat up monstrosity and disappeared into the distance.

I'm bucking tradition this year.  Eating about eight hours earlier than usual.  Spending $50 for a job that, literally, took less than 60 seconds, and will most likely be buying a brand new f*cking battery, shortly after Christmas, for a truck that has less than 48,000 km on it.  Go big or go home, I guess, huh..?  Merry Christmas one and all!!