Where was I?
Right – so the troglodyte behind the counter slips a beige triangle in a bag and puts it on the counter. I pay my five bucks and take the slice home.
I slide the slice out of the bag and look at it as it lies on a flimsy paper plate. It appears plastic, like a piece of decorative fruit. I touch it. It’s tepid and spongy. Damn it though, there’s no time for second guessing, no time to even put it in the microwave. I chew hard and swallow.
Three hours later I’m back home, watching a rare Thursday night regular season hockey game on CBC. Suddenly, my intestines wobble and cramp. A pain so foreign makes me sit up. For the next twelve hours I am twitching with sickness, besieged by some thing attacking my innards.
My guess – the pizza.
How can you tell if you are given pizza of the damned?
1) The guy behind the counter tries to sell you something other than what you want
2) The guy shield his eyes from you as you pay
3) Pizza is way down on their list of specialties
4) You drop your slice and it bounces
5) It looks like that fake vomit sold at novelty stores
6) Looking at it, your mouth goes dry
7) It’s the same colour as the bags under your eyes
8) It doesn’t yield when you touch it
9) It smells like machine water
10) It looks back at you
I’m convinced now that having any fast food as the weekend draws near is risky. Here’s my theory – people are so worn out and depleted from their jobs during the week, by the time Friday rolls around they just want to get the hell home. That goes for people who work in the fast food industry. Don’t buy a car made on a Monday or Friday the thinking goes – beware the Friday gyros. Actually, beware the gyros any day of the week.
Folks -- when it doubt, throw it out.