Pizza of the Damned Part I

I should have known better.

I did know better.

That’s what happens when you rush around like an idiot and you need to eat something fast – standards go out the window. Or in this case, they are expelled violently.

I got food poisoning from a slice of pizza. That’s right, a slice of pizza. A food staple. Milk, eggs, bread, pizza; that’s the order. What the hell am I going to do?

Truth be told, I don’t eat the stuff all the time. I only eat it when I’m mentally exhausted and am tired of bibibap or goat curry. I eat it when I’m in a rush.

Eating when you’re in a rush is not conducive to wholesome living. I’m big on wholesome living about 80 per cent of the time. The other 20 per cent of the time I'm bottom-feeding on scraps.

So I go into the joint and order a deluxe slice. I hadn’t been in the establishment for awhile, but on the occasions I did buy their food products, I found them unremarkable but satisfactory. Edible.

I glanced around while waiting for my slice and felt uneasy. A fat woman, red faced, sloughing, wearing her bleached orangy hair in a thick braid, fried something in front of me. What it was I still don’t know. It could have been halibut, it could have been Playdough. She dumped the fried brown mass on a plate and waited for someone to take it away somewhere.

The lad handling the pizza dough did so without wearing latex gloves. Old school I suppose. I felt a vague revulsion watching him stretch and prod the drooping paste.

Folks – I have to run now…. To be continued!