Never, ever call pizza, "za." That's just stupid.
I worked at this Pizza Hut for a year or so while I was in high school. As high school jobs go, it wasn’t bad. Free pizza. My first semester at college, I started selling shoes – a career move I refer to as Call of the Bunions. But that’s another story. I discovered in those greasy, cheesy days at Pizza Hut that it takes a lot for me to get sick of pizza. By a lot, I mean I have yet to get sick of it. And this week was a test, lemme tell ya. Seven days in a row: pizza.
I launched this week of pies last Saturday night. We had some excellent smoked provolone and lovely Wisconsin cheddar in the fridge, so had to find out what happened if I added some $15/pound cheese to a $1 per pie Totino’s pizza. I found out. It was freakin’ good. The cheese was predictably rich, and the crust came out flakier than…never mind. You want to talk about a damn good evening? I had four Guinness Extra Stouts, that pizza, and Duck Soup on the tellie. Delish.
Sunday found my butt planted in one of its favorite places: on a stool at Minsky's , watching the race, drinking several pitchers of beer and eating one of everything on the menu. Ok, not that much, but Al, Dan, Josh and I ate two larges pizzas, an order of wings, an order of fries, an order of cheesy garlic toast, and that four cheese crisp thingie. The waitress was visibly terrified. Or was it mortified? I can never tell. They all look at me like that. If Sara's with me, they look at her with pity. I recognize that, but terror and disgust are too close to call.
Got home Sunday night, Sara called Pizza Hut. Nice. That’s three brands and four ‘flavors’ of pizza in 24 hours. It was a good weekend.
So, I had leftover pizza everyday the rest of the week. Ok, except on. I admit it. I couldn’t eat Tuesday, because of my morning root canal. Let’s not talk about it.
Then yesterday, the festival of pseudo-Italian gluttony peaked when my bosses celebrated a good presentation with three larges from d’Bronx. Personally, I think the place is grossly over-rated. But when they say large, they aren’t kidding. We ordered three larges, which turned out to be three ridiculously large larges. “Thirty inches,� she said a saucy grin. We had a good three yards of the stuff left, so I ate on it again today.
And I’m still not sick of pizza. Oh, I’m kind of sick, but I’m not sick of pizza. I’m sick of Thai food, believe it or not. I’m sick of the weather people predicting doom when all we get is a puff of slight dampness. I’m sick of my jaw hurting. I’m sick of the kids in the Welch’s grape juice ads. I’m sick of people saying Bush lies. The man is dumber than a barrel of hair. He’s far too stupid to lie. And I’m sick of Dean and Deluca. Nothing that they bake is as good as the grime on the floor of a LaMar’s donut shop.
But who cares. I’m barbecuing Sunday. Ribs and butt, maybe a brisket, maybe a couple tenderloins for snacking. Smokin’ with oak and something sweet. Frosted Flakes, maybe.