How dare you?! What am I supposed to do now?
There is no way I can enjoy that delicious flaky crust, that tangy yet sweet marinara, that bubbly, melty, ooey, gooey, cheese now that I know you are a wife-beating bastard.
You couldn't have owned like Pizza Hut or something? Then your poor wife would have been locked in the bathroom dealing with her grease-logged, non-stop bowel movements and could have perhaps missed your blow.
No! You had to be the owner of the best pizza place in town. A place of which I have sung praises countless times. I've even boasted about your character when you demonstrated great customer service with witty banter. Apparently, we've learned now that though you are a good businessman, you are a shitty human being.
Our little town needed you, sir. We. Needed. You.
In a vast array of Applebees and other chain restaurants our city can't seem to get enough of, your little locally owned pizzeria brought cherished tasteful bliss to the mouths of hundreds.
But you cast that to the dogs, sir, as if it meant nothing.
You tossed it away like yesterday's crust.
My stomach grumbles with heartache.
Oh, we'll manage around our house, I suppose. We'll have to lean heavily on our Papas. (Murphy's and John's, that is). God forbid, maybe we'll even start eating more vegetables and less pizza.
So, maybe I should be thanking you.
Don't get me wrong, I hope your wife understands that the best place for her may be running off with Little Caesar or something. The coast of Italy is nice this time of year.
But I guess, on behalf of my waist line, I bid you thanks, you slimy low-life. On be half of my tastebuds, however, I bid you a swift kick in the
Gotta go. Pizza's here.
There is no way I can enjoy that delicious flaky crust, that tangy yet sweet marinara, that bubbly, melty, ooey, gooey, cheese now that I know you are a wife-beating bastard.
You couldn't have owned like Pizza Hut or something? Then your poor wife would have been locked in the bathroom dealing with her grease-logged, non-stop bowel movements and could have perhaps missed your blow.
No! You had to be the owner of the best pizza place in town. A place of which I have sung praises countless times. I've even boasted about your character when you demonstrated great customer service with witty banter. Apparently, we've learned now that though you are a good businessman, you are a shitty human being.
Our little town needed you, sir. We. Needed. You.
In a vast array of Applebees and other chain restaurants our city can't seem to get enough of, your little locally owned pizzeria brought cherished tasteful bliss to the mouths of hundreds.
But you cast that to the dogs, sir, as if it meant nothing.
You tossed it away like yesterday's crust.
My stomach grumbles with heartache.
Oh, we'll manage around our house, I suppose. We'll have to lean heavily on our Papas. (Murphy's and John's, that is). God forbid, maybe we'll even start eating more vegetables and less pizza.
So, maybe I should be thanking you.
Don't get me wrong, I hope your wife understands that the best place for her may be running off with Little Caesar or something. The coast of Italy is nice this time of year.
But I guess, on behalf of my waist line, I bid you thanks, you slimy low-life. On be half of my tastebuds, however, I bid you a swift kick in the
Gotta go. Pizza's here.
Funny, Mel! (If not tragic) You never know just what evil pizza dough flipper may be lurking around the neighborhood.
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