Where the hell is my pizza?

Last night I did what I often do when I don’t feel like cooking: I called and ordered a pizza. Only this time, when I went to pick it up, stomach growling and money in hand, I stood staring at a vacant storefront. The place where I had my first taste of pizza as a child had vanished.  But it wasn’t sadness or nostalgia I felt, more…rage. Where the hell was my pizza?

I had called the same number to get my usual, a small pizza with extra cheese. So, where exactly was the person who had answered the phone? I called them back. “Oh, we moved,” I was told.

To another town.

What?!

Annoyed, I made the trip and got a rubbery version of the pie I used to love. Quality had apparently skipped town too. To console myself, I made chocolate chip cookies and felt instantly soothed. Take that, pizza.

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3 thoughts on “Where the hell is my pizza?

  1. How about granola-ish cookies? (See how I’m referencing two blog posts at once…im-pressed?)

    Seriously, I am such a cookie nut you could make dirt cookies and I’d eat ’em. Enough sugar and butter…

    That and milkshakes. Ice cream in a bowl? Eh. Ice cream through a straw? Hells yeah!!!

  2. Don’t restaurants know what moving does to you, the all-important consumer? And by you I mean me. Their misfortune and or success is very inconvenient for one. Again I mean me. Had the same thing happen to my favorite coffee shop here in lovely Pittsburgh…now I have to go to the SMOKING coffee shop (oh yes, smoking in restaurants and bars and COFFEE SHOPS for chrissakes is not just legal but encouraged. Not to judge the smoking set, of course, but coffee shops? Really? Because it’s not like we can sit outside and get some fresh air, it being all frozen tundra and whatnot).

    In conclusion, sorry about your pizza!

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