Reporting from Pizza Hell
CH writes:
I don’t want socks. I’m tired of pizza. I’d like home-cooked meals. I’d like someone to share life with. Unfortunately, I’m tied into the Pizza Hell Matrix myself, what with there being hardly naught but cranky, ‘unfulfilled,’ “I Ain’t Cookin’ Crap for No Man” little girls running around in women’s bodies out there. The Pizza Industrial Complex has me sorely within its grip. The bastards know I’m like any other bachelor—I want to eat but I’m not the chef type and, despite all the things I could offer one of the women-children running around, I can’t find a single one who doesn’t seem to find the idea of cooking for me to be anything within her realm of things that don’t make her nauseated.
So Totino’s, DiGiorno or Tombstone it is, more often than naught.








