Oh aged pizza slice, beacon of bachelorhood, to thee I write this ode. How often you have molded in the refrigerator. The meaty bits becoming less meaty and more bitty as days pass. Shreds of tomatoe curling like toenails and radiating odors I dare not classify as pleasant. The dry crust, clearly dead, crumbling apart. And sauces, quite unlike the sauces of yore, don’t keep for months on end.
This mess, this frozen catastrophe, plucked from it’s refrigerator grave, is cast into the microwave. If it can be reheated, it’s edible. That’s just common sense. Like a witch doctor attempting to remove a curse, the microwave hums its magical whirr. The bachelor stares and listens. Previously, he felt like eating food but he must suffice himself with this compost sample. From a distance, the cockroaches take bets on whether he’ll actually eat it or not.
The orange muck lurking upon it may look like cheese, but do not be deceived. It’s a rare form of nuclear waste which shows up less and less as bachelors get married. It plummets through his digestive track like a cannon ball through that one Red Coat’s digestive track. The other internal organs, trying to mind their own business, can’t help but notice the crude lump of pizza grossly descending toward the stomach area. And the stomach doesn’t look too happy either.
Sometimes it requires hypnosis. Sometimes, a death in the family. But somehow, the bachelor will forget he actually hit a new low in eating standards. To him, it is all but a distant memory, or perhaps a distant tummy rumble. He will only recollect that in his haste to chew something, he grabbed something from the fridge, warmed and swallowed it whole. The Department of National Health would have his head if they found out.
Oh left-over pizza piece, thou art an icon of masculine independence. Kitchens are for girls, receipes are for wimps and food is for the feeble. Behold how brave, how solumn, how awefully well fed, is the young man with pizza in hand and access to a microwave.
I salute thee, disastrous meal.
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