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There are two schools of thought, regarding the creation and consumption of pizza.
The first is the traditional, Italian mode. Simplicity, class. The base, thin. The sauce, classic tomato. Some mozzarella cheese, and a loving handful of pepperoni/salami thrown along the surface. Perfecto. Gino D’Acampo’s head inclines with pleasure. Slowly, his nipples begin to expand and protrude. It’s as if they are reaching out to you longingly. He doesn’t understand what is happening. Tentatively, you extend your hand and firmly grasp the nipple between your thumb and forefinger. The other hand glides forward with clinical, scything precision. D’Acampo yelps with shock. You have extracted the nipple. One more slice of pepperoni.
The other type of pizza is the modern, globalised blockbuster pizza. Loads of everything. The base? Whatever bro, you can fold it if you want. Sauces? Anything. BBQ, tangy, spicy, who cares, it’s not like life has any meaning anyway. You can put any and all meats on it. Don’t worry about Gino. He’ll keep his nipples and opinions to himself when the concerns of Big Pizza are involved.
You shuffle your papers, straighten out your pants, and raise your hand. “What about pineapple on pizza?” The hall is silent. You retake your seat, muttering to yourself.
Should you put pineapple on pizza? Really, when you think about it, it comes down to viability. Is there a more viable option than putting a piece of fruit onto your pizza? Well, for the sake of argument, here’s an example of a more viable culinary option.
You arrive at the zoo, just before closing. The sky is that melancholy hue of dusk, a dark, dreamlike blue. The last few visitors are milling about. A toddler yawns contentedly. You absentmindedly finger your bag of Meanies. The smell of pickled onion slowly rises to your nostrils, you inhale with relish. In that moment, you make eye contact with Reggie.
Your source said Reggie was the man to speak to about the “ingredients” you require. These “ingredients” are very rare, very forbidden. The law would not look favourably on you possessing these “ingredients”. You nod at Reggie, and he nods back.
The store room door shuts with a clank. Reggie eyes you conspiratorially. Together you descend into the darkness. With a hiss, the giant industrial freezer sways open, and you see your quarry, a selection of animal semen, from common to rare, from horse to lion. Reggie grabs a “greatest hits” of the items on offer. You store them in your backpack. You notice Reggie eyeing you intently. “Would you like an extra sample for your experiment?” he groans, sheepishly. Your source warned you about this, you turn and exit the store room with some haste.
The sky has faded from blue to black, and you walk toward the zoo’s side exit. Glancing back, you see Reggie following. You break into a jog and flee, the contents of your bag squelching with each stride. You change buses twice to throw Reggie off the scent, just in case.
The moment you arrive back in the apartment, you sense something is dreadfully wrong. The air is heavy, the walls seem moist, whispering somehow. And then with a crack like lightning, it blasts into your ear: “Pukka!” Grinning lifelessly at you is Jamie Oliver’s floating head. A ghostly visage, a nightmare made real. “Pukka!”, he asserts with a snort. He flies around your head, sniffing, enquiring. He backs away, daring, taunting, and zooms back to you with purpose, “Pukka!” he chirps. You know why you have conjured him. It’s time to cook.
You make your way into the kitchen. You whip out your backpack, you whip out your semen bag, and you whip that bag into the microwave. As it heats you prepare the yeast, flour and cornmeal. The cheese and tomato sauce lie in wait nearby, Oliver’s head bobbles to and fro, surveying. The microwave drops it’s iconic, trademark ding. It’s ready.
You remove the heated bag and tear it open on top of the flour mix. You combine the ingredients with determined focus, the smell shakes you, but your resolve remains intact. “Pukka!” Oliver makes his move, he zooms towards you and rubs his chin up and down your lower back. “Pukka!”, you hear him mumble. You shoo him off, and he deftly glides away and lowers himself behind your couch, watching.
Your mix is nearly complete. You flatten it into a rough circle, ladle the tomato sauce and cheese on top and place it in the oven. After about 10 minutes, the smell becomes somewhat unbearable. You remove the sizzling pizza and place it directly in the freezer. You sit in silence for over three hours.
Unblinking, you rise and remove the frozen circle. You bring the pizza down on your knee and it breaks with a concussive snap. You examine both halves and grunt with grim determination. You plunge the more jagged half into your throat and collapse to the floor. You expire moments later.
That is a more viable culinary option than putting bits of pineapple on your pizza.