It’s time to address something that’s been on my mind for a while. It haunts my dreams, and my waking hours are spent in a daze thinking about it. It’s simply this:
Your mother has Pizza Face.
Understandably you may not have noticed, what with the constant dripping of cheese and pepperoni juices into the carpet. She must be dastardly to hide it from your father. Blessed with the uniqueness that can only come from having what we must call “true” Pizza Face she spreads her atypical sauces throughout any room she touches. I can’t help but wonder if she was ever properly cooked, and I wonder if she was born that way or if she simply grew into it over time. What did her parents think the first time they saw a small pepperoni slice appear? Did they think, “My that’s a large pimple?” Maybe they went straight to the, “Oh shit, she’s got processed meat on her face!”
Little could they know though that eventually the crust would form and she’d be forever trapped in the bizarre malformed pie-like state she is now. But you, oh friend of mine, can now know the truth and wonder like me if she stares in the mirror each day wondering if she looks horribly disgusting or marginally delicious. When we greet each other, with her oregano filled eyes and garlicky teeth leering back at me, I can’t help but feel the bile rise in my throat.
But no matter how you slice it you at least will know the reason I can never eat dinner at your house.