I don’t know about you but I’ve about had it up to here with these unscrupulous degenerates who insist upon ordering extra-cheese on a pizza.  You know what I’m talking about.  You’re with a few people, maybe you’re having some beers, watching a game, whatever.  Someone addresses the group and states that a pizza should be ordered.  Everyone agrees this is a splendid idea.  Everyone then agrees on the topping or toppings. 

 Then some lowlife, some bottom-feeder, someone completely lacking any concept of socially responsible behavior obtusely blurts out, “hey we should get extra-cheese too.”  Lord please forgive these inept wretches for they know not what they do, because I cannot and will not forgive them.   This may seem a minor grievance in scope, but think about it.  This goes way beyond just some dunce wanting a little more cheese on his pizza.  There are much more sinister forces at play here.  This attitude is one that egregiously prefers quantity over quality.  This is an issue of decadent ignorance, and it mirrors every major problem in the world today.  That’s a bold statement I know, and also extremely difficult in attempting an explanation.  Therefore, we must break this problem down to the barest essential: life.  So let us look at this by using the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse as our guides.   The Four Horsemen are some bad mother-fuckers.  They’re the metaphorical grim-reapers from the Book of Revelations; representing war, famine, death, and pestilence.  War is symbolized by the red horse, famine reveals it’s suffering through the black horse, death is represented by the pale horse (many biblical scholars agree this color to actually be a pale green, which fits nicely into this analysis), and pestilence rides into town on the white horse.  First and foremost let us picture a standard pizza, and think of the colors.  The sauce is red, the cheese is white, the crust is brownish, but on a quality pie it has a good deal of yummy burnt areas, hence the black, and most pizzas have either basil or oregano sprinkled over the top, which would cover the green.  Those are the four basic colors of a pizza and not coincidentally they’re the same colors of the Four Horsemen.  This may seem a foolish, exaggerated comparison at first glance, but read on.

Let us begin with red: sauce on the pizza, war in scripture.  The red horseman carries a sword and is meant to signify blood on the battlefield.  It’s the juice that sustains life; lose enough and you will die, plain and simple.  If the proper amount of sauce is not present on a pizza the pizza is basically dead.  It’s dry and lacks an essential element of its greater being.  In fact it can be easily defended that a pizzeria that skimps on the sauce should be condemned for the greater good of the community.  Both are controlled by the powers that be.  War is the sport of kings.  Monarchs, dictators, and presidents have gone to war for less justifiable reasons than pizza sauce so it’s not that ridiculous.  Pizza sauce is doled out by the masterful, discretionary hand of the king of the pizzeria.  One is a king of a lesser scale, but a kind nonetheless. 

 Enter the white horse.  He’s a vicious sucker and represents pestilence, but that doesn’t really work for me.  It’s a good thing there’s so many interpretations of the bible though, for this horseman also represents false hope.  Balance is the key to all of life.  When one ingredient of life is too prominent the rest become moot, just like on a pizza.  Too much cheese negates the wondrous effects of the sauce, just like war negates life for the benefit of a few at the expense of the majority, which of course is the lower-class.  The sauce is inexpensive, thus analogous to the lower class.  The cheese is the most expensive ingredient and therefore represents the bourgeoisie.  Too much influence from the bourgeoisie has always been historically disastrous; which would explain why the world is in a constant state of war.  We simply do not eat enough good pizza.  If we did, who knows, the world may be a very different place. Too much cheese can render a perfectly-cooked crust limp and grotesque, just as too much excess from the bourgeoisie can, and indeed did have disastrous consequences on the commoners.  And this is a sad thing.  Anyone lacking such an important historical perspective doesn’t deserve to walk amongst us decent folk who understand the beauty of simplicity. 

Famine, the black horse, is a bit more obfuscated.  This wicked rider carries a scale, which represents scarcity.  Scarcity is the essence of modern economics, and from a conceptual standpoint things were much the same in biblical times. 

Now of course a true pizza master doesn’t need a scale to weigh their dough.  Only assembly-line pizza posers use scales.  But either way when the crust is done properly it should be crisp and have a slightly less ratio of burnt to browned surface area along the edges and on the bottom.  This adds a depth of flavor unbeknownst to the sadly ignorant. 

Okay, so black crust, black horseman; both integral in their respective roles.  The famine represented by this horseman is comparative to the crust in that bread is one of the staples of life.  Throughout history bread has been decisive in whether or not the poor survived.  A ruined grain harvest had cataclysmic consequences on the greater populace.  Bread dates back to the Neolithic era and its scarcity has been instrumental in sparking revolutions and deposing kings.  One of the most famous quotes of all time is attributed to bread, “let them eat cake.”  Marie Antoinette, in typical regal arrogance, proclaimed this shameless line when told her people had no bread to eat.  We all know what happened to her and her husband.  Bread has a profound historical context and to undermine its importance now would be a grave mistake. 

 Next let us examine the significance of the pale horseman, or green as viewed by scholars.  This horseman represents death and carries a scythe.  A scythe is a tool that was used in early farming, but it also looks like it could wreck shop on some very unfortunate people.  Now it might seem obvious to assume this horseman wasn’t riding in to harvest people’s crops, but to indeed wreck some shit.  But I don’t think so.  A farming crisis is capable of killing more people than a war, and often has.  More than ten million people died in the Ukraine in only a year during the 1930’s, more than the total body count during World War I.

Thus the pale horse, brandishing its dreaded farming tool, represents the foliage on a pizza, either basil, oregano, or both.  And its most important characteristic is that this horseman possesses a frightening duality.  The scythe is an instrument of both life and death.  A pizza does not require foliage to taste good, but it does require it to achieve greatness. 

 So you see when you order extra cheese on a pizza the entire balance is thrown off, and this is detrimental on so many levels, just as in life.  Life is beautiful only when simplicity rules decadence, the other way around only serves to trick us into thinking we have what we want.  It’s just like the extra cheese.  You don’t really want it.  You just think you do.  And I think that it would be nice if we could get the pale horseman to ride through and with his mighty scythe slay any simpleton who perpetuates the downfall of humanity by ordering extra cheese. 

 The practice of giving someone a nickname is quite an intriguing thing.  Have you ever really thought about it?  It can reveal so much, or nothing at all.  It can positively define someone, or be the scourge of their miserable life.

 We all know the common ones, Tiny for a big guy, Slim for a fat guy, Smitty for someone unfortunate enough to be born with that horrible WASP name, but there are many more unique ones. I know a fellow who as a young child was branded il muro, Italian for the wall.  Why was he called il muro?  Well he played soccer, and because he was the fattest kid on the team they made him the goalie, much like how in America we make the least athletic kid the catcher in baseball.  The nickname says it all!  He was so fat that he didn’t even have to move to deflect the balls away from the goal.  He would just slowly swing one of his gigantic ricotta filled arms and bat it away.  Now that’s a perfect nickname.

 I also know a fellow named Chili Joe.  Why you ask?  Well the guy really digs chili.  Point blank, no mystery there.  Some nicknames are very flattering, perhaps to a point of envy.  I have a friend called Monty Long, because he was blessed with generous endowment.  Conversely, his brother is known as Monty Smalls.  No need for an explanation there. 

 Then you have the jeering nicknames, the kind that shapes us in our formative years.  I had just such a nickname in kindergarten. 

 First and foremost let it be noted that kindergarten is perhaps the most difficult period in a child’s life.  Forget high school, kindergarten is where all the misery begins.  We have this nostalgic image of kindergarten as crayons and naps.  Nothing could be more false.  Young children are despicable beings.  High school is where you’re eternally tortured if you didn’t stand up in kindergarten and knock somebody’s fucking head off.  In between it’s just various stages of negative growth.  The roots of Buffalo Bill surely lie in kindergarten.

 As for me, well I was a cute little kid.  I was chubby, toothless, and freckled.  However, my plague was my red hair.  That’s right, red hair.  I lived in an Italian neighborhood and I was the only little bastard with red hair.  And, it gets better.  My mother, bless her good intentions, decided that because it was the 70’s and I wasn’t black that she would make me hip by actually picking my already curly hair into an afro.  And I’m not shitting you either.  She actually used a pick.  I’m certain she must have had a black friend purchase it for her as it must have been illegal for white people to buy picks.  It had to have been. 

 Also, right around this time the famed play “Annie” was a big hit on Broadway.  Now I can’t think of too many kindergarteners who are up on the big stage hits, so my misery must have been started by an insidious parent, or perhaps even the damned teacher.  But before I even knew what “Annie” was, it was I.  I was Annie.  I was a four year old boy cruelly given the name of a girl with a humungous red afro. 

 The jeering was quite intense.  Many an afternoon I would run home crying and begging for my mother to rid me of that ungodly coiffure.  Again well intentioned, yet horribly unaware, my mother would wave me off and say, “This is the style.”  Was it?  Was it really?  Because all I could think of was everyone else who didn’t have a red afro.  How could something be the style if I was the only kid with it?  I was certainly no trendsetter.  I just wanted to fit in, and with a Ronald McDonald hairdo that was a gross improbability.  Come to think of it I’m shocked that I wasn’t also tainted with the Ronald moniker. 

“Look at him he looks like little orphan Annie,” I can still hear the evil little gremlins yell out at the top of their underdeveloped lungs.  “He’s got red hair haha he looks like a freak!”  But I was a stout child, nearly the same size as I am now.  I realized the power of force, and decided I would put an end to this malicious tormenting.  Having already experienced many a vicious beating by my elder brother I was well aware that in kindergarten, before children can write, the pen is no match at all for the sword.  So I started kicking kids’ asses.  It didn’t go over too well with the teachers, but my attitude was fuck em.  These were the same adults who were supposed to protect me that started the fucking “Annie” thing, and did nothing to end my torment.  Clearly I was justified in taking matters into my own hands.

 It took but a few ass-kickings to end my misery, but by that time the damage was done.  I should have been in therapy for years, but I dealt with it on my own.  And aside from a few quirks I currently possess, such as highly illegal, immoral, and inhuman thoughts of perpetuating pain and suffering upon the world, which by the way I’m pretty proud to proclaim I’ve never, not once, acted upon, I’m a fairly normal fellow. 

 It could be a lot worse, considering the hell I went through.  I should be smearing my body in cat food, masturbating with maple syrup, and howling at the moon.  But no, I simply put my humiliation out there for the public to enjoy.  It’s very therapeutic, but it doesn’t get me laid much.

And so begins perhaps the most significant, comprehensive account of the life of an important man: me, Anthony G Gannon.  It was quite unsettling when I failed to find my birth among the highlights of 1975.  There was a bunch of nonsense about worldly events, Zionism being equal to racism, something about an assassination attempt on President Ford, and generally just a lot of low-level historical crap.  Right about now you’re probably asking yourself just who the hell I think I am, and why on earth I believe that the commencement of my life is worthy of public notation.

 The answers to these questions are quite complex, but I’m sure you’ll be able to extract some answers from the nonsensical prose you’ve already been somehow duped into reading.  Maybe you’re a friend, a family member with a sense of obligation, or just someone with a lot of free time on your hands, but whoever you are I want to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to sort through this nonsense.  It is my wish that you’ll be able to stomach at least a few pages before you violently curse me for robbing you of precious, irretrievable time.  So saddle up and get ready for a bumpy ride.  Holla if you hear me! My life began on August 14, 1975.  I do not know the exact time my little orange body first emerged from the murky waters and into the light.  I’ve always been amazed at people who can remember those minute details. 

 I was seventeen inches and weighed in at a chubby eight pounds.  I was quite the hideous creature, with my nose possessing about the same mass as it does today.  But still my parents decided to keep me, and took me into their home in good old Wallington, NJ.  Unfortunately for me there was already another baby residing there, an evil little one called Mark, after my father.  He was one year and eight months old when they brought me home, and I do believe some of his first words were inspired from my arrival, and those were “take it back!”  So it was quite clear that the evil one despised the presence of his new bouncing little brother.  In fact I believe he intended to kill me.  My parents vigorously dispute this assertion, but I suspect that’s just for the sake of my feelings. 

 Throughout my childhood my brother would make many attempts on my life.  A noteworthy example would be the time he walked up to me very nonchalantly as I was sitting on the couch watching television, irrefutably minding my own business, and decided he was going to play Mark McGuire on my knee with a stickball bat.  So you think it’s lame to equate this with an assassination attempt?  Apparently you’ve never been whacked in the knee with a stickball bat!  Another significant attack on my person involved a knife, a bare leg, and the flame of a gas stove.  Now to this day I still just cannot comprehend the level of maliciousness one would need to possess to commit such a horrific act upon another human being, especially ones own flesh and blood.   Bear with me as I must summon the strength to deal with this demon.  My brother Mark, with another carefree, nonchalant gesture, removed the kitchen knife he had heating within the direct flame of the stovetop, carried the frighteningly charred weapon to me, and placed it upon my leg.  The searing pain was too awful to describe with words.  If any psychologists see this and can provide me with some insight into such a frame of mind please contact me. 

 My brother and I now have a very loving relationship.  I don’t know if one is capable of shedding such insidious childhood intents, so at times I’m still a little skeptical of his virtue.

 Having survived so many assassination plots convinced me that I was chosen by God for great things, perhaps to cure a deadly disease, or maybe even to invent and implement a plan to end world hunger.  It’s a fantastic responsibility to be saddled with for someone like me who has absolutely no interest in science, nor the intellect to achieve such lofty goals.  So I’m forced to rack my brain day in and day out to realize my destiny.   While I do stress slightly about my destiny, I also realize that its discovery will not be possible until I find happiness for myself.  It’s simply too great of a responsibility to achieve if I’m miserable.   This leads me to possibly the most sordid section of this story: my romantic life.  While most women would agree that I’m quite a handsome man, still I seem to have problems meeting females.  Keeping them presents a dilemma as well, but the initial meet is certainly the more laborious task.   Allow me to present you with an example.  Once, while out enjoying the finer things in life with some dear friends, $1 drafts and wings, I happened to spy a ravishing young vixen smiling at me.  She was petite and lovely and I was going to ignore my pathetic past experiences and do something about it.  So I made my way to her.  As I neared her position I began to shake uncontrollably.  Luckily for me she was a very forward girl and sparked up a conversation.  I was in!  I’ve always been very good once initial contact has been made.  I pride myself on being a fantastic conversationalist and this proved to be no different.  She was mesmerized by my wisdom.  She was hypnotized by my eloquence.  She must have thought me quite the enigma, being clad in the garb of a man who obviously performs menial labor for a very meager living.  But still she remained.  I was on a roll.   Then it went bad.  I was pontificating about ancient Rome when I made a grave mistake: I told her that I had a secret fantasy that I was the great Roman Emperor Nero and she was my most treasured concubine and performed unspeakable acts upon me while I roared in joy as gladiators were gallantly slain by vicious beasts.   Well evidently some people simply have no sense of humor.  My harmless joke scared the hell out of her.  I thought it was a brilliant statement.  It had mild sexual overtures, the sadistic perversions only befit of a man of power, and animalistic violence.  What’s not to find sexy about that?  I still maintain that it was nothing more than an innocent, flirtatious frolic, but I suppose I must also admit that some things are better left unsaid.   She was gone in an instant, giving the usual excuse: “I can’t talk to you anymore, YOU’RE INSANE!”  So I was left to wallow back into obscurity.   This is but one of many horrifyingly embarrassing moments in my life.  Regretfully, I spoke some words to my dear friends beforehand that could only be considered “talking shit.”  But I thought I was in.  The way she smiled at me, the way she responded to my body language, I just knew that I was destined for a night of sacrosanct debauchery.  But yes, I did my share of lip smacking.   It goes without saying that all witnessed my disgrace.  Not only was I subjected to vicious ridicule from my so-called friends, but the barbarous bystanders joined into the jeering as well.  Now I am more than capable of withstanding a brutal mocking, but I’m a somewhat reddish man by biology, and it’s difficult to walk away with the regality I’m accustomed to with this blasted coloring.  But what do these cretins know anyway?   If you ask me they’re a bunch of junkies and losers.  I alone am the truth; didn’t Jesus say something like that?  But I’m digressing from my self-important message here so I will go no further in this area.  Somehow I always seem to dismiss my message with trivial stories from my past, so hopefully I can manage to end that self-defeating practice and actually have something meaningful to say.  Oh dear God! Back to why I’m important.  I happen to believe that I possess a level of insightfulness that is unmatched in contemporary American society, much like Jefferson, Locke, or Erasmus in their own times.  Those who know me well may dispute such a bold statement, citing my forgetfulness and dizziness.  But quirky irreverence is often a sign of genius.   

I just returned from a weekend in Wells, Maine. I wish to share my review of that enchanting little town with all of you.

After a mercurial little SIX HOUR drive with a particularly beast-like friend, we arrived in Maine; welcomed by about a trillion signs telling us tourists what we’re not allowed to do there. As a man who subscribes to his own doctrine of jurisprudence, I found these signs utterly offensive, and quite frankly, a little disparaging. Strike one for Maine!

Shortly after crossing the Maine border we arrived at our hotel, um cottage actually. That was the source of a little playful mockery from friends and co-workers, the whole cottage thing. But hey, I’m secure in my sexuality and if we must label it a cottage just because of juxtaposition then so be it. A later drive down an antique-shop lined road made me question my aforementioned proclamation, but only momentarily. Strike two for Maine!

As I am a cynical person of grossly low character my only intentions here are purely negative, so I will not be mentioning the name of the hotel, ok cottage. We checked in and easily found our quarters. It was a somewhat busted looking structure of red panels that have definitely seen better days. The screened-in porch was present as advertised, but it looked so much bigger in the online ad. As it was it proved a little uncomfortable for two overweight men to do anything in it other than stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sitting and relaxing was evidently out of the question. It seemed if we wanted to enjoy the beauty of the nature surrounding us we would have to do it in the clear line-of-fire of the wondrous insect-life Maine has to offer. God I’m itchy right now! Strike three for Maine. I regard baseball as an archaic means of American sporting entertainment so these strikes in no way derive any parallel meaning, so they will continue to accumulate as I see fit.

Upon entering the room, er cottage, my mind was immediately put at ease. It appeared quite clean, was furnished in a pleasant yet still manly fashion, and had quite a large bathroom. This would prove immensely important as while we were there for business, we also intended to drink ungodly amounts of beer, consume massive amounts of artery-clogging food, and would therefore be spending a good deal of time in the bathroom. I dropped my bag on the floor and proceeded to do what pathetic men of my sort always do in that situation: Lay on the bed to test its comfort and durability in the unlikely event we can somehow manage to land us a local gal. No strike here.

As I lay on my bed that was sure to see no action aside from the horrific nighttime rumblings of a gassy man, I thought to myself that my previously found faults were minor, and I set out to alter my frame-of-mind to a more positive one. But then a strangely familiar aroma invaded my nostrils. I couldn’t quite make it out. Initially all I could detect was its commonality. It certainly wasn’t native to Maine; this was obviously an odor that transcended location. All of a sudden I nailed it. I said to my friend, “hey man does it smell like foot in here or is it me?” He agreed. This room, OK COTTAGE JEEZ, actually had a pretty pungent foot stench going on. I couldn’t believe it! How could management not see to this gargantuan problem? Someone would lose their job for this! I will not be treated in such an inefficient manner! Strike four for Maine!

I decided to shut my stupid mouth and suck it up. Possessing absolutely no diplomacy skills I was sure if I made a ruckus about the sickening stench I would be arrested and thrown into a Maine prison. You ever see “Shawshank Redemption”? You get the picture then. I cannot decide whether or not to issue a strike for this one as it stems from my own character defects, which are certainly plentiful, but to hell with it this is my damn story! Strike five for Maine!

I’ll be brief in conclusion as that’s pretty much where the cons end. The food was great, the people were nice, oh wait there was pretty much only one attractive woman in the whole town (STRIKE SIX!), we enjoyed the local watering holes, I sang “Subterranean Homesick Blues” at a karaoke bar and bombed, and we ended up having a really good time. But I tend to accentuate the negative so in ten years when I think back on my trip to Maine I know the only damned thing I’ll remember is that our room, alright already fucking cottage, smelled like feet

Holy God no! That quick-as-lightning, nasty little creature scurrying across my kitchen floor was indeed a cockroach.

I managed to catch up to the wretched beast and destroy it. After a thorough inspection and much denial I finally came to the realization that my second-worst nightmare had come true. My first would have been if it was a rat, but if that had been the case, I wouldn’t be telling this story right now- I would be dead.

I had made my first wartime mistake. I jumped into search and destroy mode too quickly. What I needed to effectively wage war was intelligence. I should have taken the little bastard prisoner and interrogated him. Is it against the Geneva Convention to torture a cockroach? I would not make the same mistake twice. When one of his comrades tried to cross the demilitarized zone I would be waiting, and he would become my prisoner.

I immediately hunkered down for battle. My first move was one of defense. I discarded every single bottle, spice, and box of food in my cabinets; I even threw out the canned goods and everything in the refrigerator. Perhaps I overreacted, but unreasonable aggression is a virtue and is responsible for making out country great. After I was satisfied that there wasn’t a crumb of food left in the house, it was time for a full on, offensive assault.

I needed supplies. So it was a trip to the supermarket for weapons of mass destruction. I scoured the aisles for anything that said Raid on it. Those little black traps, five different kinds of spray, and an industrial size bottle of bleach. “Dammit where are the flamethrowers,” I muttered to myself perhaps a little too loudly. The manager informed me, in quite a frightened manner that they’re not permitted to carry flamethrowers. What the hell is wrong with this place? No flamethrowers? That’s ok. I’ll make my own. Hairspray and a lighter, as I recall from my misspent youth, makes for a fine flamethrower. Oh yeah and sterno! If ever there was a destructive invention that has absolutely no place in the home, it’s sterno. Its jellied gasoline, says so right on the can. You know what else is jellied gasoline? Yup, napalm. But for this war, it’s totally justified. The enemy must burn!

I headed home and began my preparations. I stashed the little traps in a dozen strategic locations. I know they’re useless and the roaches probably get stomach aches from laughing so hard when they see them, but I do believe (right or wrong) that I’m a little bit smarter than they are. The traps are merely a diversion. The spray is only if one of them is so bold as to try to come anywhere near me. The weapons of mass destruction are the real treats. I wasn’t sure how to approach this tactic without burning my building down, but that was of little concern to me at the time. If I saw one, the risk of fire would be worth it to light him up.

After placing the traps and nearly choking to death from dumping two gallons of bleach down the drain I left the kitchen and shut off the lights. I know the commie sons-of-bitches like to come out in the dark. So I sat down in the living room in total silence and waited. I planned to periodically jump in the kitchen, flip on the lights and destroy any non-human form of life within a ten foot radius. I was very nervous, but I psyched myself up by telling myself that I’m about a billion times bigger than they are. The psychological stimulation worked, I was ready for war. I decided that I’m a genius who should be teaching battlefield strategy and psychological warfare at the War College. I went in firing. Nothing. I repeated this cycle several times, still no sign of the enemy. Hmm…where the hell were they hiding? Their petite stature gave them a distinct advantage, and I did not think it was fair. I found myself cursing our lord for blessing such a malevolent creature with the gift of daintiness. I simply could not find them!

Could it have been a loner I stumbled upon, a lost soul desperately searching for his kinsman? Doubtful, but I suppose it’s mildly possible. Still I cannot allow complacency to dilute my mission of complete destruction of the enemy. Victory will be mine as I firebomb those little bastards back into the Stone Age.

I decided to change my tactics. I would have to learn to think like them to be victorious. Roaches haven’t been the most loathsome, bothersome, critters in the history of the world by being easily beaten. I would crouch and hide like a roach. I was beginning to lose my mind. I was pretty sure they were limited to the kitchen. So I decided to line the floor separating the kitchen from the living room with my household napalm. If my assault culminated into a full blown war and retreat was necessary, I would light the napalm up while running for my life, thus achieving containment. I was no longer afraid to use the flame thrower. If I encountered a cluster of the enemy I would not hesitate to act with ruthless disregard for life and limb.

Two days and no sign of the enemy. I suppose I should have been happy about this, but I was war hungry, ready to apply my Marine Corps training into real life battle. Luckily I have few friends, because if anyone would have showed up at my house and saw me with my old camouflage fatigues on, my face painted like Rambo, crawling around my apartment with hairspray attached to my utility belt, sterno cans strewn about, it may have been difficult to explain. But no one showed up and my resolve was as strong as ever.

Another day went by with no action. I began exuding a horrible odor. I realized I hadn’t showered in three days. Plus the extended weekend was coming to a close and I would have to truck off to work the next day. The thought of leaving those detestable little hooligans alone in my apartment made my skin crawl. I was forced to come to grips with a certain reality that had been eating away at me, but until now had been pretty easy to brush off: my sanity was in serious question. Madness was taking control of my every thought and action. I was sleeping only a couple of hours a night. Every little noise thrust me up as I would rush the kitchen spraying and swinging, only to find nothing.

I awoke the next morning intending to take my grievances to the United Nations Security Counsel for review. I was going to demand some sort of sanctions against my enemy. So I showered, finally, and donned my finest suit; a Pierre Cardin knockoff I picked up at the Salvation Army for a friend’s wedding. My dad had worked there and was able to get us a discount. It pays to know people. As I was sitting in maddening bumper-to-bumper traffic on my way into Manhattan an astounding realization suddenly gripped me and made me feel profoundly silly: I HAD COMPLETELY LOST MY MIND!

It only took a couple of minutes away from the roach and my own madness to realize that I had allowed an insect, the size of a solitary piece of orzo, to dominate my life for three days and to drive me to the brink of madness. I had underestimated the effectiveness of the commercially available repellants I used in my initial assault. They actually worked. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t seen another roach. There are only two possible conclusions: One is that I do indeed belong at West Point, pimping my militaristic brilliance out to the Pentagon for $10,000 an hour. The other is that the ferocious piece of vermin was, after all, just a stranger in a strange land. Either way I believe I am now roach-free. However, I still have the weapons of mass destruction, just in case.

Some years back a few friends and I were enjoying a weekend in Virginia Beach. Being young, rough, crude, and incapable of conducting ourselves in a civilized manner, we were there to do two things: power drink, and prowl for some ladies. Both tasks were approached with extreme vigor, however only one objective was achieved, at least on my part.

On our first day there we hit the bars at high-noon. First mistake. Then we proceeded to consume alcohol at an inhuman level. Beers, shots, mixed drinks, you name it. Second mistake. They had this wheel with various shots printed in their respective slots and whatever shot it landed on was what the group would do. We spun that wheel so many times I’m getting nauseous just thinking about it. It was disgusting! Third mistake.

Most of that day is a blur to me. Whatever unspeakable acts we may have perpetrated upon the human race are best left unknown. But I suppose that around 11PM I must have drank myself sober because from then on I remember everything. This is not necessarily a good thing.

In my insanely inebriated state I felt invincible. So I then decided it was time to put the second objective into action. You may be asking yourself why I waited 11 hours to institute this phase of the plan, but that would be a foolish question if you knew me. I’m not exactly a ladies man, so to speak. But on this particular night I was guided by destiny. The invisible hand that dictates fate, which had been so historically cruel to me, was finally on my side, guiding me straight. This would be a night to remember!

I was in a bar mackin a couple a honies. How I ended up in that particular bar is unbeknownst to me, ditto how I ended up there alone. I scanned the joint for my friends but they were nowhere to be seen. No matter, I’ve always been an independent cat and if I had to go it alone I was well prepared to do so. So I was talking to the girls, everything was going great, when all of a sudden two barbarians approached me and told me I had to leave. I had no idea why. I believed I was conducting myself in a very socially responsible fashion. They must have been jealous of the female attention I was receiving. Being quite the astute one I figured they were bouncers and decided to humor them. These evolutionary throwbacks had no idea who they were dealing with. This was but a bump in the road to heaven. It took only a nanosecond for me to concoct a contingency plan. So I allowed them to escort me out with nary an inflammatory word on my part, even though if push came to shove I was pretty sure I could take em both out.

They showed me to the door and I bid them farewell. Once they were back inside I put my contingency plan to work. I had previously made a mental note that there was a backdoor right through the kitchen. It was in clear view of the main bar area but there was plenty of concealment along the way. A graceless life teaches you to always be aware of your surroundings. I made my way around the building. Being a Marine at the time, I was fully capable of becoming invisible if the need arose. I studied the alley intently before making my move. There was a dumpster, and several empty boxes piled high right next to the door.

I sprinted for the cover the dumpster provided. Then I thought I heard something. I was as silent as can be. It definitely wasn’t a human for of life I was hearing, more of a scurrying sound. Holy Mother of God! Could it be a rat (my biggest fear by the way)? At that precise moment if mattered not. I had to get out of that alley or I was sure I would be killed. I had a choice to make: I could retreat from the alley in utter defeat, or I could man up, persevere, and trust the invisible hand. I chose the latter. I awkwardly sprinted for the door, knowing full-well there were two lovely young ladies inside who were eagerly awaiting my return.

The hand was right! The kitchen was empty. I saw all the people at the bar but they did not see me; I was utilizing the camouflage the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling offered. Ha this was going to be easy, I chuckled to myself. I clandestinely made my way through the kitchen to the passageway which separated it from the bar. Oh man there was a bathroom right there. I was convinced at that moment that the hand was a kind and loving hand. I simply pretended to be just another jack-ass walking from the men’s room back to the bar. I glided through the crowd with ease.

Much to my delight the place had gotten considerably more crowded since I’d been so wrongly ejected. I ordered another drink and began a visual search for my ladies. I would be their knight in shining armor, appearing out of nowhere to rescue them from the clutches of all the simpletons corroding the bar’s atmosphere.

I spotted them in the corner. I slithered my way over. They were engaged in lively conversation with a couple of obviously inadequate fellows. This was my time to shine! I kind of nonchalantly stood next to them, hoping for them to notice me, when they didn’t I gently nudged one’s arm. She peered at me as though she didn’t know me. I assumed she was being polite to the guys they were talking to and would shortly abandon that hopeless engagement for a more meaningful one with me. So I patiently hung back, waiting until they could make their much desired escape.

It took a little longer than I thought, so I went to get another drink. When I returned they were gone. I immediately put my senses to work. I examined the bar area and spotted them at the door, evidently leaving with those two wads! Oh Lord, I thought to myself, how on Earth could this happen? I felt that disgustingly-familiar stab of rejection. Normally I would have left in a state of total collapse. But for some reason I didn’t. I trusted the hand. Surely there was a valid reason why the hand had guided me away from them. They must have been fouled.

I was feeling amazingly good considering my crux. I simply began spying for a new female. I thought I spotted an especially pretty young lady eyeing me up from the bar. I made my way to her. I thought all was good with the world. I should have known better.

Halfway through my path those same two genetic nightmares confronted me. They put on their most menacing faces and blurted out in a near-cannibalistic, eerily choreographed tone, “where da fuck do ya tink ya goin, didn’t we kick ya outta here befo?” But this time I had no intention of going softly into the night! This was “once more into the breach dear friends” time. I looked those two ruffians in their collective eye and said, for drunken lack of a better phrase, “FUCK YOU!” My blood was boiling! To make a short story even shorter they deposited me on the street, in an unnecessarily brute manner, in a span of seconds. Apparently some people cannot be reasoned with.

Ok, just another bump in the road, I thought to myself. I got up, gathered myself, and had just started to formulate a new plan when 2 police officers confronted me. They were very indignant for civil servants. Apparently they were unaware that tax dollars from the local businesses, which would cease to exist if it weren’t for tourists like me, paid their meager salaries. While they should have been helping me up, driving me to my next destination, and then going back to arrest my assailants, they instead decided to rough me up by cuffing me and then pushing me off the curb causing my face to bounce off the pavement thus inflicting serious damage upon me, place me in the back of their van, and take me to the pokey. I was incredulous!

I couldn’t believe how my night had taken such a horrifying turn. I was bombed, but lucid, and my mind was actively working out my defense. By the time we arrived at the station I was confident I could get myself out of this mess. I had a few aces in the hole but I would first try to reason. They pulled me out of the van and I began my soliloquy:

Me: “Officer may I have a word with you?”
Officer: ” Shut the fuck up!”
Me: “Please sir just one…”
Officer: “I said shut the fuck up asshole or I’ll make your ass look like your face!”
Me: “Yes sir.”

They chucked me in the drunk tank with complete disregard for my innocence. They actually locked me up with dangerous-looking men who I was sure at that point had been convicted of armed-robbery or murder. I only later realized that it was merely the drunk tank. I thought I was in prison. The whole no trial thing was a little unbelievable to me, but hey I was in the south. Didn’t they just lock up northerners indiscriminately?

My anger got the best of me as I felt my civil liberties were being violated. This was also the point when I realized my face had been mashed. Now I was pissed and these red-neck coppers would feel my wrath by the grace of God! I demanded medical attention and told them so. “I demand medical attention,” I said to a grossly overweight officer. “Shut up,” he replied. “Let it be noted I was denied medical attention,” I said to no one in particular. The rotund officer’s previous reply made me even angrier. “I demand to speak with an attorney,” I said to the same officer. “Shut the fuck up,” he replied. “Let it be noted I was denied legal counsel,” I again replied to no one in particular. I think he got really pissed off when I called him a fat fuck, so I went to sit down and confer with my fellow cons on the concept of injustice.

Amazingly they wanted nothing to do with me. I needed to vent so I continued to berate the guards as they strolled by, totally uninterested in my dribble. After a while of my nonsense the others in the cell became annoyed by me. They said almost in unison, “Would you shut the fuck up and go to sleep dickhead you’re not under arrest this is the drunk tank stupid!” All I could think to say was “ok sorry.” So I reluctantly laid down on a vacant stool and passed the hell out.

My friends picked me up a few hours later. One of then saw me being carted away by the police, thank God. I may have rotted away in that shithole. I had frightening visions of Cool Hand Luke going through my head. All I got was a $40 ticket for my misadventures. I hesitantly paid the fine and went on with my life. But I still maintain my innocence! I will never go back to that unholy city. Damn them and damn the hand!

Warfare is a twisted business. You must do things that offend your sensibilities and completely go against your values. I have been engaged in battle now for about 6 months. The setting: my apartment. The enemy: my 2 pound kitty.

This is no ordinary feline. She’s too insidious to be of this earth. The old adage of the devil appearing as a beautiful woman is horseshit, that bastard comes in the form of a furry little bundle of joy no bigger than a dollar-bill.

When I brought this kitty into my home she was so sweet, so perfect, so innocent. She surveyed her new surroundings and immediately made herself at home. That should have been my first indication of a hostile takeover. Every other cat I’ve ever had, upon release into their new home, immediately sought cover and concealment and I would not see them for 2 days. This one seemed to possess the same regality as her forefathers roaming the Serengeti exuding divine right.

But this cute little creature was a blessing, I thought. She renewed my faith in mankind, made me forget about all the atrocities taking place in the world today. When she jumped up on my head while I was sleeping and playfully clawed at my eyeballs I thought it was cute, and would hold her tight to my bosom, falling asleep to the melodious miracle only a cat’s purring can provide.

But then the petty harassment really began in the form of unprovoked ambushes, sleep deprivation, and on occasion, full-on attacks with the intent of inflicting serious bodily harm. Sometimes while sleeping her assaults would be so vicious, so demonic that I would have no choice but to cover up my head and just try to weather her brutality.

Because of her size the attacks were usually pretty quick, more like guerilla warfare. She would bum rush me while I was just sitting there, attack my supply-lines, and hide in the dark, savagely waiting for me to walk by with an exposed foot. I didn’t know what to do about this at first, but then one morning she made a grave mistake.

I was doing my morning thing, totally vulnerable if you read me. The door was open to allow the air conditioning smooth entry into the bathroom. I didn’t even see her. She stealthily maneuvered around the toilet and with complete malice bit my Achilles heel with the force of a pit-bull. I yelped and almost bucked right off the throne! That little fucker! Attack me while I’m copping a squat? Hell no! I’m the one who feeds her. I’m the one who strokes her mane. I’m the one who puts her in the freezer on a hot day. I refuse to be treated in such an inhumane fashion by a mere pussy. This kitty was in for the fight of her life! And little does she know she’s dealing with one of the greatest fighting machines God ever created: A United States Marine! It’s true that I was what can only be called a secretary, and um, there was that pesky nickname “Paperbitch,” but that is neither here nor there!

I didn’t act immediately. I’ve been here before. I tended to my wound, which was quite severe, and went about my daily ritual.

When I got home from work and the little ruffian attacked, I grabbed her up and engaged her in hand-to-hand combat. I got about ten score pounds on her, but that damn kitty tore my ass up! I jumped on top of her and was about to ground-and-pound her, but somehow she slipped threw my grasp and slashed me about 12 times on the leg and landed 3 good bites to the hand, not to mention an ass to the face as I lay there in agony.

Throughout history even the greatest generals knew when to retreat, so I was not at all ashamed that I was forced to flee to the rear. I reconsidered my strategy. If you cannot defeat your enemy make them your friend, and that’s what I did. A treaty was in order.

So I went out and bought a bunch of kitty treats as a show of my good faith. She seemed to appreciate the gesture, but I was still skeptical, so I proceeded with extreme caution. I think I’ve managed to lure her into my confidence, but this is not over. Oh no! I’m gonna get that little bastard! To be continued…

It’s the little things in life that can drive you to the brink of madness. That’s why I’ve spent countless hours mastering the art of Ralph Kramden’s famous philosophy of “Pins and needles, needles and pins, a happy man is a man that grins.” I simply refuse to let the petty annoyances that seem to pop up every single day get to me. In fact I find them to be quite humorous. Allow me to elaborate.

I always stop on the way to work for a coffee. The rest of the day I can deal with the lumpish quality of the “free” coffee at work, but I want my first cup to be a pleasurable and rewarding experience. The first thing I pour down into my gut in the morning is going to make me happy, even if I know the rest of the day will be a living hell.
So on my way to a particularly brutal day of work recently, I made my usual stop. Of course I couldn’t have known at the time how detestable the day would turn out to be, but the deterioration of my simple morning ritual should have been an easy indicator for me. As someone who has to resort to “writing” on the side, it wouldn’t be at all presumptuous for you to assume that I’m not too bright, and quite hungry to say the least. I strolled nonchalantly through the convenience store, said hello to the clerk whose name I could never remember, and made my way to the make-your-own-coffee area. The place is a real shithole, but they have fantastic coffee.

Now it’s important for me to digress here and point out something I’m not too proud of: accomplishing simple tasks is often very difficult for me. I don’t know why. I consider myself to be a fairly non-stupid person capable of performing menial errands with minimal stress. That sounded good so I’m going to stick by that statement, but subsequently you can be the judge. My brother and I like to joke that we’re the victims of an insidious family curse, where nothing seems to abide by the world’s most stringent rules of physics, averages, and downright godly kindness. Perhaps some estranged ancestor bestowed this curse upon us helpless brethren by insulting a pagan god. Who knows? Regardless, it’s not something civilized people should have to deal with on a regular basis.

I made my coffee, light and sweet, very sweet. Ignoring all modern medical advice and contemporary views, I refuse to believe that sugar makes you fat, Buffalo wings and beer as well. Soon dignity will be mine when my baseless theories are proven true, and all of the good-looking, wheat-bread eating people of the world swell to my current shape. Senseless you say? You just wait. So anyway, I paid for my coffee and newspaper and advanced to my car. As I approached my car I put the coffee and paper into one hand-I’ve mastered this feat over the years-and reached for my keys. The keys were caught on a cumbersome piece of thread hidden mysteriously inside my back pocket. I loathe deviation. I struggled with it briefly, but the skimpy piece of thread beat me down. I was forced to admit failure and had to put the coffee down on the roof of my car while I clumsily attempted to release my keys from the surprisingly powerful grip of the thread. In my haste I placed the coffee right on the lip where the door and the roof meet. After a minute of wrestling with the entangled keys I managed to free them. This pleased me. I opened the door to get in and you can easily surmise what happened next. The molten liquid engulfed me and immediately sent me into a spastic panic. This displeased me.

I managed to choke back my tears and act very quickly in pulling the smoking hot, wet shirt away from my scorched skin. I’m very good under pressure. After a minute the pain dissipated. It seemed a trip to the emergency room would not be necessary after all. I was very red, but my skin was intact and my cat-like reflexes had saved me from certain doom. However, it still baffles my mind how those same reflexes stagnated when the coffee, which seemed to come at me in ultra-slow motion, couldn’t get me out of the scalding liquid’s terrifying path. Even still, I was able to apply the aforementioned philosophy and smile at my own misfortune.

The main problem was over, and then it was time to deal with the residuals. My t-shirt had turned into something a lice-infested, 15th century sailor wouldn’t wear to the annual vermin buffet. I had only one option: go home and change, right? Dare you say that, let alone even think it! I despise backtracking, even if it is for the greater good. Oh wait! I remembered I had a t-shirt in my car. A co-worker of mine just returned from some island and brought me a shirt. Alright, I thought the curse had been lifted and all was well with the world. My plan was perfect: I would find the shirt, put it on, go get another cup of coffee, and be on my way; a mere 7 minutes past my schedule.

I located the shirt. It was tucked in a plastic shopping bag stuffed under the passenger seat. It was a little wrinkled, but I wasn’t going to work on Wall Street. I hid behind my car and donned the shirt. My obscured reflection in the window told me that it was a very stylish garment, although slightly on the tight side. So I did what mildly overweight men have always done in similar situations: the completely futile act of attempting to stretch the shirt out. You can stretch the neck, sleeves, and bottom out so that you will look unbelievably foolish, but you can never stretch the body of the shirt out quite enough to mask an egg-shaped torso. This presented a problem. However, I refused to concede defeat! God willing, I would subjugate the stupid shirt and make it bend to my will! The humor was beginning to subside.
It came down to a test of wills. Will my spirit be broken, or will the shirt conform to my oddly shaped body?

I fought a heroic battle, but in the end, the shirt emerged victorious. I was beaten, but not broken. I was sweating profusely. Basically, I was miserable. Calling in sick and going back to bed was a serious consideration. I was beginning to become exhausted. But I persevered and trucked off to work wearing a t-shirt that was not only battle-worn, but also something that could only befit a small, effeminate 12 year-old boy. I was starting to get agitated.

The shirt made me look like a complete jerk and I knew when I arrived at work the jeering would be relentless and especially vicious. My co-workers are evil, evil people. I was not looking forward to this. Why didn’t I just go home and change? Why haven’t I learned from the past that I need to have several contingency plans for the most simplistic of tasks? What was that I said earlier about being able to find humor in the annoying little things that happen to us? I hadn’t even made it to work yet and my day was shot. Damn that idiotic philosophy, humor ceased to exist! I was pissed!

Its funny how we in America can take so much for granted. Clean water, gasoline, 24-hour White Castle, penny draft night, basically the ability to get pretty much whatever we want whenever we want, and of course the basis of this grisly tale: Electricity.

Last night a cataclysmic event took place which forced me to reshape my perspective on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I got home from class around 7:30 and decided I’d had enough algebraic fun for one day and was going to put on the television and let all the mathematical crap drip out of my head while watching a movie that would surely disappoint. So I took a shower and then proceeded to assume my state of lethargy. I sat on the couch and was immediately transformed to a happier place, where there were no despotic institutions like work or school to worry about, and where I could manufacture an imaginary world where God was created in my likeness and I was the supreme ruler.

This rare utopia was short-lived. After about 10 minutes I heard that despicable sound that accompanies a power outage; and then there was darkness. I do not know what wrong I must have committed to irk the Supreme Being to take such a vile course of action with me. With the temperature topping ninety-five degrees and what had to be one thousand percent humidity, this was just about the worst situation that could have possibly popped up. Death by a thousand cuts you say, or perhaps a very dull guillotine? Those things are like a bubble bath compared with sweltering to death.

I had two air conditioners, the television, the radio, the DVD player, the VCR, every light in the house, my electric razor, my cell phone, and of course the refrigerator running. I thought it was my God-given right to run every damn appliance I owned at the same time, as long as I could pay the electric bill. Should I not be rewarded for simply being me by pampering myself in the squalid confines of my depressing haunt? If a man is not the king of his castle in this age of hedonistic decadence, then life is completely meaningless.

So I have to assume the dual air conditioners were the straw that broke the camel’s back. This is a terrifying prospect. If I cannot run my air conditioners then I will perish; plain and simple. I have a big problem with heat. As most “normal” people can’t wait for the advent of summer, I dread it to the point where I become chronically depressed two months before the season even begins. This may be caused by the abnormal condition in which I sweat. As soon as the temperature becomes unsuitable I immediately start dripping from my head, neck, back, chest, arms, and feet. It soaks through my wardrobe and makes me look ridiculous.

I have learned, through twenty-nine years of exhausting pain and frustration, to deal with this calamitous disorder. Whether at work, school, or just out socializing, I accept my evolutionary rank and persist. But when I’m home, doing nothing in particular, I refuse to concede defeat. I will run my air conditioner when I’m not home, if I’ll be gone overnight, even if I’m on a weekend retreat. Dollar signs are not an issue to me in this regard. My feeling is that since I drive a fuel efficient automobile, I have every right to be wasteful with electricity. Sound senseless? Well most desperate justifications for erratic behavior are. Acting unilaterally, I essentially buck the entire system of laws and human decency to stay cool at home. It’s all about selfishness. This is the only area of life where I allow Satan to lead me away from the path of righteousness and onto the horrifying road of repugnance.

I reside in an old building and this is not the first time the power went out. So when it happened I was well-prepared to act quickly and decisively. The breaker is located right behind the refrigerator. I rushed to it and began ignorantly flipping switches. Nothing happened. I repeated the process. Again nothing. Now I was getting stressed out. When the power goes out in the summer you have literally 3-4 minutes before the residual conditioned air diminishes and your place becomes a microwave oven on high-heat. After trying several more times to correct the ruination of my night, I gave up and ran from the apartment screaming and sweating.

I needed instant gratification. I hopped in my car and blasted the air conditioner. Within thirty seconds I was feeling much better. Now I had to formulate a plan. I had to survive through the night. Re-entering the jungle-like climate of my apartment was out of the question. I got it! I got on the horn and informed a friend of mine that I was coming to stay the night at his house. There’s that selfishness again. The inconvenient formality of asking didn’t even enter my mind. It didn’t need to. There’s no time for that nonsense in life-or-death situations. He agreed.

I went and slept on his couch, fully comfortable with the cool temperature. In fact it was quite cold. I was a happy man. I forced myself to forget about my dilemma and drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke I was thrust into the harsh reality once again. I had to go home and get ready for work. I wasn’t worried. Surely my power would be back on by now. I arrived at the building and was instantly pleased. The hum of air conditioners and the brightness of the lights were obvious indicators that all was well with my building and it’s neighborly residents. I went inside and turned on the a/c. Nothing! AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!! What the &%$? This must be a conspiracy, with everyone acting a particularly brutal part. It was 6:30 in the morning and not yet unmercifully hot so I dealt with the slightly uncomfortable climate inside and got myself together for work. I would just have to call PSE&G when I got there.

Fixing the whole ordeal was a lot less painful than I though it would be. A couple of exchanged phone calls was all it took. But the mental, physical, and spiritual toll it took on me will be felt for weeks, if not months, possibly even years. When I get home today I’m confident that I will have power. But the fear of not having power will forever be on my mind and if it happens again it’s quite possible that I may not survive the dreadful ordeal.

As we’re firmly entrenched in the second half 2007 let us reflect on one of the more serious events of the year.

In the early part of the year, as the economy grew at a sizzling pace, the quality of pizza dropped exponentially.  This is a sad evolution and indeed indicative of the state of affairs in America today.  Two of my favorite pizzerias, in trying to keep up with the demand created by increased consumer spending, shamelessly sacrificed their decades-old tradition of unwavering quality for assembly-line quantified production.  It was completely evident from February on. 

Being a connoisseur of all things fattening, I immediately noticed this lack of attention-to-detail that separates the standard from the spectacular.  The crust was no longer darkened, which deprives the consumer of a depth of flavor unbeknownst to the sadly ignorant who traditionally flock to the chain pizzerias.  This gloomy scenario would indicate that increased demand has led these once mighty establishments to forgo precious oven time for faster delivery, and hence higher profits.  And in doing so they will eventually alienate their consumer base; and when the crowds die down and the profits fall they too will fall like the great empires of the past, God willing. 
This lack of oven time, which is solely based upon the disgusting profit driven fast-food concept of “get em in and get em out,” is also responsible for the lack of the little burnt specks of heaven that were omnipresent on the cheese hitherto.  Those little areas of dark brown cheesiness were the jewels of the pizza Nile.  They were what gave our taste-buds that orgasmic feeling as we gleefully devoured each wondrous bite.  That joy has left my life, and I’m sad. 
Now, as consumers, we of course have certain courses of action we can take to try and level the playing field.  We can request our pizza be cooked well done if we so choose.  But sadly I have calculated that eight times out of ten my simple request is disregarded in the name of revenue, and as much as I feel someone deserves to die for my unhappiness I simply cannot lower myself to their level of maliciousness.
I am but a simple man with simple pleasures.  All I ask is a paltry two extra minutes of oven time, but apparently that is simply too much to ask as my uncomplicated request is repeatedly denied in a very callous manner. 
The situation is unacceptable.  It’s contrary to a civilized society and the American way.  As Americans we must rise up and rebel against this most heinous form of tyranny.  It’s high time we start exercising out consumer power in the American system of free-enterprise.  We must reverse the supply-side trends of the past three decades.  We must come together as a society which demands the best and will indeed act to achieve our collective goal of properly cooked pizza by staging boycotts where necessary, and even more extreme, but perhaps necessary, by driving our point home by frequenting the aforementioned chain pizzerias to send a bold message to these independent establishments that if they’re to maintain their previous reputations as “quality” pizzerias they must buck up and get back to the basics. 
Make no mistake about it, our very fate of American consumer power is at stake here.  If we allow the local pizzerias to deny us our basic human rights, what’s next?  Will Italian delis start using Wonder-Bread?  Will Chinese restaurants start using actual chicken instead of vermin?  Or will the most horrifying of scenarios come true: Will breakfast places start using that awful generic Taylor-Ham? 

This is serious business and it requires solidarity.  The next time you get an inferior pizza, let old Vito know about it.  Forget for a moment that he’s been making your pizzas since you were a child, and tell that fat mother-fucker what’s what.  This is America dammit.  Demand the best!  And whip out your ass in protest to get it if necessary!  Hell whip out your ass anyway, it’s fun.