In a
stranger than fiction turn of events, I had a first happen in my life that caught even me by surprise. I know, me, the guy who turns around in his car to go back to his friend's house because I thought I left my keys at his apartment. It wasn't until I took the keys out of the ignition and stared at them in my hands that I weep silently in my car and drove off in eternal shame.
Back to what happened at chow time at work. I was minding my own in my office right before lunch. I was in a weakened state, on the verge of ravenous hunger, when the aroma of freshly coooked pizza wafted into my domain. A melodious question sounded in my ear ... "Would you like some?" My stomach answered my heart's yearning with a "yes"!
As Brenda brought the box of baked bonanza before my belly, some burden began to brew. My nose discovered the problem at the same time she said it "I just can't eat this supreme pizza on my own."
What was I to do, I already committed to the menacing monstrosity. Microbeads of sweat pooled on my brow as the pugnent odor singed three nose hairs to their untimely demise.
Then a brillant plan formed in mi cabeza as I silently held a vigil for my fallen friends (my three nose hairs). I would select three pieces of pizza ( in their memory), sift them for the good toppings, and combine the meat and cheese from the three into one super, safe, steamy slice of
Shangri-la.
Only one issue with my near flawless plan. Actually three. The Olives and Onions and Peppers Oh My. The good pickings were slim. 1.66 pepperonis per slice times 3 slices wasn't enough to make my super slice sing. So I did this off the wall crazy thing. I said what the hay, I'll eat all the toppings. And I did. I really didn't taste the olives in all the onion/pepper crunching, desparate dry heaving, and franticly searching for my garbage can. But I did eat enough pieces of an olive to say I ate the equivalent of one olive and that, ladies and gents, is my first.
