Yesterday at work, someone ordered pizza for all of us...for reasons that remain cloaked...in mystery.
Were they fattening us up for some sort of slaughter?
I had to play Batman and ask around to find out where the pizza came from. "I dunno, just eat it" was the primary response. Finally I cornered someone, tied him up, and got an answer.
"Pizza Italia, man! Pizza Italia in Bloomfield! Don't hit me no more!"
I kid the yahoos I work with and the Dark Knight Detective himself.
Their pizza is yet another solid Pittsburgh pie, the kind you can get at any number of pizzerias in the area. They tend to be similar in taste and overall constitution; tough, doughy, crackly crust, a sweet, chunky, fruity sauce that cries out "I was made with fresh tomatoes," and a soft, slippery cheese that just slides into your mouth, down the hatch, and into to your belly. But it's a hella GOOD pie! If this was the only kind of pizza that existed, I'd be content to munch on it for the rest of my dining days.
It was even good cold, and since old man Crowley can't be bothered to heat our building properly, the pizza didn't stay hot long.
Yes, we are but farm animals. We get pizza once in a while instead of slop and feed. At least the pizza's always top notch, though.