If I'd had a bad day I suppose I would have expected my reaction. But I had a good day, I worked hard but I accomplished a lot so I felt pretty darn good about pretty much everything. I didn't, however, feel good enough to slave over a hot stove so I was drawn to the frozen food section of my local grocery establishment.
There it lay, amidst the slightly foggy air of the chilled compartment...a mongo super deluxe self-rising pizza. Glistening mounds of cheese punctuated by curled and slightly crispy rounds of spicy pepperoni. Mama mia! I very nearly tore my rotator cuff snatching the door handle and clutching my prize to my chest along with a bag of premixed salad, I quickly made my way to the checkout. I thought to myself this isn't heaven but I swear I could hear the harp music as I hoisted my plastic, not paper, bags into the car.
Defeating glue designed to protect the pizza box from opening in anything short of a nuclear blast I deftly brought forth my Italian gourmet dinner and placed it on the baking sheet.
And stared, mouth agape, arms akimbo, eyes wide.
My glance traveled from the box to the pizza and back again. Short of hypnosis to affirm the fact, I was able to convince myself that this object did come from the box mere moments earlier.
The box front illustrated only a portion of the pizza, but on the back was a photo of a perfectly cut slice, crispy crust, slightly browned on the edges, juicy tomato sauce, hints of italian seasonings sprinkled generously about and four...count em...four perfectly round meaty disks of pepperoni. Four on one slice.
Staring up at me with apologetic pepperoni peepers were 7 fully formed sliced of pepperoni and 2 little half slivers.
Now, math isn't my strong suit, but if there's 8 slices in a pizza and you get 4 pieces of pepperoni on each slice then I'm nearly a couple dozen pieces short.
Quality control in the Red Baron factory a little lax these days fellas?
Well... I suppose I shouldn't be too alarmed. After all, go to any fast food restaurant and unwrap your SuperBurger. Then try to liken that flat mashed brown object wadded between two greasy buns with limp warm lettuce lying dead from the weight of the cardboard tomato with the picture of what you ordered up on the menu board.
As much of a chance as me looking in the mirror and seeing Cindy Crawford.
Then again, I'd trade those 23 slices of pepperoni for that anyday!