I love pizza.

When I say that I love pizza, I mean, I really love it.

I love it so much I want to drop my pants, slide out of my undies and make sweet, sweet love to it.

When I’m done making love to it, I want to screw it.

Pizza likes it rough too.

Pizza is better than winning the lottery. It’s better than Star Trek and it’s better than Star Trek: The Next Generation. Pizza is better than mom’s homemade apple pie. It’s better than winning the Superbowl, and it’s a hell of a lot better than winning the U.S. Open. Pizza is better than crack and cocaine, and it’s better than butter-soaked biscuits and jam resting on the tanned buttocks of a bikini-clad Rosario Dawson. Pizza is better than oral sex.
Wait, scratch that and revise.

Pizza is better than an hour-long session of oral sex skillfully administered by three women at once, all of whom have been trained, tested and universally certified in the fine art of oral sex.

This story is about one night, with one pizza from a nearby joint called, Rosito’s.
I’d swallowed the last of the deliciously gooey slices thirty minutes prior and unfortunately, something was wrong. The cheesy goodness wasn't quite sitting right. My stomach felt twisted. It was moving and morphing, and wrenching and tying itself into knots, and it was doing it slowly. My insides were belching and my backside was puffing. The awful sensation sloshing inside my knotted stomach was slowly progressing upward.
It was heading for the light of my mouth.

My wife noticed my discomfort and managed to pull her attention from what I’m sure was a fantastic episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashins long enough to make sure I wasn’t dying. "Steven, are you all right?"

There was a pissed off little person trapped in my belly. His name was Biff. He was wearing overalls, a hard hat, and he was working a jackhammer against my slippery, boiling interior while smoking a comically oversized cigar and letting the ashes pool in my stomach acids.

Of course I wasn’t all right.

I was nowhere near all right.

It’s a little-known fact that three-foot tall dude’s named Biff are undoubtedly the angriest three-foot tall people of all.

You can take that to the bank.

In between a stingy hot series of acid-soaked belches, I managed to tell my wife that I was going to hop in the shower. I needed to do something, anything. I was feeling light-headed and I could taste the metal aftermath of bile across the surface of my tongue. I thought maybe the water would make me feel better.

It made sense in my head.

I wobbled into the bathroom, turned on the water, slid out of my clothes and hopped in. At first it was working. The water felt good. It was warm and it gave me something else to focus on. I leaned my head against the tile, closed my eyes and tried my damndest to relax.
I swallowed a mouthful of water and let in land on Biff's head.
He'd been working the night shift. He was grimy, he was coated in the scent of cigar smoke, and he was in desperate need of a shower. I thought he might appreciate it. For a moment, the gruff old bastard laid down his jackhammer and stopped chopping away at my insides.
I sighed and smiled. I’d done it.

Everything was going to be okay.

Or was it?

Fresh and clean, energized and ready to roll, Biff popped another stogie into his mouth and lit it up.

Everything wasn’t going to be okay.

My insides flipped. My stomach exploded and something that smelled like fried death popped like an over-inflated sex doll from between my lips. Less than a second later my insides were sprinting toward my mouth. A of river bile was shooting upward, chunks of pizza cheese and sloppy dough mixed like spawning salmon among the waves.
I keeled over. I couldn’t help it.

It felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. Choice and thought were a thing of the past. This was reaction and nothing else. I was at the mercy of the Biff and his jackhammer, and the volcano of nastiness frothing within.

My mouth opened and began to spray.

It was lumpy liquid awful.

In mere seconds I’d transformed into a pasty, naked, fire-breathing dragon. My throat heaved and my mouth erupted. Chunks of four different cheeses, perfectly seasoned dough, and a very hush, hush secret tomato sauce passed through my lips and spurt in every direction. It coated the walls. It coated the glass of the shower doors in orange-red globs. It was a Dexter Morgan Blood splatter. It was a Rorschach created by the devil himself. What didn’t cascade onto my feet ricocheted off the porcelain and stuck to the hairs on my chest.

Suddenly I was standing in it. I was wearing it like an awards dress even Lady GaGa would shake her head and gawk at.

I tried to make it stop.

I tried willing it to stop.

I failed.

Sloppy, meaty chunks of steaming, partially digested mozzarella piled between my toes. They mixed with the spraying water and cascaded back against me. I was bathing in it.
Tears pouring down my face, I covered my mouth with my hand in a desperate attempt to make it stop. This accomplished nothing. The devil puke squeezed through the spaces between my fingers. It would not be denied. It was the Terminator and Robocop, and the Predator all mixed together. It was It was tougher then Lieutenant Marion “Cobra” Cobretti and at wouldn’t be stopped.

For nearly three minutes I continued to gag and spew, and stand in my toasty warm insides. When it was finally over, my legs gave way and I dropped to my knees in the steaming aftermath.

There was a knock at the door. "Steven? Are you okay?"

It was my wife - my goddamn wife, late to the show wife.

"Steven?" I tried to tell her not to open the door. I tried to warn her, but a wad of half dissolved cheese the size of a testicle lodged in my throat made it impossible.

The instant she stepped into the bathroom the sickening acid odor hit her nose. It shot into her stomach, then back into her mouth and into her belly once again like a demonic game of pong. At some point during the journey the awful scent triggered her gag reflex.

A moment later she was keeled over and hacking as well. Her hacking succeeded in furthering my own, and my hacking was doing the same to her.

She was useless to me.

The whole thing was moronic.

It was stupid.

Back and forth we traded gags and coughs, and belched with our eyes closed and our hands over our mouths. She kept insisting that she needed to help and I keep insisting that she get the hell out of the room.

The air smelled like the unwashed ass - like the underside of Rachel’s Ray’s boobs after a sweat-drenched trip to the gym, or her recipe for Lasagna Florentine.

Unable to stand it any longer, my wife crawled from the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

I was happy to have her gone.

I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning up my own filth. I soaked my feet, popped open a bottle of body wash and dumped onto my head. I lathered my legs and soaped my chest and scrubbed my various patches of cheese-sticky body hair.

I scooped a piece of half-digested cheese from underneath my balls.

When my body had been fully sanitized, I went to work on the tub itself. I scrubbed the walls and the basin, all while trying my damnedest to keep Biff from getting riled up again.
When I returned to the bedroom, I dropped to the bed and closed my eyes.

My wife placed hand on my shoulder, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

It took everything I had not to punch her in the tit.

The next morning she found a dried up piece of stomach cheese on the bathroom floor that I’d somehow missed.

She started hacking.

I felt a little bit better.


  1. Wow....I dont know whether to laugh or cry.....

  2. Glad you survived to tell the tale. However, now the undersides of Rachel Ray's boobs are forever etched in my brain. Uh, thanks. :)

  3. @CASSIE - Why not both? Don't limit yourself. Reach for the stars.

  4. @TENNILLE - Meh. They've been etched into my brain for years now. Don't ask why. It's better that you not ask why.Rachel knows why. Ask Rachel.