That’s because you’ve only had [locale] pizza. The only good pizza is from [different locale, at least 500 miles away], especially from [pizza restaurant that only exists in different locale]. The [flour/water/cheese/crust/method of heating] in [locale] is all wrong for good pizza.
Significant kudos and dramatic praise for your preemptive lampooning of anyone who dares to suggest that my dislike of pizza is because of where I get it.
She enjoyed the notion that New York was home, and that
she missed it, but in fact the only thing she really missed was
pizza. And not just any old pizza, but the sort of pizza they
brought to your door if you phoned them up and asked them to.
That was the only real pizza. Pizza that you had to go out and
sit at a table staring at red paper napkins for wasn’t real
pizza however much extra pepperoni and anchovy they put on it.
London was the place she liked living in most, apart, of
course, from the pizza problem, which drove her crazy. Why
would no one deliver pizza? Why did no one understand that it
was fundamental to the whole nature of pizza that it amved at
your front door in a hot cardboard box? That you slithered it
out of greaseproof paper and ate it in folded slices in front
of the TV? What was the fundamental flaw in the stupid,
stuck-up, sluggardly English that they couldn’t grasp this
simple principle? For some odd reason it was the one
frustration she could never learn simply to live with and
accept, and about once a month or so she would get very
depressed, phone a pizza restaurant, order the biggest, most
lavish pizza she could describe – pizza with an extra pizza on
it, essentially – and then, sweetly, ask them to deliver it.
“To what?”
“Deliver. Let me give you the address – ”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you going to come and pick it
up?”
“No. Aren’t you going to deliver? My address – ”
“Er, we don’t do that, miss.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Er, deliver. . .”
“You don’t deliver? Am I hearing you
correctly… ?”
“Pizza isn’t pizza if it isn’t delivered to your door”? That is in the running for the most ridiculous opinion I’ve ever heard. By that logic, anyone who lives in a rural area significantly outside the bounds of a city (beyond which, I’m taken to understand, a food-delivery service will not travel) has never had real pizza, a proclamation that every pizza-lover I know personally would brutalize the speaker over. Yes, a guy who is willing to deliver you a meal is to be praised, but the act of delivery has no effect on the quality of the meal.
What is that an excerpt of? I shudder to imagine what OTHER opinions the narrator has and wish to avoid the risk of ruining a good day by reading them, but I don’t wish to write off the author as a whole should I happen upon their other works.
I would like to clarify that I am NOT expressing an immediate rejection of all opinions contradicting my own. I just prefer to hear contrary opinions from actual people, thus enabling conversation on the topic, rather than from fictional characters who state their beliefs and cannot be inquired as to their reasoning.
I don’t know man, you have to actually call the delivery guys? Or fill in a form online?
How’s that compared to a wish list that you write on any sheet of paper at your table and not even send to Santa – but he still knows! He just knows, man!
And he can bring you anything, not just what’s on the menu.
Finally, some one recognizes society’s truest heroes!
Pizza, when you are so lazy you can’t even muster the energy to just go somewhere where food will be made for you.
I don’t LIKE pizza. Consequently, the existence of pizza delivery guys has nothing to do with my belief in the magical.
That’s because you’ve only had [locale] pizza. The only good pizza is from [different locale, at least 500 miles away], especially from [pizza restaurant that only exists in different locale]. The [flour/water/cheese/crust/method of heating] in [locale] is all wrong for good pizza.
Significant kudos and dramatic praise for your preemptive lampooning of anyone who dares to suggest that my dislike of pizza is because of where I get it.
I am indeed a member of the brotherhood.
She enjoyed the notion that New York was home, and that
she missed it, but in fact the only thing she really missed was
pizza. And not just any old pizza, but the sort of pizza they
brought to your door if you phoned them up and asked them to.
That was the only real pizza. Pizza that you had to go out and
sit at a table staring at red paper napkins for wasn’t real
pizza however much extra pepperoni and anchovy they put on it.
London was the place she liked living in most, apart, of
course, from the pizza problem, which drove her crazy. Why
would no one deliver pizza? Why did no one understand that it
was fundamental to the whole nature of pizza that it amved at
your front door in a hot cardboard box? That you slithered it
out of greaseproof paper and ate it in folded slices in front
of the TV? What was the fundamental flaw in the stupid,
stuck-up, sluggardly English that they couldn’t grasp this
simple principle? For some odd reason it was the one
frustration she could never learn simply to live with and
accept, and about once a month or so she would get very
depressed, phone a pizza restaurant, order the biggest, most
lavish pizza she could describe – pizza with an extra pizza on
it, essentially – and then, sweetly, ask them to deliver it.
“To what?”
“Deliver. Let me give you the address – ”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you going to come and pick it
up?”
“No. Aren’t you going to deliver? My address – ”
“Er, we don’t do that, miss.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Er, deliver. . .”
“You don’t deliver? Am I hearing you
correctly… ?”
-Douglas Adams
“Pizza isn’t pizza if it isn’t delivered to your door”? That is in the running for the most ridiculous opinion I’ve ever heard. By that logic, anyone who lives in a rural area significantly outside the bounds of a city (beyond which, I’m taken to understand, a food-delivery service will not travel) has never had real pizza, a proclamation that every pizza-lover I know personally would brutalize the speaker over. Yes, a guy who is willing to deliver you a meal is to be praised, but the act of delivery has no effect on the quality of the meal.
What is that an excerpt of? I shudder to imagine what OTHER opinions the narrator has and wish to avoid the risk of ruining a good day by reading them, but I don’t wish to write off the author as a whole should I happen upon their other works.
I would like to clarify that I am NOT expressing an immediate rejection of all opinions contradicting my own. I just prefer to hear contrary opinions from actual people, thus enabling conversation on the topic, rather than from fictional characters who state their beliefs and cannot be inquired as to their reasoning.
Wow. Douglas Adams’ take on a sense of perspective takes on a whole new meaning with Dtiba around. I’d probably better make some more tea.
I don’t know man, you have to actually call the delivery guys? Or fill in a form online?
How’s that compared to a wish list that you write on any sheet of paper at your table and not even send to Santa – but he still knows! He just knows, man!
And he can bring you anything, not just what’s on the menu.
I don’t know, I’d rather bake pizza than go shopping for clothes.