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12

Jul

I love apples. Mmm-MMMH! I like ‘em raw, cooked, in pies and even coveed in artificial caramel goop and served on a stick. But there’s one place I never expected to find an apple, and now that I have, I may never fully trust them again. That place, friends, is on top of a pizza. Especially a maple syrup-soaked monstrosity claiming to be “New England Style” pizza. Take it from me, you poor confused wretch. You’re not pizza. And if you’re honest with yourself and take a good long look in the mirror, you’ll realize that you don’t really want to be pizza. No, my little friend, what you want to be is a pancake. See? Now, don’t cry. We all get a little confused sometimes. 

I love apples. Mmm-MMMH! I like ‘em raw, cooked, in pies and even coveed in artificial caramel goop and served on a stick. But there’s one place I never expected to find an apple, and now that I have, I may never fully trust them again. That place, friends, is on top of a pizza. Especially a maple syrup-soaked monstrosity claiming to be “New England Style” pizza.

Take it from me, you poor confused wretch. You’re not pizza. And if you’re honest with yourself and take a good long look in the mirror, you’ll realize that you don’t really want to be pizza. No, my little friend, what you want to be is a pancake.

See? Now, don’t cry. We all get a little confused sometimes. 

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