Fayetteville's Shit on a Shingle

There can be no greater erroneous supposition that usurps the active cognition that pizza in the south is more than doughy mush covered in menstrual fluid.  In fact that would be more tasty and more appealing.  Then again if menstrual blood on a bun were to become popular as a foodstuff, the General Assembly of North Carolina would want to control it.  They probably do, and that is why Papa John, Dominoes, and Marco's all agree upon serving the same revolting combination of wet diapers, scrotum cheese, and menstrual blood.  I guess if you have eighteen dollars, haven't eaten in three weeks, and are a Zombie then that recipe is for you.  Welcome to Fayettenam.  After capitalizing on Little Ceasar's five dollar pepperoni hot and ready for over a year, it was time for a different flavor.  Three strikes and your out, of pizza forever.  Two strikes here, and both are insulting enough to tell you straight to your face that the three dollar "delivery" fee does not go to the driver.  Why are we paying a fee for delivery if it does not do to the delivery person?  This is the Conditions of America it her best.  As Eric Cartman would say, "Send down the lubrication guy, because I liked to get lubed before I get @#$%3ed."  That is pretty bold.  We will deliver a putrid, waxy, nauseating, pile of dung on a wet shingle to your door covered in menstrual blood, and charge your three dollars more that by the way, "Doesn't go to your driver!"  He is free to harass you about the three dollars he doesn't see from the pizza sale.  I have no doubt they are instructed to tell you that they get none of the three dollars listed as a delivery fee.  In the future, as I look at the lovely images of deformed children begging for money on SONYHD, adamantly and with fervor I will not give the driver a tip.  You need to negotiate that with your employer.  Instead they condone the harassing of customers by irate poor pizza delivery droids.  I guess once again I am behind the curve.  I am down on the lip of the bell curve.  Slow.  Behind the times.  We don't order pizza, and know I know why we no longer order pizza.  Like everything else now I must create my own self made pizza.  No problem.  My tacos are better than any tacos in Fayettenam.  It doesn't take much.  Fresh ingredients.  A little effort.  In the pizza war (and I am resisting the urge to down a half bottle of hard liquor to forget my troubles) the South is askew.  I have visited the birthplace of Pizza, and that pizza wasn't much.  They raved about it, mostly because they were eating it at the birthplace of pizza.  It is the Italian port city with canals.  Venice.  "Ah, Bach!"  Venice was a toilet bowl, and its cobblestones hurt my feet.  I do wish I had appreciated the sculpture and architecture of Italy more.  The pizza was awful, but not as bad as the pizza in Fayettenam.  A wet diaper covered in menstrual blood.  A five hundred degree pizza stone will cook a pizza in a few minutes.  That is the trick, and a wood or coal fired brick oven is best.  The crust should be thin and crackly, crackly like a cracker, a mulatto cracker, white with black spots.  It could be New Orleans pizza.  The thick, coating, heart stopping fake cheese is naught.  That was Papa John's tonight.  A wet diaper covered in a waxy film of fake cheese covered in menstrual blood.  Here we are in Fayettenam, a Zombie-infested irradiated toilet bowl of chemicals in Cape Fear swamp water, and people are dying in droves.  If I were not sick and tired, it would motivate me to grow as a person.  Fayettenam is good at killing.  Any town with any High School that has a group called "Remembering Our Lost Friends....."  Dead people.  Our dead people.  People who die way before their times.  Up Jacksonville way, Camp Lejune once cleaned all of their war machines with powerful solvents and dumped them on the ground.  Those solvents made their way down into the local water table, and people started dying.  Birth defects.  Cancer.  Death.  It went on quite some time before it was settled.  Take a look at Fort Bragg.  A tributary of the Cape Fear River runs directly along the top border of Fort Bragg.  It is a stones throw from Pope Field.  Often I have wondered if they take or dump into that tributary.  As human beings we never have been able to drink the water.  First it was duck poop.  Then beer was discovered and solved this problem.  Since then we have been drinking beverages other than water for good reason.  The only thing I do with Cape Fear swamp water is bathe, and I keep it on my body for the shortest time possible.  For cooking and drinking I have been using good quality Florida aquifer water for a few years.  Spring water.  Not purified water.  Not twice distilled, backwardly osmosed, doubly filtered horse piss.  Water distributors like Nestle can purify tap water and demand you tip their delivery people because they don't see a penny of the delivery fee.  This is America.