|*cue choirs of angels*|
Anyway, I had a delicious pie with buffalo ranch sauce, chicken, cheddar and mozzarella cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes on a thick crust. Drummer Boy had some concoction made of five kinds of dead farm animals, banana peppers, and black olives.
I was raving about how good mine was, and he was raving about how good his was. The difference is, of course, that I knew my pizza was good, while his was an abomination featuring foods that could be considered torture devices if you forced me eat them.
At one point, when I had eaten three of my six slices, he glanced at my remaining portion of heaven and said (and I quote), "Can I have a taste?" Pause. "That's a lot of pie. That looks like more than you can eat." Pause. "Can I have a slice?"
Well, I'm in love, so what am I going to do, say no, keep your mitts off my sovereign pizza, you bastard? I let him have an entire 16.667% of my lunch. All the while, we both knew that there was no way I was going to ask for a slice of his quid pro quo. Because to my mind, banana peppers and black olives are God's punishment for that whole eating the apple thing way back when.
|"I give you shame, and these nasty fuckers. God out."|
Because as we were setting our pies and drinks on our chosen table, he made some random comment that I don't even remember, and I responded frantically, "Don't mention the war!" And we both dissolved in giggles.
|I think I got away with it all right.|
Google it if you need to (glares disapprovingly).
But the next time Drummer Boy conspires to take one of my pizza slices, I may have to go full Sybil on him.
Love you, Drummer Boy.