Dear Pizza Shops,
Keep your gay-ass “cuppy” pepperoni. It looks stupid, like little meat yarmulkes begging for their foreskin back. Like pouty meat lips pursed and ready for back-alley validation. Like puckered salami sphincters trying too hard to seduce me. It emasculates me to even utter the word “cuppy”.
Pepperoni should lie flat, greasy, and ashamed—like a real American.
If I wanted artisanal bullshit, I’d eat it off a yoga mat in Brooklyn next to some guy named River who’s poly with his sourdough schhhtarter. Just give me the goddamn slice, not a food sculpture with body dysmorphia.
My father didn’t fight a war in the 1940s for your toppings to look like they’re about to sing Hava Nagila on a goddamn charcuterie board. And fuck charcuterie boards, they’re gay, too.
This has been a SCREW Review, proudly judging meat since 1968.
Your friend,
Phil
