I thought before I knew Hell, but it is only at this exact moment that I am writing this that I truly know the manyfold lattice-work of torment that is Hell, originating in my intestinal tract and extending outward to the far reaches of my conciousness. Not even my pineal gland has been spared by the Evil juices flowing around inside my body.
You're probably asking yourself, "What has Curtis done to himself this time? Too much partying last night?" No, it's nothing that simple. If I had merely imbibed too much liquor, I would understand the results and be able to react rationally to them thereby relieving my discomfort. No, I have a far more devious demon ravaging my poor sanity and weakening my body is Pizza Hut's Old Sicillian Pizza (PHSP).
Don't laugh. Don't you laugh.
Last night for dinner, I ate 3/4 of one of those nasty little creatures, and I have been paying for it ever since. How could I, homing beacon of purity that I am, have been deceived into devouring so much Evil?
I'll tell you, it tricked me into thinking it tasted good. I don't know how it did it, and I intend to conduct future experiments involving various chemicals to discover its chemical makeup; however, I would not be at all surprised if goat's blood or bat wing or eye of newt were in the recipe.
Fast am I into my 11th hour enduring the onslaught of pain brought on by PHSP. At first, I was only experiencing the usual distress experienced after overeating: my stomach was full, causing my abdomen to appear a little distended. I patted my belly and asked of it, "Did you enjoy that?" I was downstairs in clinic office at the time, chatting with my friend Jamie.
Even though most men talk to their various body parts, Jamie found it odd that I would say anything to my belly, prompting her to say one of the most frequently repeated phrases in the world, "Curtis, you're crazy." (Although it doesn't make a bit of difference, I responded, "Crazy like a fox!!!")
Why I was eating pizza for the third day in a row, I don't know. I was hungry. It was available. I watched a little TV with my friends. At 9 p.m., I went home and called some folks. At 10 p.m., I drove over to the independent video store and dropped off a video. It was about this time that I noticed the first rumblings, but I paid them no mind.
I went to the grocery store to prepare for a healthy meal tomorrow with a friend. As I was checking out the woman at the register said, "You don't look all that well. Are you feeling fine?"
I reassured her, "It's nothing. Ate a little too much pizza. Bit of indigestion."
Shortly after 11 p.m., I came home and gave said friend a call to see how she was doing. No one answered, so I figured I called too late and decided to go to bed. About this time, my digestive system had started expressing its unappreciative disposition for the burden of having to break down the current of mountain of faux-Palermitan pie (still moving through my small intestine) into usable nutrients by transmitting fairly strong somatic signals to the culpable body parts.
Ever seen Evil Dead 2? Well, that was 6 hours ago. Since then, I have finished a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, chewed my weight in cherry-flavored Rolaids and milked the neighbor's cow bone dry. I next intend to raid the Mrs. Baird's bread factory.
I guess it was around 4 a.m. this morning that I shouted, "I am going to kill Cody." You see, Cody is the little devil who suggested ordering the pizza.
Cody: "Curtis, I'm dying for this Sicillian pizza. You want in?"
Curtis: "Sure."
Bad move on my part, and I knew it; maybe I'm a glutton for punishment. Unless it's bought in Sicily, there is no such thing as Sicillian pizza. I figured the thing was from some little pizzaria that might have a fifth or sixth generation connection to some place in Italy.
How could I go wrong, Italy just beat American in an exhibition basketball game. I might as well show my support for puting Tim Duncan's ego in check, right?
I asked Cody where the said pizza was ordered? As soon as the incriminating words "Shut up, Pizza Hut is good" left Cody's mouth, I should have been on the phone with the nearest mental hospital to have that sick boy put away where he can do no more harm to himself or anyone else.
Curtis: "Cody, that pizza came out like five years ago. Do they still sell it?"
Cody: "Curtis, it's great, I've ordered us two."
I'm a paisano from Wichita (incidentally the birthplace of Pizza Hut) so I'm sorry if my expectations for pizza are a little high, but half a day's worth of indigestion is completely ridiculous. I should be sleeping right now, but I can't because of that diabolic dish. I send you a warning of extreme caution: do not use Pizza Hut's Sicillian Pizza for anything other than fish bait unless you have innards made of vulcanized rubber
