Attack Of The Pizza Gods

In the last month, I’ve tried to be militant about getting my workouts in.

Today when I got home from a day in front of two computer monitors and an SQL query which wouldn’t give me the goods, I immediately changed clothes in preparation for today’s workout.

Abs today.

So in changing, I opted to wear the tshirt featuring my moniker and assorted agrandizements.

I should have known something was afoot when Juniorette saw the shirt and smirked. “What’s so funny?” I asked her.

The smirk continued as she signaled that nothing in general had inspired her mirth.

And then it happened.

Wifey appeared at the door with pizza.

That woman is going to kill me.

If it’s not with the pick axe from the garage, it will be with her impromptu home cooking substituted with carry out.

Crud.

I had to have some.

I put a couple of pieces on a plate and proceeded to watch a rerun of How I Met Your Mother.

As I ate that piece of pizza, a piece of acrophobic sausage made a last ditch effort to jump to freedom safely by working its way down my tshirt covered torso and onto the floor.

Once it got there, it stood and pondered its next move. Perhaps it would hitch a ride to the east coast where it could pick up a boat to London to go check out the Olympics. Maybe it would go to the Bahamas. Even a trip to the Texas coast would be nice.

Alas, none of that happened. Instead it ended up on what would be an involuntary trip through the alimentary canal of a cone sporting Lab Jack who witnessed the whole event.

In the meantime, the shirt came off and got sprayed with Shout. If you’re going to wear a shirt sporting your ego to the gym, it had better not have a pizza sauce stain on it.

 

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