Quite staunchly, I am not a picky eater – save for, perhaps, 99% of all seafood, because it’s all slime turds from the wet pit of Earth’s mistakes (the ocean). As long as it tastes good, I will shovel it into my gob. Yum yum yum. Down into the tum. As long as it doesn’t make me vomit, make me shit, or give me the tremors, I consider that a meal fit to masticate and absorb into the body as sustenance. And that’s because, from an early age, a deep distrust of selective diets was drilled into me by the most baffling, frustrating, most utterly bullshit picky eaters of them all: The Pizza Trolls from The Logical Journey of the Zoombinis.
That the Pizza Trolls even existed in the first place, let alone whipped into the kind of famished frenzy that they were, defies all logic – a grand irony given the title of the game itself.
Look at these smarmy shits, grizzling at you through their awful woody maws.
Three anthropomorphic tree stumps – apparently named “Arno,” “Willa,” and “Shyler” – handed sentience, functional limbs, and apparently fully-formed language centres, who instead chose to squander those gifts by sitting in a muddy ravine and having a big fucken sook.
These woody assholes had no appreciation for how good they had it.
Spending their entire lives no more than two feet from a magical pizza tower, the Pizza Trolls chose to a) never bother to learn how to use it, b) never bother to learn what anything tastes like, and c) rely on the off chance a hoard of cursed, armless, blue dickbags rolled through so they could bully them into doing it all for them.
How these starving idiots never once managed to learn that pushing any one of the five buttons gets them delicious pizza within seconds is beyond me. Worse still, how they get themselves to a point where they’re holding things hostage because of it is some insane shit.
I’ll eat anything when I’m that hungry. I don’t care. Shovel three-day old dry bread into my mouth, who gives a shit. Let me lick a bag of flour. I once took a flick knife and hocked lumps of pure cream cheese into my disgusting mouth like I was a frontier prospector whittling a tent peg. If I had a giant machine that farted pizza out of its top butt with little-to-no apparent need to ever replenish ingredients, I’d make my life on pizza. I’d build houses out of it. I’d end world hunger. I’d roam the streets benevolently handing pizza out to the masses.
Never, not once in my life, have I gotten so furiously hungry that I’ve falsely imprisoned another living being until they chucked a self-saucing pud into the microwave that is in my house.
These soppy shits lie about waiting for Zoombinis – all of whom just looking to get to the end of the path so they can die in peace – so they can piss and bitch moan about wanting “more toppings” or that “something on there I don’t like.”
One of the options is “blank” you drippy turds. It’s hot Italian yum sauce on a crispy bread. What’s wrong there? You can’t just shut the fuck up and eat that?
Give me a break.