The Wife and I are in the habit of making pizzas on Sundays. We do this to combat the stress and depression of knowing the weekend is at an end, and we must both face the reality that tomorrow is another soul-crushing Monday. Sunday nights are almost worse than Monday mornings, because at least with Monday mornings you know the fun has died. You’re over it, and you’ve moved on with your life. But Sunday nights? Oh, those are just the beginning of the end.
Now, I’m an American male, so I try to be as tough as humanly possible. When I cut my finger dicing onions, I usually manage not to hurl at the sight of my own blood. When I slam my finger in a car door, I walk it off (generally around the corner and out of sight, where I can sob like a little bitch). So, being the tough-as-nails American manly man that I am, trust me when I say I don’t cry often. But when I do? Oh, it’s Sunday night.
But you know what helps? Pizza. You’d be surprised at the effectiveness of pizza to combat the Sunday night blues. It gives you something to look forward to, and — let’s be honest — it tastes like sexy heaven. Like an angel’s underpants. And you don’t even have to make a pizza from scratch for it to be awesome; The Wife and I just buy those cheap-ass, nasty-ass frozen sumbitches from the supermarket. (Because we’re just classy like that.) But you know what we do to our pizzas before we cook them? We dress ‘em up like handsome gentlemen.
Extra tomato sauce. Extra pepperoni. Extra cheese. Half an onion. Chili peppers. Spinach. Ham. Whatever the hell we’ve got laying around the house. (Pretzels. Old sneakers. The dog. We throw all that shit on there.) But there really isn’t a very good expression for this activity. You can “dress up” your pizza, “add toppings” or “make it awesomer,” but nothing has caught on in our household quite like the expression my wife used the other night as I was walking out of the kitchen:
THE WIFE: “Okay, you go to the bathroom while I pimp our pizza.”
Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”
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