Welcome to the Rented show, folks.

I’m going to tell you about how I spent part of my weekend; so if you care and really want to know about it, mind your own fucking business and get a life. However, if you don’t give a crap and are wondering why the fuck I’d want to tell you about shit that doesn’t really concern you, please take a seat. You’re welcome to read.

The start of the story

Now, Saturday and I have this thing that we attend almost every week at Dominos. It’s a long story but in basic summary, many pizza families have lost their dear ones.

Day: Saturday. Place: Dominos. Time: 2.56.03p.m. Anything else: Whatever.

Hi. I'm this picture's caption. Great meeting you.

There’s this astounding and very physically disciplined chic seated somewhere next to the window. Her butt looks like a product of proper upbringing, her boobs are well-educated, eyes upgraded to windows 7, hair is rightly immunized and the face is generally good mannered. I am staring at her.

Then there’s this dude from the oppositest side of opposite sides of beautiful things. He’s seated facing her on the same table. He has vulgar legs, a non-religious nose, toes that look like they are constantly running away from him and he’s staring straight at the chic. I am him.

Unfortunately, this story is not about these two; it’s about why they are staring at each other. This story is about the angry pizza seated on the…wait, this part deserves its own title.

The story of the angry pizza

This story is about the angry pizza seated on the table between them. The pizza is so angry that it has beef sprinkled allover it; beef, mushrooms, tomatoes and cheese. It’s angry because…I smell another title.

Why the pizza is angry

There’s this waiter who carries the pizza to our table and leaves without telling us who exactly it belongs to. This is the part where I reveal that I actually don’t know the chic seated opposite me. We are simply strangers who happened to order for exactly the same thing.

The pizza had said its last prayers, fully accepted its fate, had its last meal and was ready to face its executioner, but no one was making a move. It was angry because what we were doing was psychologically torturing. It didn’t understand that we were only staring at each other to figure out who should eat it. It should be the gentleman dude leaving it to the damsel-in-distress chic, right?

Fuck you. I didn’t know her and I was hungry. In fact, the pizza was more on my side of the table.

At this point you must be wondering where the story is going. Stay tuned.

It was during that moment of dilemma that my super intelligence mode kicked in (happens all the time. Can’t control it). Leaving the pizza to her would be a conversation starter meaning I’d have her number meaning I’d have sex with her. So I did what every wise man would do-I ate the pizza.