Andy P.
Yelp
This pizza changed my life. I strongly recommend you look at the pictures I've included before reading this review.
Here we are, January 1, 2023, and we're already grinding at work. The crappy stuff, too, like filing bills and creating new personalities to suppress paper-cut experiences. Terrible stuff.
I don't need any BS right now. No more talking, just looking for a pizza. Maybe a decent salad.
I call the order in, and these MF's bring me TOO MUCH PIZZA. What would you do? Seriously. Ask yourself. Too effing much pizza. The extra sauce in a paper cut was just enough extra sting to have a little tinkle slip. Nature knows.
Don't get me wrong. The pizza was delicious. Indeed, I'm a TRUE pizza review guy, and the pizza was an 8.267, where Boston's Santarpios and Regina's hover in the same standard deviation.
The goddam delivery guy was about 40 minutes too early, too.
I mean, the pizza might have been delicious, the salad might have reminded me of a spring day frolicking with my love, and the delivery dude might've been eleven standard deviations too early, but...Dude, seriously. Too much pizza?
YOU PEOPLE SHOULD BE IN JAIL.
Well, that was my first response. One yells "Ow" when one stubs one's toe.
What would you do? Is too much, too early, hot and delicious pro-level Propperoni and Green Olive [you hearing me, Son?] [Cuz I said "green olive," and only wizards cast green olives on pizza] a problem?
Well, being a considerate and reasonable consumer, I dialed up the Better Business Bureau. I've got the BBB set up in speed dial because everything sucks these days, amirite!?
Heck, you're probably a jerk. YOU. (watchit jerky).
Anyways, I dial up Judy - we're tight, like Christmas-cardy, namsayin' - and after seventeen minutes of analysis, neither Judy nor I can find a suitable Complaint Category, like "Iron Too Hot, ergo, Burned Lips," and/or "Pet Doesn't Love Me, ergo, Turds on My Pillow."
It struck me. It struck us. It struck us, and we cried:
One cannot have too much pizza.
We cried together, and, Lordy be, I can't tell you how we cried. It was a shocking epiphany, like when the new bidet fired a super-heated steam jet on it's first official, non-sea-trial, use. (There is a Complaint Category for that.) Anyway, I the Judster and I realized that maybe we were a little too wound up in 2022...and 2021...aandanyway...It was an earth-shattering moment in my life, and the Luigi's West End Pizza caused it. I'd use a "Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day" analogy, but it's my dirt shooter that was too tight, and no one wants to think in exquisite pinkish detail about my dirt shooter getting bigger, especially when you're probably hungry, looking to order food, and the mayonnaise suit hasn't finalized. So we'll skip it.
Next thing you know, these maniacs will put white anchovies on the menu, and/or fix all horrific life glitches, like lost effing insurance payments and/or Stizzi from the IRS basement leaving blank Post-It notes on your bathroom mirror, for all of us.
Judy and I both feel this is an omen, and she's a Capricorn.
2023 is going to be great. It's going to be great for you and great for me. I truly hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you buy a pizza from these fireball pizza surgeons.
I also hope you have a brilliant, brilliant 2023.