Screw you for pitching Hawaiian Pizza to the world.
As someone with Hawaiian roots, I am personally appalled that you even decided to call this monstrosity “Hawaiian Pizza.” This isn’t what we’re about. We’re about beauty and tranquility and the preservation of the lush and green environment. This thing… This is an abomination of all things good.
Let me take you back to the moment when everything changed for the worst. It was a dark night. Thunder aggressively shook the windows, lighting slashed through the sky, and there was a marathon of “Botched” on the TV. As I began to hesitatingly scatter a few pieces of pineapple onto a cheese pizza, I thought to myself: Is this what it has come to? Is this where it all ends?
When I took my first (and last) bite, my tastebuds went to war with my overall well-being. I spit the atrocious chunk of waste out with the fury and velocity of a thousand volcanoes erupting. It ricocheted off of a wall and shattered my living room lamp, along with my life.
I even told my 93-year-old grandma about Hawaiian Pizza, and she had a heart attack…and died! Yes, she straight up died! Hawaiian Pizza is responsible for the death of my dear Tutu!
You should be extremely ashamed of yourself. Take this wretched idea back to the disgusting depths of the dark and demented place where it came from!
– A Hawaiian who hates Hawaiian Pizza
Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories have appeared in Peculiars Magazine, Ellipsis Zine, Emerge Literary Journal, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Ghost City Review, Lotus-eater, WINK, Drunk Monkeys, and Fat Cat Magazine. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.