As I mentioned previously in my post about Toasties, nothing chaps my ass more than grown ups talking like babies. It is like, maybe my biggest pet peeve. More than white dreadlocks, more than people who don't let other people off the subway before getting on, grown-ass adults talking like wittle itsy bitsy babies seems like the most insipid thing on Earth to me. Now, the Book Thugs recently scored all this sweet vintage smut and I was looking through some back issues of The Play Pen, this classifieds magazine from the 60s for infantalists and diaper fetishists. I just want to say, though I think it's obvious, that if I have any readers who are into that weird shit, I am the last person to judge! Fuck however and whoever you want as long as it's all consentual, and fuck anyone (figuratively speaking, of course) who tells you otherwise or makes you feel dumb about it.
But there is a line where the way your kink translates to your clothing or vocabulary is something that I can think is corny without being a dick, right? So like, people wearing bondage bracelets look like Hot Topic dweebos or Teen Werewolves and that's totally fair game for me to amicably take in jest. Or not. If people seriously disagree, then by all means let me know and I will consider other opinions.
The point is simply that maybe the owner of My Daddy's Pizza is an infantilist and that's why he named his pizzeria something so gross. I would probably be more into this place if I knew that it was like, run by a True Weirdo and named after some dude's sex fetish than I am if it is just some weird breeder naming it for his kid or some creepy sentimental adult calling his own father Daddy. Either way, the real point is that the name of this pizzeria grosses me out and if it doesn't gross you out that means you are a pervert and need to be castrated!
It's all a moot point, really, because this pizza is really bad. I took my first bite, made a face, and began to pass it along to the boys, who eyed me curiously. "This tastes like Manhattan Clam Chowder," I observed.
"I HATE Manhattan Clam Chowder!" Matt Carroll fumed, his face red, smoke emitting from his ears, his clothing tearing as his body grew to enormous, dare I say hulking proportions. He does come from proud, Puritan stock, after all. I didn't think about the intense anger New York's clam soup wells up in a staunch New Englander's psyche.
It took us a while to pick the shards of glass out of Matt's fist after he DAMAGEDed the mirror in his rage over Manhattan clam chowder, but afterwards he admitted he'd never tried M.Clam.C took another bite of the slice and acknowledged, "this would make a pretty good soup," shaking his head in affirmation.
The rest of the slice was either bad, or so wimpy that it was overpowered by the intense taste of clam and tomato soup. The crust was hollow crap and it just turned to dust when bitten into, like when you karate kick a snowball that someone throws at you except not cool or fun. All told, this place has a gross name, and gross pizza.
My Daddy's Pizza - $2.50
976 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10018