Issue #1: I'm a Pineapple and I Belong on Pizza



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Issue #1: I'm a Pineapple and I Belong on Pizza
By Gut Bomb • Issue #1 • View online
Set the table, strap on your bib, and let’s dig in!
Welcome to the inaugural issue of Gut Bomb. I hope this biweekly roundup of original and curated humor writing fills you up without leaving you feeling bloated. (Though, I’ll take any burps as a compliment.)
I can’t thank you enough for subscribing.
Eat up,
Adam Campbell-Schmitt, editor

I'm a Pineapple and I Belong on Pizza
by Adam Campbell-Schmitt
I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I wasn’t prepared for it to be so cruel.
All I want — all I’ve ever wanted since I was a budding bromeliad — is to be on a pizza.
But the minute a pineapple like me shows up, there are sneers on half of the faces in the crowd. They have no issue loudly decrying our presence in our presence, proudly declaring their bigotry, and shouting down those who disagree.
I’m sick and tired of people debating my right to exist in traditionally savory spaces.
Where I come from, the best most of us expect out of life is a job at the juice factory. Maybe get a cushy gig in a piña colada if you’re lucky.
That wasn’t for me. I’m not content to be crushed and canned on someone else’s terms, futilely dreaming of the day I’m set free from my tin prison only to end up filler in a Jell-o salad at a church potluck.
I know in my heart I’m worthy of being a top-tier topping, to rub elbows with the bell peppers and black olives of this world.
You may say “you’re not traditional.” Oh, like mozzarella and pepperoni? What makes them “traditional?” They’re just benefiting from generational privilege, of customer after customer never questioning their systemic orders.
You may say “fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.” What about tomatoes? They’re fruits. But I guess they’re acceptable to you because they’ve gone out of their way to assimilate to your specific pie-deolgy.
You may say “any authentic pizzeria wouldn’t even have pineapple.” Fine. I don’t need to be granted legitimacy by the pizza elites, by the glutinous gatekeepers that seek to stifle topping diversity and to police what, let’s be honest, should be a private decision between a diner and their pizzaiolo.
Or maybe you just say “well, I know some people like pineapple but it’s just not for me.” You’re right. I am not for you. But I’m not against you, either.
All I ask is that you not be against me.
I’m a humble, farm-raised fruit from rural Oahu, half a world away from Naples or Brooklyn, trying to make it on one of the most beloved and contentious dishes on earth. I’ve had to work my way up against the odds, in the face of social media-fueled hatred and attacks from prominent naysayers like Gordon Ramsay and the president of Iceland.
But I’m still on the menu.
And I would be remiss not to acknowledge that I’m here because I’m standing on the shoulders of giants. I thank cheeseburgers. I thank barbecue chicken. And I especially thank Canadian bacon — another unlikely outsider — for selflessly reaching down and pulling me up the ladder with them. It’s because they paved the way that I can confidently say…
I’m pineapple. I’m a pizza topping. Get used to it.
This week's best bites:
Here are some of the tastiest treats from around the humorous side of the internet. Below you’ll find important rules for dining out with kids in the After Times, all the soup/life advice you can slurp, and a handy guide to your impending death as it relates to cereal!
The Second Coming of Christ Shall Take Place in This Applebee’s
by Bobbie Armstrong [Widget]
Stanley Tucci’s Recipe For The Perfect Molotov Cocktail
by Rachel Siemens [Slackjaw]
A Post-Pandemic Guide To Eating Out
by Bev Potter [Frazzled]
Life Coach And Soup Expert Sydney Soup (AKA Mr. Soup) Answers Your Questions
by Brian Gutierrez [Slackjaw]
Prepare To Eat Shit, Food Dunce: This Man Thinks He Can Swap In His 10-Inch Springform Pan Where The Recipe Explicitly Calls For A 9-Inch Fluted Tart Pan [ClickHole]
Are You Preparing Dinner for Children, or Starring in a Post-Apocalyptic Drama?
by Audrey Burges [McSweeney’s]
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