A story,

My good friend and I paid a visit to another friend in the vast metropolis of Fort Langley BC. The visit turned into a small party, naturally, so we had all been drinking, some more then others. As drunkards well know, at around midnite you get kind of hungry. An idea was presented to the group, “Lets get a pizza!”.

Much agreement flowed through the party about getting one, but then as all pizza requests like this one go, the second, and more decisive decision is always, “What kind of pizza?”. I immediately answered, “I feel … like something … kinda… salty… like Feta”. My friend agreed, “Feta sounds awesome”.

The host starts to dial, looking at us with a kind of disgusting glance, “You really want Feta?! Fucking Feta?!?”. “Yup, but add like ham or onions or something.” we said.

So he gets through to the pizza place, “I want a pizza, with ham, red onion and lots of fucking feta. I mean I want so much fucking feta on this pizza, that my friends here, who wanted feta, will be sick of fucking feta for the rest of their fucking lives.”

Our jaws drop, but slowly a smile forms which quickly turns to laughter, what the hell are we going to get? I thought, “They’ll laugh but it’ll just have a bit of feta on it”. So we head out to pick up the pizza, the most sober person driving, and I took shotgun. We pick it up, the box, well, it must have weighed 5-6 pounds and was sagging in the middle.

We get back to the house, open it up. Our jaws drop again, there is perhaps an inch to and inch and a half of solid feta on this pizza. Perhaps, in Ron Swanson fashion, they put all the fucking feta they had on the pizza.

But we ate it and it was good.

I was sick of fucking feta for around 6-8 months.