I’m a Pineapple and I Belong on Pizza
This piece originally appeared in the Gut Bomb Humor Newsletter, a biweekly roundup of funny food writing. Subscribe at gutbombhumor.com
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…
