The Best Calzone Ever!

The other night I went to a decent chain-type Italian restaurant in Pittsburgh. It was one of those that probably was real popular when it opened up during that “wood-burned pizza” fad – which lasted about 3 months until everyone realized that wood-burned pizza was much crappier than the pizza you could get at your neighborhood pizza store and about 3 times more expensive.

Clearly, I was not going to order this fancy sham of a pizza from the menu, so I opted for a calzone w/ meatballs, mushrooms and green peppers. I figured that a 10-dollar calzone had to be good, right?

Well I was wrong. It wasn’t good – it was un-fucking-believable! The waiter brought this monstrosity out and said “this is the best looking calzone I’ve ever seen come out of our kitchen!” I had never been there before, but this thing was so good, he had to be right. I was full after downing only two-thirds of the behemoth.

So I munched on a cannoli for dessert, and then I felt that ricotta meeting up with the calzone ricotta and planning a back door exit from the party in my stomach.

I settled in the handicapped stall and laid the paper, as the jackass in the stall next to me wiped himself while butchering the lyrics to Big Poppa. But even a T-bone steak, cheese, eggs, and Welch’s grape couldn’t have done as much internal damage as the colossal calzone. My intestines were about to do some butchering of their own.

The initial log was only about 7 inches in length, but it was thick and satisfying. But a few seconds after that, all hell broke loose. I sprayed brown second-hand ricotta all over the bowl and it was very uncomfortable. I recovered a few minutes later, but even the 5-minute ride home proved difficult.

I could barely concentrate on the road with the forceful poo pressing against the inner wall of my anus. I quickly parked the car and bolted upstairs, unleashing a tsunami of liquid excrement into the porcelain ocean before my cheeks even made contact with the seat. The final remains of the calzone were gone – except for the last third, which would ultimately serve as the next day’s breakfast in the morning and natural dranal-O in the afternoon.

Believe me, there are no craps more satisfying than the ones that barely escape your pants.