Kind of badass.

Simply stated, there are just certain places you shouldn’t good to get certain things.

Think about it; when you want sushi, you don’t rush to a mini mall in a town of 5,000. I’d advise against venturing to either Dakota if you’re specifically searching for a hot piece of tail (though I once made out with a cute chick from Fargo). Families don’t, or at least shouldn’t, caravan to Washington D.C. just to see “a good baseball game”–even if they live in the D.C. area. In that same vein, very few people go to gas stations with the sole intention of getting a hot slice of pizza. But regional convenience store chain Kwik Trip (of selling milk in bags fame) not only stocks a myriad of pre-made Cheese Mountain Pizza beneath their heat lamps, they really, really push them on people. 

But somehow, I’d managed to resist the the onslaught of radio ads, TV commercials and in-store advertising that makes Avatar seem under-publicized by comparison. Maybe I wasn’t ready to have my mind blown. Maybe I didn’t feel as if I deserved to try Cheese Mountain Pizza. But probably, it was because they look fucking disgusting.
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I make a-da Italians feel-a bad about dere heritage.

Just like every other college-educated, self-loathing white son of middle class parents who lives in Madison, I read the A.V. Club and The Onion too much. So let me break with what’s expected of me and link to an A.V. Club story in the next paragraph:

When I started considering writing a review of Rocky Rococo’s, Wisconsin’s pre-eminent corporate pizza chain a whole 36 hours ago, I ran across this Inventory running down movies in which the police detective is told he is too close to a case, and couldn’t help parallel (again, no one else parallels their lives to something they read in the Onion, and by no one, I mean everyone) that list with this review. Am I too close to Rocky’s to write a review of the Italian stereotype-furthering chain? Probably. Read more »

To be honest, I never would have tried Nick-N-Willy’s Pizza if I didn’t have a friend who worked there. Prior to his employment there, I probably drove past the mini-mall pizza partition on Appleton’s Calumet Street some 50 times, never aware or caring enough to investigate who these “Nick” -N- (a cool way of writing and pronouncing the word “and”) “Willy” characters were.

“Some assholes, probably,” I’d speculate while en route to Kohl’s or some better pizza place. 

But while back in Appleton last week, I decided to pay a visit — my second in the past eight months — to both my buddy, and to Nick-N-Willy’s Pizza.
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Now 50 percent more similar.

So seldom is the world impacted by a truly great change — things like democracy, women’s suffrage, and the Slap Chop. 

More often, a minimal and altogether futile change is brought about, and no real impact is brought to our planet nor anyone residing on it. This is evidenced by an unattractive woman getting highlights put in her hair, a guy going to the gym once a month, and — most recently — Domino’s Pizza COMPLETELY RE-INVENTING ITSELF! 

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Though I, myself, am a Godless heathen, I feel I have a strange connection to Jewish people. I went to prom with a Jewish girl, my best friend on my college dorm floor freshman year happened to be Brew, and one of my best friends/former roommates comes from a Jewish background. 

Show me your latkes!

Moreover, I’m borderline obsessed with Stella, which is comprised entirely of Jewish comedians. I also find myself immensely attracted to Lisa Edelstein, from that lame show House. I even, sadly, own four Neil Diamond albums. All those factors paired with my prize-winning personality has resulted in me attending a Hanukkah meal or two in my time.

In honor of my Jewish friends and DoZ readers, and to gear up for another Hanukkah meal I’m to attend tonight, I thought I’d throw on my writing yamaka and schlep over to the grocery store and review Bagel Bites.
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As far as I’m concerned, there are only two reasons people go to The Cheesecake Factory. 1. They’re going to prom. 2. They want to get their genitals played with. Since I haven’t done either of those things in months, I consider it odd that I recently found myself dining at the Milwaukee location of this famed franchise. But there I was, in the immense chain eatery in all its implied better-than-TGI Friday’s decadence.

Despite the rarefied air of, like, every girl’s favorite restaurant, I didn’t relent to the pressure of trying some fancy ass almond-crusted- or lemon pepper-type dish — or even the cheesecake North America has been slinging jizz over since 1978. Single-minded as I am, I was there to eat up some motherfucking pizza.
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I don’t usually go to places likes Rock Bottom. This massive riverfront palace of a bar seems too hip and swanky to be a hangout for a sparsely-employed freelance writer who periodically wears shirts with wolves on them. But after taking in a comedy show at the Pabst Theatre with some visiting relatives last weekend, we stumbled across the bridge to give Rock Bottom — a place I’m neither wealthy nor un-lovehandled enough to visit alone — a try.
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