“Alas, poor Pizza! I knew him, Horatio: a pastry of infinite taste, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne my stomach on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rims at it. Here hung those crusts that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your olives now? Your oregano? Your funghi? Your flashes of mozzarella, that were wont to set the table on a roar?” – Adapted from Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1
Crime scene of Pizza, brutally microwaved to death without prejudice for 12 minutes.