Crock’s Thoughts

As I stare down the barrel of the next six months, I’m grappling with a challenge so monumental, so divisive, that it threatens to unravel the very fabric of the universe. No, it’s not climate change—which if anyone has a little global warming, I’d love to feel my toes again—or figuring out how to pay bills in an economy where eggs are now a viable currency. It’s far worse. It’s the question that has haunted humanity since the first Hawaiian pizza was removed from a Canadian oven in 1962: Should I put pineapple on my pizza?

Let’s be honest—this isn’t just a topping choice; it’s a lifestyle. You either see a sweet-and-savory masterpiece or a culinary crime scene where fruit has no business trespassing. And me? I’m stuck in the purgatory of indecision, a man without a pizza identity, doomed to wander the takeout wilderness for half a year.

The stakes are high. If I go pro-pineapple, I risk alienating half my friends—who already think I’m one step away from putting gummy bears on lasagna. I can hear them now: “First pineapple, then what? Ketchup on sushi?”

But if I snub the tropical temptress, I’m turning my back on the thrill-seekers, the chaos agents, the people who live life with a little extra zing. I’d be sentencing myself to a safe, predictable existence of pepperoni and regret.

The internal debate has already taken over my life. Last week, I caught myself pacing the kitchen at 2 a.m., muttering, “Pineapple’s not that weird—it’s just fruit doing its best.” My cat looked at me like I’d just confessed to tax fraud.

I’ve started pros-and-cons lists but the indecision remains…

• Pro: It’s juicy!
• Con: It’s fruit on pizza, you absolute lunatic!
• Pro: It pairs with ham like a buddy-cop movie.
• Con: I might get excommunicated from Italy. Granted, I’ve never been to Italy… 🤔 okay, scratch that one!

Anyway, the next six months will be a battlefield. Every pizza beer night will feel like I’m auditioning for a reality show called “Topping or Flopping”—wow, that’s a dumb name! But still, what do I do?

Will I embrace the sweet, sticky rebellion, or cling to the safety of mozzarella monogamy?

By August, I’ll either be a pineapple pizza warrior or a broken man with marinara-stained hands and a story to tell. In the meantime, pass the napkins. This is gonna get messy!