Crock’s Thoughts

Greetings, you ancient pizza goblin! You’ve hit the big 1-0-0, and I’m guessing you’re either a legend or a cautionary tale they whisper about at family reunions. How are you doing you dusty old relic?

By now, I hope you’ve either sampled every pizza on Earth or you’re that weirdo who invented “pizza denture paste” because your teeth gave up at 92. Did you crown a champion slice, or are you still drooling over a 30-year-old memory of extra cheese? It better be worth all my years of third-degree tongue burns, a closet full of stretchy pants, and a restraining order from Domino’s for yelling, “WHERE’S MY EXTRA PEPPERONI?” at the cashier.

You better be wobbling on a porch with a beer, watching the sunset, slurring, “The sun’s drunk too, look at it stumble!”

And the family—holy chaos, Batman! I’m picturing you as the cranky kingpin of a sprawling, happy, healthy horde. Kids, grandkids, maybe some great-grand-brats stealing your stash and rigging your recliner to blast polka music. Did they turn out awesome, or are they just nodding along while you ramble about “the great pizza flood of ’47”?

So, you shriveled old hops lovin’ coot, how’d I do? Are you a sunburnt, beer-soaked pizza sage, or did I crash and burn somewhere around 73, leaving you with a walker and a grudge? I hope you’re laughing at this letter, gums flapping, thinking, “That idiot had no clue I’d end up arm-wrestling robots for the last slice.”

Here’s to you, you glorious wreck—may your beer be frosty, your sunsets beautiful, and your family too loud to hear your complaints.

Cheers, 🍻
Your Younger, Less Saggy Self