Tragedia Italiana

You arrive at Florence, buy twenty packs of Barilla - good pasta, Italy's favorite. You drag a giant army cooking cauldron filled with water, on wheels, into the middle of Piazza del Duomo in Florence - a place with the highest IPSM (Italians per square meter) in the world, and set a bonfire under the enormous cauldron - preparing the basis for the prank. A prank two days in the planning. A prank that could get you quartered and cut into pieces, then shaped into authentic Italian meatballs. You put your 'Kiss the Cook' apron and Mario cap on, and start breaking the twenty packs of spaghetti - you break them in half even though the cauldron is ENORMOUS, and overcook them in it WAY PAST the beloved Italian al dente, then add the final touch of six kilograms of shitty 1$ American tomato sauce right INTO THE WATER. A herd of fat American tourists is lured in by the scent of your abomination - they waddle up to your cauldron, eager to try out 'Authentic Italian cuisine.'

Italy, Florence - Piazza del Duomo. You're surrounded by SWAT teams for crimes against Italian cuisine - you broke twenty packs of spaghetti in half, and cooked them in a giant cauldron with cheap American sauce as a prank. But they don't know you have an ace up your sleeve, a hostage - you pull out a little pizza - just a bambino, and press a bottle of MAYOCHUP against its 'head'. One move - and the pizza gets it.

"PER L'AMOR DI DIO, HE HAS-A BAMBINO!" The SWAT commander drops to his knees, his Gucci-branded tactical vest glinting in the sun. His Versace sunglasses can't hide the tears streaming down his face. "NOT-A THE BABY PIZZA!" "EL DIAVOLO!"

The tactical team, their Prada boots polished to perfection, forms a protective perimeter. Their Armani rifle straps swing nervously as they assess the situation. One rookie officer vomits at the sight of the mayochup.

"You-a MONSTER!" sobs a negotiator through his Dolce & Gabbana megaphone. "That pizza... she's-a only three days old! Still has-a her baby crust! SHE STILL HAS-A FRESH BASILICO! IT'S-A JUST A BABY!" He tries to maintain his professional composure but breaks down when he sees the mayochup pressing against the innocent pizza's marinara sauce.

The Americans have reached critical mass, forming a gravitational singularity of tourism and bad taste. "Aww, look at the cute lil' pizza!" coos one woman, her 'PIZZA IS MY CARDIO' shirt stretched to its structural limits. "Can I get one with extra mayo-whatever-that-is? And maybe some ranch?"