Satire by G. Sampath The big fat thin crust pizza con

It was a hot Sunday afternoon. I was minding my own business as usual, studying again Bhagavad Gita and drink a cold mug of cow’s milk cultured When I heard an urgent summons from the wife, who was upstairs with Kattabomman.

I ran to the bedroom. Katta’s face was wet. He was rubbing his eyes, which were red, but he was not crying.

“What happened?”

The wife pulled me aside and whispered, “I have a strange request. Can you make her cry?


“Some Perfume Went in his eyes,” she explained. “He’s not letting me wash my eyes.”

“You splashed toilet water in his eyes?”

“Are you sure? It’s perfume, not toilet water.”

“I was joking,” I said. “but still…”

The wife pointed to the bottle and said, “He somehow got hold of it.” “He won’t put it back until I let him use it. So I sprayed a little on his shoulder, it got in his eyes.”

This column is satirical on life and society.

I dragged Katta into the bathroom and tried to splash cold water in his eyes, but he kept turning away.

“You do it one more time,” I said in my Don Corleone voice, “not even Spiderman can save you from my righteous wrath.”

I splashed water on her eyes again, and as soon as she closed her eyes, I gave her a slight blow on the bottom.

costly victory

Katta came out of the bathroom like a spear Neeraj ChopraK’s hand, chopping off his head. He ran into the arms of his mother, who gave me a discreet thumbs-up as tears rolled down her face. The burning sensation in his eyes subsided and we were relieved.

But there’s a price to be paid: To stop him from crying, Peter promises to deliver him pizza. I did not object, thinking that we would place an order. But it turned out that, according to the fine print of the agreement between mother and son, we were all going to a mall — for pizza.

“I’m not going to wall any mall,” I said. “It’s too hot to go outside.”

But who cares about the media these days? Not even your own son. So we all agreed to go to this mall which I shall call the mother of all malls or MOAM ,

Once inside, MOAM wasn’t unpleasant, provided you don’t mind people constantly patting you on the shoulder. The first time it happened, I truly believed I was sneaking into a group of friends taking a group photo to commemorate their historic visit to MOAM. But then every five minutes or so, a young boy or girl would pat me gently, point to another person coming their way, and urge me to move away — meaning, I would have to step out of my walk so that They can make a private video in a public place. The wife explained that they were making a ‘reel’. I’m not on Instagram, I didn’t know it was such a big epidemic.

like paper dosa

While I had a simple pizza place in mind, the wife focused on a fancy place called La Berlusconia, famous for its wood-fired pizzas and gold-plated ovens imported from Milan. Katta wanted a cheese pizza, and all I wanted was a glass of water. Naturally, the wife ordered the Pizza al Pacino, a delicacy with mozzarella cheese, mushrooms, basil leaves, Sicilian olives, Neapolitan prosciutto, marinated artichoke hearts, toad’s unmarinated liver, possum’s spleen, and a few other items. Thin-Crust Pizza. Don’t remember It seemed to promise enough to justify the price, which was about the only thing I was concerned about.

I was stunned when the pizza arrived. It looked nothing like Al Pacino. It was more like a paper masala dosa but thinner, and it was difficult to see the masala with the naked eye.

“I didn’t know thin crust pizza was such a hoax,” I said. “If I understand your choice correctly, are we paying more money for less pizza?”

“I won’t keep it that way,” said the wife. “He seems to love it.”

“Do you like that?” I asked Katta. “Can I have a bite?”

He looked at me for two seconds, then cut off a large chunk the size of an elephant’s toenail. He hung it on a hook, and just as my mouth began to water, the hook suddenly changed course and started moving toward my mother’s face. Obviously, he still hadn’t forgiven me.

“Mmm, not bad,” said the wife, closing her eyes, savoring it.

“Not bad, eh?” I had said. “You get the pizza, I get the rap.”

The author of this satire is the editor of Social Affairs, Hindu ,

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