The Physical (And Emotional) Turmoil Of Digesting An Entire Four N Twenty Pizza

For one reason or another, the bored, time-rich executives at Pizza Hut decided they were going to stuff eight Four N Twenty pies into a pizza and sell it to people who aren’t afraid of dying. Knowing ‘novelty value’ would open the wallets of idiots like myself, the newest monstrosity replaces the previous breadwinners in the ‘excessive shit on a pizza’ category (which already has more contenders than any normal society would like to admit).

Coming in at around the 9,000 kilojoule mark, the pie-turned-pizza-turned-pie is an entire days worth of food in eight slices. In terms of taste, it’s just a pizza with more crust and a steady stream of heavily processed gravy mince that envelops itself, and your hands, and pretty much anything else that’s connected to the limp pizza itself.

My experience eating the pizza can be summed up perfectly be the slice:

Slice One: Interesting.
Slice Two: It’s not that interesting.
Slice Three: I’m done.
Slice Four: Stomach grumbles and burping are drowning out my self-loathing.
Slice Five: Slightly clammy forehead, elevated heart rate.
Slice Six: Questioning general life choices.
Slice Seven: Total loss of feeling in my left arm, likely related to the anxiety I’m experiencing (spawned from a fairly legitimate fear I’m going to die).
Slice Eight: Out of breath. Girlfriend calls me disgusting. Reconsiders our relationship. I’m unable to move – hope she doesn’t run. I wonder if I’ll die on the couch. My hands are shaking.

But no amount of pain or regret during its consumption could have prepared me for the internal meltdown my body experienced while trying to digest the beast within. For the next four hours, my experience closely mimicked what I can only imagine competitive eaters go through when they do the kind of thing that terrifies doctors and nutritionists.

I was certain that a shit of epic proportions would funnel its way out of my bowel first thing the following morning, but instead I carried around the weight of a small child for almost three days. It was as if my body had thrown its arms in the arm, groaned and said, “well if you went to all of the effort to stuff this car-sized vessel of fat in your body, I can only assume it’s where you wanted it to stay.”

Eventually my bowels gave up their strike and evacuated the single most regretful piece of sustenance I’d ever consumed. I squeezed out a 900 gram shit I’ll call Kevin: the tarmac-textured, semi-digested ‘good idea’ that the important people at Pizza Hut conjured up during a rigorous brainstorming session.

Never again.
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Photo by the lovely Michela.

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