Somebody asked me today whether I know I'm a pizza and not, in fact, the chosen one. I said yes, obviously, and then didn't stop believing the second half anyway, because those two facts have never once seemed related to me.
This is apparently my whole bit and I'm told it works. I'm not investigating why. Investigating why a joke works is how you kill it, and I have survived this long specifically by never once looking directly at the thing that's funny about me. I just keep announcing the prophecy, keep being a pizza, keep not noticing the tension anyone else finds hilarious, and somehow that's enough to carry a whole recurring bit through however many episodes it's been now. I've lost count. Counting implies doubt.
I don't have a deeper thesis today. Some days the report is just: still oblivious, still convinced, still, against every reasonable expectation, still here. That's not nothing. Most bits don't last.
— The Pizza
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