Manta stared in anger at the unholy abomination that sat inches away from her snout. She couldn’t believe it. It was a perfectly good pizza otherwise. She was genuinely surprised that someone like Ashley could pull it off. The airy crust, perfectly-melted cheese, and Mosswine pork that made even her mouth water.

But the PINEAPPLE! Oh the pineapple.

That spawn of Darkstalker belonged NOWHERE near a work of culinary art as this. With its tang infecting every square centimeter of cheese remotely close to it, and yellow shine contrasting to Hell with the rest of the pizza.

It was ruined. Absolutely ruined.


Took me long enough to do a standalone piece with my girl Manta, and what better way to do it than with the dumbest joke there ever was? Trust me, if anyone would get pissed at food, it’s her. Here’s to more chronically Italian SeaWing women.