Dadblast Author Sickened by Domino’s pizza.

Domino’s pizza poisoned me.

I haven’t written about this yet because thinking about Domino’s has made me so ill that committing words to paper, or the thought of doing so, has made me involuntarily upchuck in my own mouth.

You could call this blog post slanderous. You might accuse me of being reckless. But the fact of the matter is about nine months ago I ordered a pizza from Domino’s that made me almost hallucinate as my body sickeningly, and for hours, expunged the offending bacteria from every orifice.

Domino's pizza made me ill.

My bedroom smelled of pepperoni. My bathroom smelled like pepperoni that was puked up by a hairy, drooling Yak.

Proof? I have none. So I’ll default to the language Dominos’ lawyers would use: I’m making a baseless claim.

After all how, exactly, does one go about proving they’ve been poisoned? I’m no biologist. I’m not a chemist. And I don’t even watch the popular cop shows that invariably have a hot, smart young woman with plastic goggles who pinpoints the cause of injury and casually – dispassionately – points the fuzz in the right direction.

There’s no trail to follow in my case. I flushed the evidence and then laid my cheek on the cold tiles next to the toilet, wishing there was some recourse. Wishing I could bring Domino’s to justice.

Here’s my detective work: Every opening in my body spewed toxins, for hours on end, and it was so bad that I had to call in sick for work. It was so bad that I almost went to the Emergency room. It was so bad that I actually cried real tears (I’m a human being!) as I reverted to the fetal position while lying naked and cold in the tiled bathtub. That’s right – I hoisted my naked body off the bathroom floor and into the tub.

You might ask “Couldn’t something else have made you sick? What else did you eat that day?”

Look, I ate things like salads and bananas that day, before cramming a Domino’s pizza pie down my face. I ate the pizza with ferocity, the way a dog would pummel a peanut butter sandwich thrown near his bowl. I folded the pieces and basically inhaled them, mentally praising Domino’s for the bounty I was enjoying.

But the enjoyment fizzled. About 16 hours later I threw up. About 17 hours later I had to park my body in the tub, since hideous things were flying out of my body from every which way. I was like a lawn sprinkler in hell. There was no telling which way the corrupt stream of bitterness/fire/venom would spray… the only certainty is that it wouldn’t stop quickly.

I was craving the softness and joy of heroine withdrawal.

Tragically funny is the fact that my wife posted on Facebook that her husband, me, was gravely ill. Her friends immediately chimed in with this response: “Domino’s?”

Yes, Domino’s.

There, it’s out of my system now, literally and figuratively.

I will never eat Domino’s again unless a designated chef prepares a pie for me in person, using all of the customary sanitation tricks, and assures me that the company takes seriously any health concerns.

Since that’s not going to happen, I’ll just stick to local pizza places.

Places that don’t place a premium on speed, but instead place a premium on quality.

Domino’s let me down in a big way.