On Pizza

Daniel Boyce is capable of wolfing down more pizza than all the frat houses at University of Texas combined. The first words he read out loud, were "free pizza". One time, when my mother refused to stop cooking and order pizza, he picked up the telephone and dialed the police. If Daniel were given a choice between world peace and a large Sicilian Meats Pizza from Papa John's, I would venture to guess that the next day the Palestinian Liberation Front would still be chucking rocks at Israeli tanks, and my brother would have the smelliest farts ever.
A few years ago Daniel, my sister Sarah, and I were camped out with my parents in their bedroom. It was one of those horrible Sabbath days when slug's blood pumps through your heart and even rolling over seems like it requires a lot of paperwork and team of trained operatives. As the dinner hour steadily approached my Old Man suggested that we order a pizza. And when my Mom said "No, that's okay. I can make something", it was like Dr. Frankenstein harnessed the energy of a bolt of lightening and routed it straight my baby brother's ass. In a flash he was standing up, gripping my mother by the lapels and screaming "He wants to order pizza, Mom! Let him order pizza!"
I have never seen Daniel so nimble, so quick on his feet ever again, not even during the Special Olympics. He usually just saunters down the track, comes in second to last place (thank God for the kid on crutches) and wonders very vocally if there's gonna be pizza at this stupid thing.