True fact: when I briefly waded my toes into the salty pool of sausage-flavored pizza-promotional journalism on Monday, I did not imagine it would lead to a 24-hour viewing of lumpy cheese enmeshed in the fatty tendrils of all sort of horrible meats.

I mean, I like pizza as much as the next guy. But I don’t go in for tons of toppings, and I don’t eat meat, and I’m not a huge fan of delivery chains. Again, you put it in front of me and I’ll probably eat it, but never in my life has a sporting team’s victory inspired me to order from one pizza chain or another. No offense to any pizza chains intended.

But I was sent so many photos Monday night of delivery pizzas pregnant with toppings that I sort of feel obligated to publish yet another piece of pizza-promotional journalism, no matter what smokey harm my soul might accrue. And you can’t very well do a second bit of pizza-promotional journalism without at least some kind of value added, some combination of words to elevate this a pepperoni’s width above a coupon-based circular mailing.

So I’ll rely on the familiar crutch of quoting from a work of literature, attempting to give the impression that I’m actually well-read and don’t just buy random 19th century novels that I can flip through to seize random quotes to append to random sportsy-blog items about football-inspired pizza monstrosities.

This is from Gogol’s Dead Souls. It occurs rather early in the novel. I don’t remember much about Dead Souls, except that everyone is always eating. Sturgeon, mostly. But I’m sure if it was updated for the 21st century, it would be pizza covered with sturgeon.

The dinner table, evidently, did not constitute for Nozdrev the main thing in life; the courses did not play a great role in the dinner; this dish or that was actually burnt; this dish or that hadn’t even been thoroughly cooked. It was evident that the chef was guided for the most part by some weird inspiration and would pop into the pot the first thing that came to his hand; if the pepper-pot happened to be standing near by he would sprinkle in the pepper; if cabbage came handy, he would shove in the cabbage; he slopped in milk, ham, peas — in short, slap, dash, as long as it was hot, and as for the taste, well, some sort of taste would probably emerge in the end. But to make up for all that, Nozdrev leant heavily on wine.

That’s about the best way I can summarize a 12-topping delivery pizza on short notice.