This picture makes me feel dirty. I don't know whether to lick my computer screen or shield it from my boss' prying, conservative eyes. At first, I just stared at it blankly, my hangdog mouth drooling and agape. Then, after 21-24 minutes of dessert-fugue had passed, and I realized I had literally been licking the area of my face surrounding my lips in chocolaty lust for what amounted to a full episode of Arrested Development, I got to thinking. I don't know if it's the drizzled chocolate or the java buttercream filling, or some combination of both, but this fucking dessert speaks to me. And not just conversationally, "Hey, I'm good food. Wouldn't you like to eat me?" It speaks to me in an Al Green baritone rife with sexual innuendo and intense eroticism. It uses words like, "baby" and phrases like, "get some". And, you know what? I am legitimately turned on by it. That chocolate sammy couldn't be more attractive to me if it was hanging from Heidi Klum's labia. I'm gonn' get me some, baby.

"Parmigiana," which translates to "from Parma" is a bit of a misnomer. The I-think-I-might-have-to-change-my-underwear dish above did not actually originate in the Northern Italian city of Parma. The true story is much more sordid. And thus, like the tomato sauce-slathered chicken, much more titillating.

The true tale of the mighty Chicken Parmigiana involves cases of mistaken identity, paternity battles, knife fights, more than one case of amnesia, a chef gone rogue, a recipe gone missing, chance encounters, brief trysts, seduction, rape, weddings, funerals, parades, bar mitzvahs, and the entire ensemble cast of the 1964 traveling production of L'incoronazione di Poppea. But I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, it was the combined wet dream of every Days of Our Lives writer, ever, and M. Night Shyamalan.

That being said, I do have a very keen interest from whence the Chicken Parm came. But, I don't care about the story. I'm talking about the little old Italian birds with recipes in their heads and pit stains in their frocks. Now, I've never really had a thing for old broads who sweep carpet and decorate their lawns with religious idols. However, looking at the Chicken Parm image, I feel like I could make an exception. And by exception, I mean bang ALL of them. One by one. Vigorously. And in crazy positions. I would do it as more of a "thank you" than anything else. "Thank you, dear Rosetta or Violetta or Nicoletta or Volkswagen Jetta. Thank you for giving this brand new boner an old world feel. And thank you for putting that marinara, that sweet, sweet nectar of the heathen Roman gods, betwixt thy chicken and cheese. And thank you for letting me put my own sacred nectar betwixt your ample, sagging bosom. I'll always love you."

The Onion Ring: Merely a hangover-neutralizing greasy indulgence or the true Lord of the Rings? *reminder: add nerd joke before publishing. Sure, the Onion Ring doesn't possess the eye-catching glitz of an engagement ring. And it's true, there's no awe-inspiring majesty like that of Saturn's rings. And there's no innate whorishness as is the case of the tongue ring. But what it lacks in aesthetics, it more than makes up for in eatsthetics. (That's a horseshit term I'm now using to describe the tongue's recognition of beauty in any given object. Eatsthetics. Deal with it.) And the rings have that in spades. Their specific brand of eatsthetics, "holy shit, this tastes like explosions battered in knife fights, deep-fried in lightning," is one thing: Bad Ass. What other food can make the all-mighty french fry seem like a ginger step-child? "Oh, you're gonna let me replace the fries with onion rings? Of course I'll do that. I'm sure those skinny French bastards are in the process of surrendering to the cole slaw, anyway." And let's not even get into what an Onion Ring does when placed inside a burger/sandwich/panini. People do that with potato chips and they're all, "look how artsy and innovative and cutting edge I am." Then they see someone clearly better than them stick an onion ring in a grilled chicken sandwich, and immediately they feel like they're at an Aerosmith concert sometime after 1998.

So we've already established Onion Rings are a better accompaniment than a fry or chip, tastier than a piece of jewelry or heavenly body, and cleaner than a tongue-ringed lady of the evening. If that isn't enough to lay the Lord's crown upon the Onion Ring, consider this: A(n) Ypsilanti, Michigan man recently attempted to rob a local Burger King. When the cashier explained the register can only be opened when a food order is placed, the man placed an order for Onion Rings. However, it being 5am in Ypsilanti, Michigan at the time, the fast food joint was not currently serving onion rings, and relayed that information to the gun-toting derelict. Dejected, and no longer feeling up to it, the man lowered his gun and left without even a parting gift from the penny jar. That, my friends, is the power of the Onion Ring. Tell an enterprising individual with a good plan and an even better assault rifle he can't have one order, and he turns into Charlie Brown (or, if you prefer, a recently dumped George Michael Bluth). Good grief, Onion Ring. The title is yours. Enjoy it.

What isn't there to love about a mozzarella stick? So what if they fatten your ass and repulsively clone your chin? Have you forgotten that the deep-fried cheesy twigs are also singlehandedly responsible for the electric guitar, liberalism, and the automatic garage door opener? Well good, because that's a lie. But they are to pub fare what the printing press was to the Bible. Think about it. A symbiotic, synergistic, I'll-scratch-your-back-if-you-make-my-fried-ass-lusted-after relationship. Mutual assured celebrity. In the case of Gutenburg and the "Word of God", mass production of the Bible meant the Catholic Church could finally settle their bet on how gullible those foolish pagans were. It also meant JG had to literally beat chicks away with a morning star. And not just because most of the women were in the final throes of the Bubonic Plague, but because Gutenburg was ridic famous and rolling in pussy. Like his handsome distant brother, Steve Guttenburg, circa Police Academy 3: Back in Training.

The relationship between mozzies and the bar is far simpler, more beautiful, and much less full of religious zealotry. It began with a little thing called the Appetizer Sampler. Or simply, appy sampy. Around 1964, the new jewel in the combo platter's proverbial crown, forever replacing the wing, was a golden fried, battered or breaded, succulent, fried cheese rod--the Babe Ruth of the appy sampy's Murderer's Row. It took the chain restaurant and the stinky dive bar circuit by storm. People lapped up the sticks. No longer would anyone have to wonder what Jesus' dick tasted like. This is had to be it...like heaven...like a mozzarella stick. For a food invented in the mid 60's, think about what that does for national recognition. "Potato skins, chicken quesadillas, southwestern egg rolls, and now this? Shit, I gotta get my mouth on those sticks", said every stoner to stumble into a Chili's. As for the bars? Well, the presence of cheese sticks on a menu meant at least one more enticing draw for any establishment whose previous appeals had been drunken buffoonery around an Erotic Photo Hunt machine, unabashed alcoholism in the presence of complete strangers, or the prospect of a late-night MO with a loose, probably-chlamydia laden woman. Clearly, a welcome addition. Mutual assured celebrity, indeed. And that, my friends, is a completely fictional account of how Mr. Mozzarella Stick took the world by artery-clogging storm. The end.

Before I begin my list of pizza-ingesting techniques, a quick metro-xenophobic word on the fare. Though "pie" is correct in vernacular, it is reprehensible in appearance. Yes, Chicago--we're looking at you and your deep dish dopiness. Guess what, I don't want to wait an hour for my pizza to be made. And I don't want it to resemble a Muppet burn victim. And I sure as shit don't want to use a knife and fork to eat it. A knife and fork? What am I, GD royalty? Screw you, Chicago. And screw your Super Fans, your pretty awesome Bean, and your insufferable windiness.

So, without further ado, here are 7 ways I would encourage everyone to eat their pizza (as long as said pizza doesn't have good, midwestern values and Cubs pajamas).

1. The Rookie: Ravage it upon immediate withdrawal from the oven. Scorch the roof of your mouth causing that hanging flap of skin behind the teeth to interfere with everything you consume for the next few days.

2. The Probably Has a Job With a Name-Tagged Uniform: Fold it in half, making it portable, locking in the grease, and allowing one to simultaneously drink domestic beer with their off hand.

3. The Glutton: Rip the cheese off. Scarf it down your mouth hole. Lick the sauce from crust to tip. Roll the dough up like a tarp. Then, slowly, take the remaining lukewarm, somewhat saucy, now-cylindrical dough and have the sex with it. Just really go to town.

4. The Looney Tunes: Place it on a windowsill to cool. Watch the steamy fingers of aroma waft into the nose of a nearby napping dog. Pretend to perform other womanly errands while actually closely monitoring the 'za. Survey the canine's cunning. Wait until the beast is right up next to the window with eyes now quadrupled in size. Hit it over the head with a frying pan. Stay perfectly still until credits roll and a portly pig sings you off into commercial break.

5. The Brit: Hold your pinkie away from the clutched pizza and eat it with abysmally-maintained teeth and effeminate accent.

6. The College: Order it online. Smoke a J. Watch something you've previously DVR'ed. Call the pizza place demanding to know the whereabouts of your food. Realize it's only been 10 minutes. Wait another half hour. Call again. Fall asleep. Get woken up by the doorbell. Eat voraciously. Fall back asleep. Wake up. Pick pizza particles out of your hair and off your beard. Watch cartoons until you fall asleep for the third and final time.

7. The White Guy: Insist on topping it with cured Italian meats and sissy vegetables. Pay $4 more for it than it's worth. Brag to your friends about it. Wash it down with bottled water and latent racism.