We went to the store and got lots of tortillas (or would that be tortillae?) and some pizza sauce, various cheeses, onions, green peppers, mushrooms, pepperoni and sausage. After digging out a pizza pan and my mother’s pizza stone, we went to town in the kitchen.

We experimented and there was not a failure in the bunch – including the one Der Bingle made with hot pepper cheese, thinking it was mozzarella.

But something in one of the pizzas I ate was the kind of spicy that instigates a riot in the digestive tract, so I am staying close to the bathroom. Very close. Not that you needed to know this, but I seem to be typing it.

I am reminded of a short blurb in The Reader’s Digest from long ago. Two American tourists were sitting on a bench in Egypt, gazing at the Pyramids and one asked the other of what he was thinking. The reply was, “I was wondering when my next diarrhea attack will come.”

Looking back over time, I believe my stomach is stoic (not counting motion sickness); it’s the lower part that will suddenly scream, “AmeliaJake, pay attention to me NOW.”

Were I to become a superhero, that’s the first thing they would have to fix before they could start working on flying or strength or x-ray vision. As of now, I am sitting on a virtual tourist bench hoping those cute little pizzas don’t become an acute problem.