Since I’ve spent much of today writing about pool floats that I do not want and halved furniture that I do not want, let me now move on to a new subject: food that I do not want. See that? Don’t want it. Not now, not ever; I don’t even really feel comfortable knowing that this horror lives in the same city as me.

I recently learned that there is a place called K! Pizzacone in midtown Manhattan, and I wish that there wasn’t. It opened a few months ago, largely to reviews as lukewarm as the cones themselves apparently are, but seems to be doing weirdly well considering that the things run around five bucks.

Now, I’m a pizza purist: I believe that pizza should be cheesy, drippy, largely unadorned by stuff like tropical fruit and obscure meat products, and, most importantly, triangular. I’m thus wholly uninterested in ingesting one of these things even for journalistic/curiosity purposes, but my intrepid husband-spy visited the place a couple of weeks ago and reported back that the pizza cone can best be described as “a cold, congealed lump of cheese dotted with half-frozen pepperoni-and-onion-ish items.” He also said that it tastes like robot poop.

Well, I’m sold!