Who's the Rat? Pizza

I'd been out of work so long that I almost forgot what a bitch summer cooking can be.
Nothing, besides maybe building pyramids in Egypt or possibly working at a foundry in Hell is hotter work then running a rib shack in August. Yet that, my dear readers, is exactly what I have found myself doing for the last few weeks.
I wake up at the ass crack of dawn every morning with my pillow glued to my sweaty face. I pick up my co-worker, Abdullah, while hanging my head out the window of my stuffy Ford Escort. I fire up the barbecue pit and try to avoid losing any more of my eyebrows and hair to it's flames. I rack ribs, chop brisket, and trim off tails and snouts and try to avoid making my fingers part of any entree. I change t-shirts once an hour and have to resist the urge to wring out all the sweat and blood.
Perspiration has become a sort of hellish philosophy to me: I sweat, therefore I am. And we're not even half way through August.
Between the heat, the bloody pig parts laying around, and Abdullah's incredibly rank odor, I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I have noticed though, that these factors haven't stopped the eating habits of other creatures that hang out at The Squeal of Delight Rib Shack.
Namely, we've got some huge, fucking rats. And yes, I mean all of that literally. I've found that the little bastards like to hang out in the walk in cooler. I'm not sure what they would eat in there, maybe the coleslaw or the salad dressings, but that's where I always find them. They could be just trying to beat the heat too. It's almost like that Disney movie, with the cooking and the hair pulling. Totally boring storyline (if I want to see a story about an amateur in a kitchen, I just go to my local Chili's) but, entertaining enough.
As I swatted at them with a cleaver the other day I thought to myself, maybe these rats have the right idea. Maybe their life is really like that movie. Maybe, just maybe, we've all got a little bit of a rat in us. Maybe we're all just looking for our own, personal walk-in cooler.
Fucking philosophy again.
Maybe I have to get out of this heat and loiter for awhile in the air-conditioned check cashing place across the street.
Anyways, the rats, and the heat, and the movie, and Abdullah's BO made me come up with this recipe for tonight. I call up my sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, and tell her to get her ass over here with a cooler full of ice (and, yes, beer dumb ass).
What You Need To Get:
Pack of sliced mushrooms (steal these, you'll be making the world a better place. Grocers rip off people with shrooms all the time)
1onion
2 zucchini (try to avoid the lame, dildo joke)
1 green bell pepper
Fresh basil
Garlic ( Don't get a whole bulb. Garlic comes all minced up in little jars. Grab one of these and you're set for a couple of months, garlic-wise)
Red wine vinegar (NOT found in the liquor store)
Salt and pepper
4 large (burrito sized) flour tortillas
Jar of pizza sauce (Your choice. But PLEASE, not anything out of a Lunchable)
Bag of grated Mozzarella cheese
My sous- Angry Chef, Tulip, starts to slice all the veggies (so they look like what you would normally see on a pizza) and immediately starts asking me why we're eating them. She knows that I am more of a "meat Angry chef". I explain that today we are making something light, classic, refreshing, etc. etc. In other words, I'm trying to expand my fucking horizons so leave me the hell alone. We'll just say it's a "summer dish". God damn.
I take a hot, but not super hot pan and throw in the veggies, garlic, a few splashes of the vinegar and a little oil for lube. Then I stir the mix around for about five minutes. No, I think to my Angry self, cooking with veggies won't win you any friends. But they're cheap, and occasionally you may come across some hippie goddess that thinks you're "groovy" or some stupid shit. Rationalize it any way you can.
Meanwhile, my sous- Angry chef, Tulip, has popped the tortillas into a 400 degree oven for just a couple of minutes. She only wants to firm them up, like so many other women. Once they're to her liking, she takes them out of the oven, and spreads them with pizza sauce, leaving a little space around the edge.
I hit the veggies with the salt, pepper and basil and divide them on the little pizzas. Then I top them with cheese.
Sometimes I wonder whether I have to explain all my recipes in such pointed detail to my readers. I wonder, couldn't they figure this out on their own? Surely they have some idea of how a pizza is prepared? Don't they know that the best place to stab someone is between the floating ribs? But then, I remember my co-worker Abdullah. The man who can make a mean burger and absolutely nothing else. I asked Abdullah what he had for dinner yesterday and he told me mashed potatoes. I asked him if he used Russet or red, or fingerling potatoes and he laughed at me. Pointed at me. He said, "Angry Chef you are so funny! Everyone knows mashed potatoes come from box! Just like Bisquick!"
Sigh... on the contrary, sometimes I don't think I'll have enough time to complete my work...
Anyways, throw those pizzas back in the oven for another five or six minutes. When done, cut them up, hit them with your favorite extras and enjoy them with beer and TV.
My sous- Angry chef, Tulip and I have taken ours over to the lobby of a hotel on the west side. The decor sucks, and we're getting a lot of dirty looks, but, hey, its air conditioned and I'd bet my ass they've got rats back in their kitchen too...