Kenfucky, or uh, Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC), came out with a new fast food creation called The Chizza. That dumb name is already a bad sign.

Can you guess what that made-up name means?

That’s right, good for you, you good guesser, you. It’s a chicken pizza. Well, a chicken-crust pizza. It’s basically a fried chicken breast with pizza toppings on it, sliced like a pizza. Chizza. Yay. But like most over-the-top fast food creations, it’s not available in the United States, and is only available in the Philippines. That’s silly, because most people over here would buy it happily. That is because most people are stupid. Also, fuck you, KFC, for making me type the word “Chizza.” It makes me involuntarily clench my baby-sized fists while waving them at the heavens. Chizza. Fuck.

I guess KFC is trying to decimate the fast-food eating population in the Philippines by giving them all heart attacks. Stop, KFC. Don’t kill people. We already have Paula Deen to contend with.

Check out the sweet commercial. It even has a I Will Survive Gloria Gainer ripoff song. But I asked myself, like I always ask myself, “Dannis, you are the master of doing stupid things. Can you recreate the Chizza at home without wanting to shoot yourself in the ass?”

The answer is yes. The answer is always yes. Because I hate myself and I have a death wish. That should be a movie. Dannis Ree, starring in Chizza Death Wish. Chizza.

The good thing about the Chizza is that it is very simple.

Its ingredients are a KFC fried chicken titty, tomato sauce, pepperoni, green bell peppers, mozzarella cheese, and…pineapple? I will reserve judgment on the pineapple because the Philippines are very far away, and people there like different food combinations than us. That’s okay. It is a big world and you are allowed to like what you like.

Sometimes I like pineapple on my pizza. I was told by my pastor I was going to hell for that. But I don’t go to church so who was that guy, anyway? It might have been your mother. We do this thing where she wears a priest’s outfit and does jumping jacks while balancing a short stack of pancakes on her head. It’s real weird, but she’s into weird things.

First of all, you have to start by going to KFC and asking for a heart attack. When the cashier looks at you like they are ready to stab you in the babymaker, then you say, “Ahem, excuse me. I had a froggie in my throat that tends to say asshole things. I meant a fried chicken titty. I mean chicken breast. That was the froggie again.”

Then, you need to work on your mise en place. People who talk about food always have to slip the term “mise en place” somewhere, because saying that makes you an automatic authority on food. It’s a French term that translates into “to put in place.” Basically, it just means, chop up all of your ingredients and put them in tiny little piles to make it look like you know what you’re doing. But really, nobody knows what they are doing, ever. Especially during sex. What is a sex, anyway?

Then you need to take a picture of the cute little piles of food and smile smugly to no one.

Like a regular pizza, you need to cover the chicken breast in tomato sauce. If you can’t do that, you should leave the kitchen forever. I like to slather your mother’s breasts in pizza sauce, drunkenly fling cheese at her, and ask her to recite the Constitution. If she screws up, she gets the fire hose.

Layer your toppings on the chicken and pray for forgiveness while trying not to throw it out the window.

I threw a few out the window before I could get this one finished. The pigeons are gonna eat really well tonight.

Once you’re done, pop that son-of-a-bitch into the oven at, I don’t know, 425°F. It doesn’t really matter. Do whatever you want. Live your life. Maybe go outside instead and throw rocks at trees. That’s a good hobby and it’s on my LinkedIn profile. Make sure you put the rocks in little piles, like a good mise en place, and smile smugly, to no one. Don’t forget to take a picture and put it on Instagram, using the hashtag #juliachild.

When the creature is mildly done cooking in the oven, take it out and put it on a plate next to your favorite stuffed animals. They will judge you.

Really, when you think about it, this is just a dumber version of Chicken Parmesan. If you want to sound authentic, call it Chicken Parmigiana. A secret thing food bloggers do is put foreign words in the name of their dishes to get street cred with themselves. Then everybody toasts them and secretly talks shit about them behind their backs.

I ate this, and it tasted like salty, salty, KFC chicken with pizza sauce, pineapple, green bell peppers, pepperoni, with mozzarella cheese on top, because that’s exactly what it is. Descriptions like this make me an excellent food writer. It’ll leave so much grease on your ceramic plates that you’ll be able to see through them. Once you eat it, you’ll also be able to see through yourself, because you’ll be dead and then a ghost doomed to haunt the earth saying, “Chizza.”

In Chicago, one of the most popular thin-crust pizza topping combinations is Italian sausage, onions, green bell peppers, and mushrooms. I bought extra chicken jugs just so I could fuck around. I sauteed all of the ingredients together first, since a short trip through the oven wouldn’t cook the meat through. We will call this the “Chicago-Style Chizza.”

Chicago-style is also a kind of sex maneuver where you put on a Mike Ditka mustache, cover your partner in Italian beef, and sing the Blackhawks theme song, Chelsea Dagger, while piledriving your sexual opponent with your genitals. Sexual opponent. Man, I’m doing really well today.

Blah, blah, blah. Put the stuff on the chicken. Take a picture. Talk about desperation. You guys already know my routine by now. Nobody will date me. I smell like sausage and pickles.

When it comes out of the oven, it’ll look like your mother’s shriveled up face. It’s a unique kind of beauty. But you know what? This version tastes much better than the Philippines version. Turns out sausage, onions, bell peppers, and mushrooms make for a good combination on pretty much anything. It won’t erase the frustration of me being unemployed, but for a minute, everything will be okay.

I want to be held. I’m dying of loneliness.

I have also now coined the term mise en penis.

“Mise en penis” means to chop up all of your ingredients and place them neatly into a pile highly resembling a human penis that is violently squirting cheese ejaculate. Then take a picture of it and smile smugly, at no one.