I didn't feel much like cookin' tonight so I opted for a frozen pizza instead. Not just any frozen pizza though: a Party Pizza. Hey, don't knock it - it's cheap. And when I heat pizza, I want to make sure it's gonna be a whole lot of fun, and Party = fun.
I went to preheat my oven as directed on the Party Pizza's box, and well, shite - I realized there aren't any numbers on my oven dial. "Well mother-fuk!" says I. I can sort of tell where it used to say "broil", but if I wanted to achieve any sort of accurate temperature level besides "broil", such as, say 425 degrees, it would pretty much be the equivalent of trying to catch a fart in a windstorm.
I dialed 'er in about 3/4 of a turn, let it get nice and warm and popped the Party Pizza in hoping for the best. So long as I don't a) break any teeth on overcooked "crust" or b) sink my teeth into an ice sandwich, the bread of which would be severely overcooked leathery pizza skin, I'll be happy.
This is getting intense. And all you can do at times like these is hurry up and wait.
