Dear Papa John,
First of all, stop referring to yourself as "Papa." You look like someone's financial advisor with a mean coke habit who spends his free time scouring the streets for tranny hookers, not someone's rotund grandfather with a fantastic mustache. Hemingway is a Papa, you're just a douche with an AIDS topping.
Now that the formalities are out of the way, I wanted to ask you a favor: Next time you're making one of your shitty pizzas, how 'bout covering the pizza with dicks, and then eating the whole thing in one sitting? You can still use your low-grade mozarella as a binding agent to keep the dicks on the pizza, and you can even use your poor excuse for marinara if you want. So long as the entire bag of dicks is ingested by you, "Papa" John, then I'll allow you whatever garnish you desire.
Why the suggestion of Bag of Dicks Pizza? Well, because you are shits "Papa" John, and not just because of your ludicrous nickname. Most recently, you earned your dick topping in an act of spinelessness that had yet to be seen in the pizza-flipping world. You were off to such a good start too, producing t-shirts that had a picture of LeBron James and the word "crybaby" underneath. Not terribly original, certainly not up to par with the fine "Jeter Sucks, A-Rod Swallows" shirts that permeate Fenway Park, but still, solid effort. But then you pussed out, like the apron-wearer you are, apologizing and offering 23 cent pizza (LOL CUZ ITZ LEBRONZZ NUMBRRR) to Cleveland residents this Thursday. Looking aside the terrible business decision of making a pizza twenty-three fucking cents, it also makes you look like a humongous pushover with no sense of humor. Maybe if you ate a bag of dicks, you'd stop being such a vagine.
I've disliked you for a while Papa John, and it's not just because the diabeetus makes pizza a "quick way to kill yourself" in the words of my endocrinologist. First of all, you're not even Italian, and your last name is "Schnatter" which sounds like a euphemism for dog diarrhea. It's a proven scientific fact that the best pizza comes from people with chest hair sticking out of their polo shirt, slicked back hair, and at least four relatives in "waste management." The closet thing you've ever come to Italian is endless pasta night at fucking Olive Garden. Not coincidentally, your pizza is awful.
Secondly, you're from Louisville. Ha-ha. I know this because the U. of Louisville's stadium is named "Papa John's Stadium," which even embarrasses the cousin-fuckers of Kentucky. And let's not even talk about the "papajohns.com Bowl," which I think pitted Salem State and Chaminade this year. You don't see Domino's plaster their name and website all over a fucking bowl, do you? No, you don't. That makes you lower than a company that hired Mike Golic on purpose.
Also, Louisville is where Rick Pitino coaches now, and that guy ruined my teenage years. Because there's a strong chance that some of your grimy fucking pizza money pays Rick Pitino's salary, you should be forced to eat a second bag of spicy meat-a-dicks.
I'd go on, but you have 23 cent pizzas to make for your Day of Pussification, so I'll let and your below-minimum-wage army of flunkees get to steppin'. Besides, all this pizza talk has made ol' GHABB,Y hungry. Guess where I'm NOT going to be ordering my lunch from? That's right, Papa Dick Eaters.