I ... I hate you.

As one of the most renowned streets in the best city in the greatest state in one of the top 50 countries in the most inhabitable planet that I’m personally aware of, Brady Street has a little something for everyone.

Lovers of decadent hot dogs, shitty taverns that refuse to adhere to the state’s workplace smoking ordinance, homeless people, and juggling emporiums with rhyming names alike can bide their time in this wonderful 9-block Milwaukee oasis. But fatass drunk assholes with an outside interest in unicycle purchase such as myself aren’t the only ones who can get something from Brady Street. Dirty hippies, too, can imbibe in this Eastside jewel on Milwaukee’s shimmering crown.

At least two (maybe more, but I don’t have time to really think about it) Brady Street cafes cater to lovers of caffeine and laid back atmosphere. One of them, Roshambo, sucks babydicks — not so much their fault, but once, some annoying assfart named “Bix” flapped his stupid face forever while I was trying to play Scrabble like a year ago and I never went back. The other is called “Brewed” and it’s pretty OK in my book.

Brewed is a lot like most non-chain coffee shops in this big, round and unforgiving blue ball we call a planet. A menagerie of wobbly tables and mismatched chairs are crammed in the too-small space. Local art and fliers are tacked to the walls. There are weird nooks and raised areas, hinting that it–the lower level of an old house–probably shouldn’t be legally permitted to exist. And, of course, their are hippies and hipsters and old persons of varying hip health stationed throughout the cafe, pontificating hipply. But that’s fine. Overall, coffee shops are alright. In fact, when I was in high school, I used to hang out all the time at a coffee shop in Neenah that was a lot like Brewed called The Blue Moon. That was also when I planned to wait until marriage before boning anyone. Overall, I was pretty lame, but had the best intentions.

But one thing that The Blue Moon never had that Brewed does is amazing food (and the absence of spider webs/being a front for drug dealing). Included on the tiny cafe’s surprisingly sizable menu are flatbread pizzas ranging between $6.29 and $7.59 — six in all. 400 words since I started this, I’ll now get to the part where I talk about one I had, The Mexican Garden.

THE GOOD: Unlike the traditional “Mexican Garden” (a woman of Latin descent who has a huge bush), this Mexican Garden seem immediately appetizing to me. Have you ever drooled on your boner while shitting yourself based solely on something you were reading? Beyond a specific passage about the knuckleball in “Ball Four” — DON’T JUDGE ME!!! (cries) — this is the only time I can personally remember doing so. Read for yourself…

“A flatbread crust covered with our own black bean spread, cheddar cheese, onion, black olive, jalapeno and our own homemade kitchen salsa.”

The ‘za itself did not fail to mirror the text in its erotic beauty. It was outstanding, lead brilliantly by the generous smattering of black bean spread. The salsa was rich in organic and locally-grown ingredients. And the bitter cheese was countered with the slight zip of jalapeno. It was the perfect melding of components to forge a flawless product… the Mr. 3000 of flatbread pizzas. Oh God. I need to go back.

THE BAD: Being the pathetic creature I am, I tend to be sad when something great is about to end — the abrupt conclusion of Caddy Shack, the moment before my sexual partner’s eighth and final orgasm of our torrid fuck sesh, and the final bites of this pizza. I began the pizza unwilling to acknowledge its eventual end. This loss is the way I imagine a parent feels when giving birth to a severely premature baby. Only worse.

Also, for $6.99, the portions — even when factoring the fact that they’re organic — were a tad light.

TRY: Not hearing a Modest Mouse song in your time there. It’ll be tough to pull off, but you’ll be glad you did. Also, try a flatbread pizza. Duh.

RATING: I got one hand in my pocket (squeezing off while thinking about the pizza I just wrote about) and the other one is givin’ a peace sign. Timely!

Booooo!!!

Pizza and blow jobs are a lot alike. So long as nobody is biting your dick, you’re going to enjoy receiving even the worst of either thing.

The former is proved accurate by Marco’s Pizza (111 E. Forest Hill Ave., Oak Creek). A while back, I gave a pie from the T. Mario’s work-adjacent pizzeria a try. The experience can be summed up by placing one’s palms tightly against one’s lips and making a drawn out sound reminiscent of a wet fart. But since I can’t effectively execute this noise in text, and I know dick about making mp3s, I’ll do the next best thing and write about why Marco’s isn’t very good.

Marco’s, which is too shitty to even think about having a website, sticks out like a penis at an Ani DiFranco concert amongst all the mini malls, the big box superstores and other national franchises dotting the Oak Creek cityscape. Its building looks semi-abandoned, which is always a good feature for a business that produces things that people ingest. But, throwing caution and the fate of our anuses to the wind, Sto Cazzo and I ordered anyway.

THE GOOD: Despite severely bending the term, the circular cheese, pepperoni, sausage and canned mushroom pile we received from Marco’s was, in fact, pizza. And having consumed pizza from gas stations, my public elementary school and The Seymour Fair in my past, I can attest that even things barely qualifying as pizza are still pretty awesome.

Away from the pizza, Marco’s — in desperate attempt to lend its crackerass location more Italian authenticity — employs “De” instead of “the” in its menu, including in their hilariously terrible slogans: “De Best Ingredients Makes De Best Pizza” (which is not even grammatically correct), “For Get De Rest Get De Best” (De Best at not realizing “forget” is one word, that a comma should come after “rest” and that each first letter shouldn’t be capitalized?) and “We May Not Be De Fastest – Just De Best” (There isn’t enough time nor letters in the alphabet for me to appropriately make fun of this one). In all, Marco’s has more slogans (three, funny and stupid) than its pizza has taste (one, bland).

THE BAD: The last slogan didn’t lie. It took forever (or “For Ever” in Marco’s-speak) for our pizza to come. Despite our warning against doing so, they came to the wrong door and I had to walk around our massive building to meet the sonofabitch. Not quite worth the unheard of $2.50 delivery charge, if you ask me. Delivery retardation aside, the overabundance of cheese on this ‘Za-bomination almost certainly added to our hour wait. 

In terms of the pizza itself, the inside pieces were sloppy as fuck. After eating just one gooey center slice, I felt like I seriously needed to use one of those hazmat showering stations that are in high school chemistry labs. It was dreadful. Even less appealing was the sodium level Marco’s brought to an already NaCl-rich foodstuff. Between the Olympic-sized pools of grease, the salt-lick sausage and canned mushrooms (gross), it was an altogether abrasive and messy ordeal… like having to help gut a deer that you, yourself, didn’t shoot. Except you feel fat and like you want to commit suicide after.

TRY: A full pan of lasagna. At $87.95 and with 5 hours of notice needed (pencil in an extra 5 hours for delivery), it’ll have you wondering “Why Didn’t I Make De Lasagna My Self?”

RATING: You’ll regret ordering it, loathe yourself while eating it… but, like me, finish it in your car on the drive home from work. You’ll cry as you polish off the leftovers. But the next day, you’ll awake finding that surviving the experience has somehow strengthened your belief in good pizza and, just maybe, in life as a whole. That said… let’s give it a 3.

I stole the above photo from a more favorable Web review of Marco’s.

The pizza is as adventurous as the exterior.

The concept of South Milwaukee is an odd one. When first hired to write for a South Milwaukee-based company, I was under the impression South Milwaukee was located in the Southern portion of Milwaukee. I could not have been more wrong.

Past Milwaukee, through portions of two additional cities (Cudahy and Oak Creek) and approximately one world away, sits … well, more slouches … the City of South Milwaukee. Here, pasty gangstas and juggalos roam the streets unimpeded. Here, establishments like “Buck & Cherryl’s” and “Snarley’s” prove preferred locales to blow one’s disability check on gambling machines and NASCAR brackets. I’ve never seen a pretty girl in South Milwaukee, save for some butterfaced mom who couldn’t of been more than 17. And even that was a reach.

Also here, places like Papa Luigi’s II serve this unappealing cast of poorly-drawn characters pizza that’s perfectly fitting of the surrounding.

One night, my boss took our office out for dinner. We went to the nearby building, and expecting something way shitty (being in South Milwaukee after all), I was surprised when my dining experience wasn’t entirely gross and terrible… but, instead, a mixture of confusing, overtly formal, and kind of a let down — in addition to being gross and terrible. Upon entering, the owner introduced himself to us, then proceeded to ask each of us our goddamn life stories before seating us. Lame.

THE GOOD: Even for being in the confines of Shit Milwaukee (see what I did there? I substituted the word “Shit” instead of “South” just now. Because it’s a rather unsavory place.), you can’t fault Papa Luigi’s II or its talkative-ass owner for trying to be awesome. They totally try. The restaurant has a pretty tits game room with air hockey, billiards and even that Cruisin’ USA game. There’s a bowling alley upstairs, a full bar, a basketball court, and a banquet hall that’s rented out for retarded local MMA events and probably receptions for shotgun weddings between expecting tweens. In a different city, in a different world, at a different time or with a lower level of self respect for yours truly, this place would have all the ingredients of not absolutely sucking liquid shit through a crazy straw with its lameness. Even so, I have no doubt this is the single coolest place in Milwaukee (where meth isn’t being made).

THE BAD: Somehow, with all the accoutrements of a poor man’s Shakey’s and being the type of joint that would’ve probably caused the 12-year-old T. Mario to skeet his Lee Pipes jorts, Papa Luigi’s II still managed to fucking huff a bindle (that’s the bag on a stick thing that old fashioned hobos used to carry) of HPV-infected cocks. Like South Milwaukee compared to Cool Milwaukee (also sometimes referred to as “Milwaukee”), Papa Luigi’s II just seemed a bit off. Out of order games, douche bags running amok and getting in my way everywhere, and the echo of basketballs being dribbled on the court (inexplicably placed on the upper level) each played a part in ruining a good concept.

Getting to the ‘za: It was your basic pizza, except it was bland as shit and served on crust that seemed like wet cardboard. But for being free pizza, it did the job. And the big shot owner even sprung for a free order of fried zucchini sticks, which was almost worth an eight the cost of hearing about his renovations of the business. The sticks were also blah.

TRY: Have you ever played cutthroat? It’s pool for three people. While you’re waiting for your soggy and forgettable pizza between Lord of the Rings-length owner tales of how old the wood in the back room is, play some cutthroat. It’s totally badass. 

RATING: Milwaukee = 2.7, South Milwaukee = The best place ever.

For starters, I used to be a paid (when they felt like it) contributor for Alcoholmanac — one of the Greater Milwaukee Area’s premier bi-monthly, 20-page-long, totally shitty, free publications of which you’ve undoubtedly never heard.

Secondly, I drink constantly. And that habitual hitting of the sauce has resulted in numerous actions and decisions that run the gamut of self-destructive, dangerous, unsavoury, and altogether regrettable in nature. Of the voluminous listing of unfortunate alcohol-based choices I’ve made, I would hoist ingesting Mamma Mia’s Pizza Beer somewhere between drunk driving home after being cut off at the Cactus Club, and inducing vomit into a campfire whilst shirtless alongside three other (also shirtless) dudes as an apparent rite of passage. It’s that bad.

My first exposure to Mamma Mia’s came at the peak of inebriation, while “passing the Dutchie” (the ritualistic bonfire-adjacent sharing of random gross beer and abandoned wine coolers, popular in Northern Wisconsin) at a friend’s house. Even then, I knew something was amiss with this brew.

But I just couldn’t get past the realization that the combination of pizza and beer — two of my favorite things — would result in one terrible thing. It’s like saying blowjobs aren’t awesome on snow days; baseball is worse now that the color barrier was broken; and rock ‘n’ roll wouldn’t be as badass if played by dinosaurs. So I, burly and brave Doctor as I am, sacked up and decided to give Mamma Mia a second, more sober, try.

THE GOOD: There is alcohol in Mamma Mia Pizza Beer. Factoring that in, I suppose one could successfully achieve intoxication if they consume enough of it. That said, there are countless non-pizza beer options that can get someone just as blotto, while incurring less suffering. Of them: Generic mouthwash, chewing gum, “Non-Alcoholic” beer, the urine of a really drunk person, gasoline. Even Mike’s Hard Lemonade is a tie. 

THE BAD: It tastes nothing like pizza. Even the worst pizza I can conjure in my annuals of pizza-scarfing apriori does little to resemble this. It’s almost as if those asshats at Mamma Mia came to the (completely false) conclusion that putting basil into something magically transformed it into pizza. It doesn’t. Remember those Doritos that were “flavored like” pizza? They have nothing to do with Mamma Mia Pizza beer, but those were super shitty too. 

Obviously, beer aficionado websites are raving about this swill. Why wouldn’t they? It’s nary a surprise to see that a guild of white, yuppie, beer-snob fatfucks (who appoint themselves to be experts) love something that 103 percent of the galaxy either hates or has never heard of.

“But aren’t you guys just doing the same thing with pizza?” No! We’re WAY different, imaginary reader. Most of us aren’t fat. So, eat shit. Or if you prefer a beverage instead, drink Mamma Mia Pizza Beer.

TRY: An expired can of Mountain Creek + a disgusting amount of basil. You’ll save $2.50.

RATING: The world’s worst “Yo’ Mamma” joke is apparently a microbrew.

The weeks that followed were agonizing — like waiting to open a potato gun-shaped Christmas present from that awesome uncle you have who works with PVC pipe at his job (potato farmer is also an applicable occupation for this analogy). But somehow, much in thanks to fantasy baseball, Internet pornography and drinking to the point of blackout, I managed to stave off an impatience-based hari kari and live to see the beautiful day that Via Downer opened for business.

Those familiar with Transfer will be glad to know that, like the sister pizzeria, Via Downer also uses a wood fire oven, prides itself on using primarily locally-grown organic ingredients, features all 23 of Transfer’s pizzas and is fucking awesome.

THE GOOD: In addition to the above, Via itself is a gorgeous, newly-renovated restaurant in a quiet and underrated neighborhood. In terms of interior, think of a larger Transfer meets Comet (minus the thousands of people waiting to be seated). 

Speaking for the food, where do I begin? My pizza, the “Da Vinci” was a fluffy 12-inch diameter slice of heaven… the Muslim heaven with all the hot snatch. A blend of juicy organic tomatoes, tangy red sauce, the welcomed domination of pesto all sitting atop a warm bed of both feta and asiago cheese — sweet baby Christ, this was a pizza to which one could set his or her watch. I swear on Paul Newman’s grave that if this pizza had a vagina and low enough self esteem to let me, I’d fuck it.

THE BAD: It’s hard to take such a delectable pizza to task, but I have to say that the Da Vinci Ronnie and I had at Transfer months earlier was better. For one, it was bigger, more rigid in the center and had more tomatoes and feta per bite. I chalk some of that up to Via being scantly a fortnight in age, but being aware that it gets better left me feeling a bit disappointed.

Also, the servers, host and manager all stopped to ask me how my pizza was. Even worse, they all timed the question perfectly to when I had just taken a huge bite. I was faced with either mumbling, “hfhutu_mkdlsnn6@lx73nhg76n” with a mouthful of pizza and nodding happily or simply giving a thumbs up. I did both these things. I felt like an asshole. Besides, it should’ve been obvious I loved the fucker by how hard I was going Wolfenstein on the thing.

Lastly, Via’s beer selection is far from impressive and it is fairly expensive. Uhhh… $3.50 for a High Life. Cut-it-out!

TRY: Personally, I can only vouch for the Da Vinci, but the Thai Chicken is on my short list for one to try on my next visit. Overall, I’m sure anything they have is capable of engorging your private parts in a gender appropriate way. Just make sure to get pizza. Otherwise it’s like going to Greece to play mini golf or South Dakota to have an abortion. It just doesn’t make sense.

RATING: More like Via UPPER! (pats self on back).

Rumor (Willis) has it that somewhere along the line, the DeMarinis family was split by a dispute powerful enough to cause the DeMarinis sons — Dom and Phil — to branch out and open their own DeMarinis pizza parlor not but two blocks away from MaMa DeMarinis’. I like to think it was all Jenga-related.

Though family feuds are never a good thing, especially when talking about the TV game show Family Feud, we thought it only fair to give both DeMarinis a try to see if one family’s heart-wrenching rift delivered us the sweet fruits of another bomb-ass Bay View pizza joint. Spoiler: It did.

If you were to give me a slice of both MaMa DeMarinis’ and Dom & Phil DeMarinis’ pizza, I’d first thank you for the wonderfully delicious gift by offering you a sensual massage (no fat chix!). Secondly, I’d have no fucking idea which slice came from where. Pizza-wise, both are served on rectangular baking pans; each are cut into square slices and feature fresh mushrooms; and both are good as He11! Some people are staunch advocates of Dom & Phil’s, while hating MaMa’s. Other’s are all up in MaMa’s shit and don’t like the bros.

Personally, I cast no stones in terms of dually delicious pizza served in old fashioned neighborhood settings. I like them both so much that it’s simply impossible to pick my favorite DeMarinis location. That said, I pick Dom & Phil’s.

THE GOOD: If you want in depth pizza talk, look at my MaMa Demarinis post linked above. I feel it’s nearly identical… apart from Bros DM’s ‘za having better sausage (made in house, by the way). What pushes this location over the edge into my favorite is the location. Not only is there a patio, a significantly more spacious interior and a fully stocked bar, there’s a God damn game room up in this bitch. Noyce! It’s small, but you know the old adage… “A small game room is better than a good day of golf” or something. Plus, they have Friday Fish Fry, which is always a great thing for a restaurant to have.

THE BAD: Their cheese bread kind of sucks choad. Soggy bread with lukewarm cheese. I can do that in my sleep. And I have! Additionally, the restaurant is kind of hard to find if you’re not from Bay View and you’ve never been there before. It’s nestled deep within the confines of the Bermuda Triangle of Great Lakes-adjacent pizza. 

TRY: Get a pint of Leinie’s Nut Brown. When the bartender is filling your glass, turn to a friend and say, “I heard this shit makes you nut brown” loud enough for the barkeep to overhear. Trust me, the reaction will be worth it. Oh yeah, get a sausage and mushroom pizza. Tis’ bonerrific.

RATING: An alleged familial dispute never tasted so good — not including the near-identical MaMa DeMarinis’ down the street.

"A pizza divided against itself cannot be purchased at coupon price."

It’s impossible to deny the impact pizza has on the modern world. But few realize the immense role the pizza pie played throughout history. Doctors of Za tirelessly sifted through books, unearthed and analysed hidden documents, and even did that thing from movies where you look at old newspaper headlines on microfiche really late at night when everyone else has left the library and you’re totally exhausted. Here is just one of our findings.

The year was 1861. Kansas was just admitted as the 34th, and most boring, state. The Pony Express announced its closure… via telegraph. A new joke with the punch line, “That’s what she said!” — popular among child laborers — was sweeping through America’s textile factories. And our nation was at a crossroads.

The Civil War was tearing our young nation asunder. Brother was pitted against brother; fathers shot at their sons; neighbors who previously exchanged only pleasantries and jars of toxic, lead-based top hat polish now traded cannonball volleys and charged at one another with badass gun knives (aka bayonets). Even Kentucky didn’t want to be part of America anymore. It was totally fucked up, and Abraham Lincoln knew it.

In effort to combat the… uh, combat that risked the utter collapse of America — birthplace of the monster truck — the 9-foot-tall prez drafted a letter to the generals of both the Union and Confederacy. The slightly ripped and partially burned on the edges (for effect) scroll each leader received held the calligraphy words (also for effect) along the lines of…

“Generals –

I implore you to lay down your muskets. Rest your cannons. Allow your crimson blades to, again, shine pure and pristine. Let’s crush this conflict along with some slices. It’s time for a motherfuckin’ pizza party!!!

Where: White House (if it exists yet?)
When: Saturday – 5 p.m. to ???
RSVP at: AbePr3sident16@aol.com

Be there or be angular.

So obviously both General Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee made the trip to the pizza party, figuring even if this whole territorial/slave solution thing wouldn’t work out, at least they’d get to scarf down some free ‘za and hang out with a dude who would later have a city in Nebraska named after him. 

There, the differences of the North and South did not subside, rather worsened. Grant requested Domino’s and even referenced the 5-5-5 special in effort to sway the others. Lee insisted on Papa John’s, saying that Domino’s crust was “as gross as the North’s view on octoroon voting privileges,” which pissed Grant right off. Someone said Little Ceasers, but everyone acted like they didn’t hear him. 

The two generals fought in the White House arcade with more ferocity than every Civil War battle combined. It appeared the President’s gesture towards peace had only made things worse. That was, until Lincoln (the great unifier) got between the bickering, heavily-sideburned soldiers and offered a solution — The Eman-Za-pation Proclamation. The terms of the agreement he’d drafted on a paper plate were as follows:

• 10 Pizza Hut Pizzas. Take it or GTFO and eat cornmeal biscuits or whatever people eat nowadays.
• Lee and Grant each get to choose toppings and crust variety on 5 pizzas. 
• No Hawaiian. Hawaii doesn’t exist yet and Hawaiian pizzas are fucking gross anyway.
• Only Abe gets stuffed crust. 
• Cheesy bread and (one) fruit pizza (apple strudel) will be shared.
• No double dipping cheesey bread in maranara sauce.

Even then, the generals remained uncertain to whether they could adhere to this treaty. But then, Lincoln offered to share a 24-pack of Surge, the recently-discontinued citrus soda, with his guests. Both men accepted and shook hands on the deal. As the hours passed and the pizza dwindled to but a few cold, hard slices (that William Howard Taft would later eat out of the White House ice chest in 1908) the duelling soldiers were even said to have shared a few laughs and imbibed in games of hoop and stick, old-timey bike races (the one with the big wheel in front) and a few levels of Super Mario 2.

It was pretty awesome… and one can only speculate on the significance that night had in the war’s conclusion four years later. But the evening certainly wasn’t lost on Lincoln. The following year he drafted The Emancipation Proclamation, a document that gave men of all colors and creeds the right shed their unjust chains and, instead, live freely to bitch about national pizza chains.

Proven fact.

Besides that, landmarks like the continually steaming manhole outside Solid Gold Gentleman’s Club, the Allen Bradley clock tower and the always delicious Conjito’s serve as apt indicators of Walker’s Point presence to wide-eyed Northwoods hayseeds like myself. But in terms of Pizza Topography, Marchese’s Olive Pit is — bar none — the neighborhood’s highest point of elevation.

Since moving to to the area, people hyped the shit out of Marchese’s. It was like the Avatar of Milwaukee pizza places. Except, unlike Blue Pocahontas, I actually had remote interest in experiencing the Olive Pit (also available in 3D) first hand. Finally, after months of delay, myself, Ronnie and two of his friends paid a visit to this often-recommended Walker’s Point pizzeria. 

The restaurant seems to specialize is white and garlic sauce pizzas as well as pasta dishes. But not being total pussies, we opted for a classic “Red Sauce” pizza. Kind of being pussies though, we went with a “Doc’s Garden” veggie pizza.

THE GOOD: The thin crust pan pizza (which ran about $20) was massive. It took up most of the table and fed all four of us comfortably. Ronnie and I had to make a delectably painful second sweep just to finish it. I’ve gladly paid $5 plus tip for much less pizza in the past. Portions aside, this collection of fresh mushrooms, green peppers, onion, tomatoes and mozzarella was tasty as hell. 

They also have a fully stocked bar with a buttload of booze, domestic brew mainstays, an assortment of micro and craft beers and $2 Blatz every day. You know I had a Blatz, babies.

THE BAD: I’m a sauce-obsessed soul, so I found Marchese’s lumpy, sporadically placed, mozzarella stick marinara dip-like sauce to be a bit lacking. It was good, but I could have used a bit more. Also, the toppings (for being a veggie deluxe, of sorts) seemed a bit sparse too.

However, the portion load was evidently heavy enough on the crust to make the inside slices mega-flimsy and the outside slices almost too tough. It was a mindfreak. A riddle. You know that story with the car crash and the doctors, and it ends up that the doctor is the kid’s mom or whatever? The Doc’s Garden pizza was like the pizza version of that. Weird.

Plus, our beers took for fucking ever to get there. And it wasn’t even busy.

TRY: The large. All large pizzas are about $6 more than the mediums, and nearly twice the size. Also, Olive Pit has vegan and gluten-free options on hand too. I suppose some people might be interested in the vast White and Garlic sauce pizza offerings, but not me. I hath too much pride.

RATING: Anything but the pits.

I once met with a publisher at a coffee haus on Humboldt, I went to a few shows in the neighborhood, bought an $8 pair of grey slacks at ReThreads that leave no questions in regard to the exact contours of my cock’n'balls, and that’s about it.

Apart from those three things, I’ve learned that all the crustpunkers I know live or routinely hang there, Ronnie got mugged in Riverwest a few years back and Lakefront Brewery began there. Basically, I know shit about it. And after my inaugural Riverwest meal at NYPD, something tells me I probably need not investigate it much further.

I was sent to review the rather unimaginatively-named NYPD for a local publication. There, I found a menu equally lacking in creativity. And bullet holes. Confused to whether I ordered up front or sat down and waited to have my order taken, I eventually opted to meekly approach the counter and rattle off my order: An extra large veggie pizza.

THE GOOD: In addition to its ever-present threat of danger, NYPD offers patrons pretty respectable deals all year long. Our 18-inch za — which usually ran $18 — was rang up for $14. I figure it in part to my wearing the aforementioned dickhugger pants, but I later learned it was a coupon that ultimately did the trick.

The pizza itself was huge, and the toppings were generously doled out. Fresh mushrooms lined the pie’s vast expanses, as did the black olives. And the thing was as cheesy as an Edwin McCain ballad.

THE BAD: The real problem was the pile of green pepper and tomato that converged in the middle of the pizza. It left the middle all gross and soupy. I was tempted to slap on a life vest, you know, just in case shit got too intense. Furthermore, it took about 45 minutes to get said kind of shitty pizza.

Speaking of intense, my white bread ass was slightly unnerved to see what looked to be bullet holes in the window beside our booth. I’m all for an element of risk when eating pizza, but usually that involves ordering sauerkraut on half. I’m too young and pathetic to die.

Inside the safety of the already cracked windows is a seemingly 50s-themed joint, like a much worse Bella’s Fat Cat or one of those novelty McDonald’s.

TRY: Beats me. Though the P and D in the acronym mean “Pizza” and “Delivery,” NYPD offers all sorts of menu items beyond specialty pizzas. Wings, pasta, fish, chicken, salads, a myriad of fried appetizers and more are all on hand — all for fairly cheap. If you live in Riverwest, or have a website similar to Doctors of Za (Orthopedic Surgeons of Fish Fry? Gynecologists of Gyros?), you’ll find something on NYPD’s menu to order and subsequently not be particularly impressed with.

RATING: NYPD blew.

Zaffiro’s straight up owns the Eastside (motive for burning down Pizza Man?). Crisp offers douchetanks tasty slices and club music at bar time — same goes for Pizza Shuttle (minus the club music and plus red Gatorade in the soda fountain). Even Zayna’s is tasked with serving up hot za, fried corn nuggets and Lo-Carb Monster to drunken local pariahs.

Then there’s Meglio Pizzeria, tucked away down Humboldt Avenue in, what pretty much looks like, a house near the banks of the ever-brown, used-Band Aid strewn Milwaukee River. Meglio’s less-than-unshitty location combined with its fairly truant MKE pizza presence and overriding awkwardness makes it the Daniel Baldwin of Eastside pizza joints. Or was it Billy Baldwin? See what I mean!?!

After a weekend bender that saw Ronnie and I tying on a Bloody Mary brunch buzz, getting schooled by a band of butch lesbians at free pool, Ronnie needing a nap like a bitch, me puking in The Roman Coin’s bathroom like even more of a bitch, drinking in a record store and watching two old men have a heated argument at Bruno’s, Meglio seemed like a great idea… mostly because we hadn’t yet reviewed it for the site. We stumbled the necessary blocks off Brady and — reaching the glorified model home that was Meglio’s — stepped inside to squelch our unparalleled daydrunk hunger.

THE GOOD: Since it’s nestled squarely within a residential neighborhood and a (currently) closed bridge, there was literally no wait to place an order and be seated. With Ronnie being a vegetarian, we opted for a mushroom pizza. I shuffled through the free records I got with my recent Record Store Day purchase (all shitty) and regaled my counterpart with heroic tales of embarrassing public puking for what seemed like 10 minutes before our pizza arrived.

It seemed to be a perfect hybrid of thick crust fluffiness and thin crust crisp/retention. I think it was about $13 for a large, and was worth the cost. It was pretty big and I’ve seen worse topping portions. If you’re into fresh mushrooms (which you should be), Meglio is on top of that shit. The sauce was on par with many of the other mid- to upper-eschalon Brew City pie purveyors.

It was good enough that Ronnie dropped a slice on the ground (face down) and still ate it. Then again, he still seemed pretty toasty when that happened.

Except much smaller and with slightly better pizza.

THE BAD: I’ve touched on the model home-type appearance. As insignificant as that may be, I found myself both put off an amazed that a pizza place could exist in what looked to be one part Northwoods candle shop(pe?) and another part shittier-looking Bluth house from Arrested Development. It’s hard to justify stairs and a bannister in a 20-capacity restaurant.

Beyond that, the pizza was far from amazing, even compared to many of the previously-named Brady-adjacent pizzerias. And their Diet Dew was flat. In all, pretty average.

TRY: Meglio’s saving grace is its affiliation to nearby Lakefront Brewery. If you ever find yourself hankering for a slice while on the Lakefront tour (which is awesome, btw… and this comes from a hater of brewery tours), Meglio is the official pizza provider for the hometown brewery. In such a situation, feel inclined to imbibe. Great beer (except Local Acre and Lakefront IPA… GUH!) and OK pizza – what could be better? Well, I suppose great beer and great pizza, but it was rhetorical, dick.

RATING: Middle of the road for Milwaukee, but better than anything you’ll ever get from Franklin.

"I got kids all over town!"