I can see how a man like yourself, who was clearly molested by Hawaiians, might find the sharp acidic tones of pineapple, as it moistens and tenderises a strip of cured pork, liable to stir unpleasant memories that he had hoped to leave behind at Christian Surf Camp.
However, for some of us, the pineapple ranks second only to the coconut and chocolate concoction that is the Bounty Bar in evoking the sultry tropics. Combine this treasure, plucked from the bosom of equatorial Eden, with the cuisine of a nation synonymous with opera, superfluous hand gesticulation, and moped-assisted handbag snatching, and you have nothing less than the fusion of the primitive roots and cultural apex of our species. Biting into a slice of Hawaiian pizza mentally transports me to an island in the South Pacific, where I have been engaged to present a series of lectures on Dante in-between bouts of adventurous sex. The dreary, freezer-burned margherita, that you plucked from the chilled cabinet of a gas station, tastes of your own congealing tears and masturbation sweat.
What Macario and the other camp councillors did to you in the wetsuit storage shed was unforgivable, however the world should not have to suffer for their crimes. You must carry that shameful burden alone.