Pizza and horror aren’t all that different. They’re comfort media. They’re indulgent. They’re messy, occasionally brilliant, often stupid—and once in a while, they absolutely wreck you. Everyone has a favorite combo. Some people stay loyal to classics, some chase novelty, some proudly defend pineapple. Same goes for franchises.
Every topping says more than it should. Every franchise drags along its own greasy legacy. Welcome to the horror pizza parlor. No breadsticks. No napkins. Just the main course, one regrettable slice at a time – Because horror, like pizza, rarely knows when to stop.
Cheese – Halloween
Cheese pizza is horror at its most basic. Reliable. Always an option. Always available. You can’t order pizza without it, just like you can’t talk slashers without running into Michael Myers’ expressionless face pressed against a window.
The original Halloween is a masterpiece. No argument. But like cheese left under the heat lamp too long, the sequels—and timelines, and reboots, and reimaginings—have all melted into one unstructured blob. Cults? Sure. Sibling drama? Fine. Small-town Facebook conspiracies about a guy named Corey? Not fine.
Cheese is comfort, until it’s not. Too many slices in, you’re queasy and confused. And what once felt iconic now just feels endlessly reheated.
Pepperoni – Friday the 13th
The gateway slice. The go-to for the indecisive. Safe, classic, and completely overexposed. Pepperoni is the default choice for people who think picking anything else might be too risky.
Just like Friday the 13th.
From Camp Crystal Lake’s original bloody business meeting all the way through Manhattan, Hell, outer space, and a microsecond in the remake aisle, this franchise is a carousel of predictable indulgence. There’s no mystery here. Teens die. Jason shows up. Lather, rinse, machete.
Pepperoni is fine. Just like Friday the 13th is fine. But after slice number eight, you start asking questions—like whether you actually like this, or if you’re just scared to try something new.
Deluxe – Saw
All the toppings. All the traps. A choice that screams, “I want everything,” even if none of it plays well together. The deluxe is rich, messy, and usually ten steps beyond what anyone asked for.
So is Saw.
What began as a lean, brutal psychological thriller spiraled quickly into body-horror bureaucracy. Jigsaw’s moral philosophy became increasingly flexible, the timeline ate itself, and by the time Chris Rock was giving monologues surrounded by puppet-themed murder art installations, the only real trap was the fans still trying to keep track.
Like olives on a deluxe, no one actually asked for Spiral. It’s there. You’ll eat it. But it doesn’t mean you’re enjoying yourself.
Three Meats – The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
Three meats is a full-body commitment. It doesn’t ask—it takes. Sausage, bacon, ground beef—all fighting for dominance on one slice. There’s power in that kind of excess, but also serious nausea.
Much like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
The original was a grim, sun-scorched nightmare. But the rest? A collection of reboots, retcons, and off-brand tone shifts that make you question if anyone involved has actually seen the original. Leatherface in a basement. Leatherface as a teenager. Leatherface on Instagram Live. Each version promises meat. Most deliver gristle.
What started strong now just leaves you bloated. You wanted indulgence. Instead, you got regret and a stomachache that won’t go away.
Pineapple – Scream
This was once the revolution. Pineapple on pizza? Meta-horror in a post-Halloween world? That kind of sharp, cheeky self-awareness was lightning in a bottle. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.
Scream tore apart the rulebook and built a franchise from the shredded pages. But six films later, what once felt like punk rock now plays like karaoke. Ghostface monologues. Legacy cameos. The illusion of commentary without asking any new questions. The killers change; the cycle doesn’t.
Pineapple had its moment. So did Scream. But these days, ordering it feels more like a habit than a statement.
Vegetarian Pizza – Jeepers Creepers
Vegetarian pizza is theater. Colorful. Fresh-looking. Probably has a swirl of something meant to distract from the fact that nobody really knows what’s under that crust. It’s trying to seem lighter, cleaner—even elevated. But halfway through the slice, something tastes wrong. You’re chewing, but suddenly all you can think is: What was this made of? And who keeps ordering it?
That’s Jeepers Creepers.
At first, it came off like a sleek modern throwback—classic road-horror vibes, unspoken dread, a creature that felt new (even if it wasn’t). Fans were intrigued. Critics were mixed. But underneath it all, the rot was spreading. Once the truth came out about the filmmaker behind the curtain, the entire franchise took on the stale taste of something that should’ve been thrown out the second it came out of the oven.
And yet it kept spawning sequels. The second film had its defenders (mostly Stockholm Syndrome and school bus trauma). The third was barely digestible. And Reborn? A reboot by name only—soulless, empty, and limping on vibes.
Vegetarian pizza can work, if it’s real. But Jeepers Creepers was rotten on delivery. The kind of slice where, no matter how fresh the tomatoes look, you know the sauce is bad. And worse—you know exactly where it came from.
Anchovies – Phantasm
Anchovies aren’t just a taste—they’re a warning. This isn’t a topping, it’s a test. Do you really trust your palate? Or are you just trying to seem uncomfortably interesting?
Welcome to Phantasm.
This franchise didn’t lose its mind over time. It was born there. Gloved dwarves. Flying silver death balls. A villain who may or may not be God’s angry ex. It plays like a dream someone almost remembered—then filmed on a dare with cryptic narration and crushed velvet.
Trying to explain the plot is like trying to explain the smell of anchovies to someone who’s never been punched in the mouth by salt.
No one casually enjoys Phantasm. You either worship it… or sit on the couch wondering if you’re the only one not high.
Sausage – Child’s Play
It sounds bolder than it is. Spicy, greasy, vaguely threatening. But halfway in, reality sets in.
That’s Child’s Play.
The first film had a smart, creepy core—a killer doll possessed by a dying serial killer with unfinished business. It had bite. But that edge dulled quickly. Bride of Chucky went full Hot Topic, Seed of Chucky was a mid-life crisis in plastic, and before long, we had a franchise where family drama unfolded between stabbings and bisexual pride flags.
Even the reboot tried to give Chucky Alexa integration. And somehow made him too sympathetic.
Sausage is for people who think they want something different, but end up with a greasy mess that leaves a film on everything it touches. If that sounds like Chucky, it’s because it is.
Canadian Pizza – The Conjuring Universe
Canadian pizza is the culinary version of a shrug. Ham, bacon, mushrooms—safe, indecisive chaos. It wants to be bold and earthy, retro and modern, meat-heavy and gentle. But what you end up with is a lukewarm identity crisis on dough. It doesn’t offend, but it also doesn’t satisfy. It’s trying so hard to be something for everyone, it forgets to be good.
Which brings us to The Conjuring Universe.
The original Conjuring was sleek, atmospheric, and deceptively effective. James Wan knew how to turn a hallway into a haunted threat. But then came the universe-building—the spin-offs, the prequels, the sequels to the spin-offs’ prequels—and suddenly, horror fans were trapped in an endless buffet of soft scares and haunted porcelain.
It’s supernatural horror as corporate strategy. Each film ticks boxes: yanked blankets, a hand clapping in the dark, demons in period dress. Nothing risks. Nothing surprises. It’s all branded dread. Between The Nun 2 and Annabelle’s Third Existential Crisis, the franchise stopped telling stories and started moving units.
Canadian pizza wants to feel like tradition. But it’s just comfort food for people afraid of flavor. Same goes for The Conjuring Universe. It’s glossy, commodified terror for people who want to feel scared without rattling anything real.
Stuffed Crust – A Nightmare on Elm Street
There was a moment when stuffed crust felt like genius. Like innovation. A twist buried inside something familiar. But eventually you bite in and realize it’s mostly air and regret.
That’s A Nightmare on Elm Street.
Wes Craven’s original was pure brilliance. Terrifying concept. Dream logic. A villain you couldn’t escape by staying awake. But it didn’t take long for that edge to dull. Freddy kept talking. The commentary gave way to punchlines. By Freddy’s Dead, he was a one-man roadshow with a murder prop budget. And the remake? A cold, soulless reboot with a hangover.
Stuffed crust promises more than it delivers. But you keep coming back because you remember how good it could’ve been. Not what it is now.
Final Thoughts
Every topping tells a story. Every franchise comes with baggage. Horror, like pizza, starts off as comfort… until you realize you’ve had the same bite seventeen different ways. Some slices haunt you. Some leave you sick. And some just keep coming back, no matter how many times the delivery guy dies.
The only real question is: do you finish the slice, or finally try tasting something different.
