I have since moved up in the world, but from time to time we are short on staff and my services are called upon yet again to bring people their beloved pizza. And tonight I got a full reminder of why I accepted that promotion in the first place- anything to get the hell away from you freaks.
When I say you freaks, I’m not talking about everyone, let’s make that clear. You don’t move up in the service industry by being a scowling misanthrope that dislikes human contact. I’m talking about people that have set up a permanent camp just before that first slope on the bell curve. I’m talking about people who have tried and completely failed to master the intricate workings of a belt. I’m talking about the men who feel that coming to the door in their urine-stained underwear is a perfectly acceptable outfit. I’m talking about the women who would use their bra as a money holder, if only they were wearing one. And I wouldn’t be complaining as much if you were hot, but news flash: hot women don’t order several thousand calorie meals every other day. So the women that are ordering are the ones that would require several undergarments sewn together just to cover a massive fat nipple. My guess is that in the winter, it makes delicious Frosties for the neighborhood children, but right now, like the rest of you, it’s just a grotesque sack of fat.
I pit you, mother of nine kids, too lazy to get off the couch or even move your head when the food arrives, who sends her five year old undressed daughter to the door to pay for the pizza. I should call for an Amber alert right now, just to get ahead of the game. Kudos on making sure your kids are the ones not tipping me, so you don’t have to look me in the eye when you do it.
I pit you, guy who orders 70 dollars worth of pizzas and then thanks me for my time, because after all, gold “teef” and big expensive rims don’t pay for themselves, amirite? And here’s a tip for you pal- the word is pronounced “appreciate”. You do not “pre-she ate” it, unless you’re a pre-op MTF transexual. In which case, congratulations on embarking on your brave life journey. Thanks for that glorious shot of your crotch, and the entirety of your ass cheeks, that’s why I deliver pizzas. I want to see ghetto trash demonstrate why they washed out of public school in the third grade- inability to dress self.
I pit you, person who orders pizza and wonders just who in the hell it could possibly be twenty minutes later, knocking on your door. And if only you had some way of knowing who it could be, like perhaps that peephole in your front door, or perhaps the big strip of glass right next to it called a window, or maybe that even bigger panel of glass that takes up the entire wall of your kitchen. I believe that’s called a “bay window”. You might use one of those fancy ass devices instead of bleating like a fucking billy goat “WHO IT IS”. It’s so precious when you try to articulate a three word question like a regular person, but it comes out all retarded. Here’s a clue for you, genius: You ordered fucking pizza. Take a wild guess.
I pit you, you miserable fuck who answers the door with dead silence. No hello. No “how much is the total”. Not a wink or a nod, just the stare of a brain damaged animal, staring with your dead cow eyes, just past me and out into the street. Certainly no “thank you”. And it goes without saying there’s no tip. I know why you can’t go get the pizza yourself, it’s because that would involve forming words with your mouth hole at some cashier somewhere, and that would just be too fucking hard for a sociopath like yourself now wouldn’t it? Hope you find a place to hide all the bodies. But let’s not kid ourselves- the real reason you can’t go get it yourself is because you spent all your money on crack. That’s why you live in your mother’s house while you’re 25 years old. It’s not because you’re working your way through college. It’s because you’re working your way towards death on the end of a crack pipe, with pizza boxes marking the steps in between.
I pit you, “I’ll get you next time” guy. When my landlord asks me for rent, I don’t say thanks for the place of residence, I’ll think about paying you for the convenience next time, maybe. When I fill up my tank at the gas station, I don’t wink at the guy behind the counter and say ‘put this on my tab’. I don’t know, maybe it’s different in your world. When you’re buying all your loosies, lotto tickets and booze, maybe you know the convenience store clerk and he lets you just grab shit from his store for free because you’re such good pals. But in the world of adults who pay their bills, you gotta fucking pay me for my time.
When you call a cab, and the cabbie takes you to where you need to go, at the end of the ride, a simple “thanks” doesn’t suffice, now does it?
When you go to a restaurant, and order dinner, and the waiter brings you your shit, he’s not doing it because you’re such a fucking pleasure to serve. He does it with the perhaps misguided hope that you’ll pay him for his time. That’s why he’s at work- to earn money. Maybe it’s been a long time since you held down a fucking job, but the people who pay for your welfare checks need to earn money too, and they didn’t squirt out five kids with five different daddies, four of whom are in jail, and the last guy was that fellow who can’t pull his pants up past his knees I just served at the last house who also promised to catch me next time. Such a brave little trooper, I can’t imagine having to face this cold unforgiving world with such a severe mental handicap. I doubt very much he could “catch” me anyway, I’m pretty sure you can’t run very fast with pants around your ankles, no matter how baggy. All those blunts and cigs can’t be very good for the lungs either. Plus running is to close to working for his taste, I’m sure.
I pit you, lady who calls to ask where her food is three fucking times before it’s even due at your house. No, you cannot have it for free. Do you know why? It’s not late yet. I would like you to introduce you to a very strange concept called “self-respect”. I know it is entirely alien to you, but calling up places of business and begging them for free food when you live in a house, and the people that work there can barely afford to live in shared apartment situation, that’s really pathetic. You know why the entire fucking economy collapsed? It’s because someone decided to loan you money for a house you couldn’t afford, which would be every single fucking house, and you defaulted because you were too busy buying booze and lotto tickets like the crackerjack investment expert that you are. You’re going places for sure, and taking us all with you. Down is technically a direction.
I don’t care so much that you’re so fucking pathetic that you can apparently afford gold teeth, big shiny rims, a house, and can spend 50 to 100 bucks on each meal that you order, but can’t scrape together an entire dollar bill to pay the man that brought it to your lazy ass that reeks of weed, and would reek of shame if you had any. What bothers me is somewhere along the line, maybe it was when you got that fifth tattoo, or that fifth of whiskey that you used to smash your wife upside the head, somewhere along the line you forgot how to form your mouth into words that are really hard to pronounce, like “thank” and “appreciate” and fucking “hello”.
It’s because of people like you that I, normally a pretty mild-mannered guy with a general respect for other human beings, am going to end up on the evening news someday, and your face is going to be up there on the screen right along mine. Because instead of telling you off to your face and quitting my job like an ordinary person, I’m one of those quiet guys that will put up with you, but only for so long.
I also don’t do that whole spitting in the food thing. That’s weak shit for weak people. There will be cops involved.
Enjoy your food, please choke on it.