Woes of the Worlds Worst Pizza Boy-The Remix

(You may have already read this, or tattooed excerpts of it to various places on your body, but i made some changes and tweaked it in certain places and i think its better now. enjoi)

As a member of Pizza Services (two tours), I am daily put in the line of fire, exposed to some of societies most leprous and foul inhabitants. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the Jesus thing of washing their feet, but my repeated attempts at courtesy are met with douchbaggery of the utmost degree. All I’m asking is that niceties be returned as such, but people apparently find it difficult to accept me as a human being, obviously since I’m wearing a goofy ass hat and khaki pants to match I’m devoid of feelings. The hardest thing to repress is simply the fact that I could lecture these people on a variety of educational subjects and everything spilling from my mouth would be new information to their brains. I feel like Charleton Heston just trying to live life in a world full of monkeys, “Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty apes!” (Elitism for the win)

The following is a series of lists I’ve composed dealing with all different aspects of the pizza business, I admit that I got carried away, but whatever.

First of all,
Please don’t call me a hypocrite. Don’t accuse me of biting the hand that feeds me. I’m honestly grateful for your apparent allegiance to aortic plaque; it keeps me employed, but really, is pizza that good? Lets take a look:

Dough: Its flour, water and yeast, get over it.

Sauce: Processed tomato junk, water and spices. If you’re really attached to a certain establishment’s ‘recipe’ you need not look further than the ingredients on the can they opened to get it; no one makes it fresh, no one makes it better than anyone else.

Cheese: Frozen or fresh, its just fermented mold derived from bovine glandular discharge; I doubt if its even from California Happy Cows half the time.

Assorted Toppings: Unlike bologna or hot dogs, pepperoni somehow retains its dignity despite the fact it can’t be caught in the wild; our selection of raw meat would turn Upton Sinclair’s stomach; none of the vegetables are properly cared for thanks to the “ it all looks the same once you cut it” mantra; and absolutely everything is held within containers that may or may not have been washed properly the night before by a poorly paid, disgruntled college student. To be completely honest, everything you order on a pizza is bad for you; may I suggest our salad bar?

So now we find ourselves discouraged, but still hungry, gotta eat, right? Well, now that you’re educated about the product, I’ll begin the process of teaching you how to order (i.e.: communicate with another human being over a phone…I know, it sounds simple, but you’d be surprised.)
You as the customer are always right. Always.

Despite the above-mentioned bullet, I actually know more than you about anything you could ever want to say about your pizza.

Know what it is you want before you pick up your phone and dial my number. It’s so inconsiderate to make me wait while you attempt to contemplate the deep recesses of our menu. All you have to do is pick a size and a few toppings and then we can both go our separate ways, a few moments of forethought could have prevented the tragic loss of minutes of my time that ill never get back.

Don’t try to act as middleman between me and the person who actually decides what to order. Yes, I will hold on a second while you ask some invisible entity behind you if original crust is okay, or if Pepsi is alright due to the unavailability of Coke, but honest to god it would be quicker if you just handed the lazy asshole the phone so we could get the whole thing over with quicker.

Don’t try to haggle me for lower prices, I’m not a Mexican child trying to sell Chicklets, this is America and the price of our pizza is patriotically high. If you want to have change after your purchase than I hope you voted for Obama.

Once I say, “is that going to be all?” followed by a “have a good day”, it is officially too late to change your order, this is not pre-school, there are no do-over’s in the real world. It is not that hard to order anything on the menu and NOT change your mind, I don’t want to have to talk to you again 4 minutes later because you decided that it wasn’t a good idea to go with olives.

The question: “Is this going to be for here or to-go?” cannot be answered with: “I want a large pepperoni, with mushrooms and salami.” I’m supposed to lead you with prompts, so just follow them. I’m Sacagawea, you’re Lewis (or Clark). You called me, I call the shots, do not be affronted when I change the course of the conversation from your inane rambling to what can only be considered as my job.

Don’t even think of yelling at me…just don’t.

Now, surprisingly, its not just customers that cause me grief; fellow employees can also be a pain in the ass.

When taking orders for a delivery, know the difference between North and South Fresno. I mean, how hard is it? One side drives Escalades the other side steals them.

When you dirty a dish, wash it. I spend hours a night washing dishes that have been sitting around since the store opened that day. This isn’t Tetris, I don’t want to see how well you can stack them, because inevitably I’m going to be the one yelling Janga! when they all fall down. (To be fair, I yell Janga! When anything falls down though.)

Don’t recommend other pizza restaurants to customers who call our store:
Customer: “Are you guys running any specials tonight?”
Employee: “…um, none that I know of…wait, there is one but… never mind, no, no specials, we do have coupons though.”
Customer: “…and where would I find these coupons.”
Employee: “I have no idea, but I hear Round Table is offering some great deals, the home of the last Honest Pizza you know.”
---Seriously, that happened.

Don't show up to work hung-over and complain to the boss when I call you a bitch, or more specifically, imply that you’re actions are ‘bitch-like’.


Etiquette notes targeted to people who are actually too lazy to get their food themselves, and instead rely upon the services of a friendly, neighborhood delivery boy:

Turn on your porch light; I can’t see shit without it.

Say ‘Hi’ to me when you answer your door, not ‘how much?’ I’m not a prostitute (although for a few dollars more…).

I don’t carry change for a hundred, but I’d love to increase my chances of being mugged for your convenience.

If you live in the ghetto, I’m not going; arguing is futile. I only want to go where allegiance to a gang isn’t required to walk through the streets (although this Fresno state tattoo on my throat usually does the trick)…and don’t tell me I have nothing to be scared of because of my size, shanks hurt everybody.

I know I’m tall, as a matter of fact; I’m as large as your doorframe. Oddly enough, you’re not the first person to notice, so feel free to keep your stupid ass comments to yourself, especially if your going to act upset when I make blatantly obvious comments in return like, ‘Wow, you’re really Pilipino’ or ‘you’ve done a terrible job keeping up your lawn’.

If it is not over a dollar than it isn’t a tip, I’m not the Salvation Army begging for your change, and you’re lucky I don’t have a bell in my hand because I’d smack you with it.


If you pay with a credit card, I am required to see your identification, do not get mad, because then I will make a condescending joke about either your terrible photo, or how obviously false your weight is listed as.

Answer your door in a timely fashion. Just because you know it’s the pizza boy and there’s no surprise in it for you doesn’t mean you need to keep me waiting while you take your time. If it helps, pretend your doorbell is a fire alarm, then run like hell.

If you plan on paying with a check, write the check before I get there, I don’t have 5 minutes to wait around while you practice your cursive…and that’s not how you make a ‘Z’, idiot.

If you have animals, put them away before I get there. I’m not responsible to catch your dog if it runs out of the door, I’m not going to pet your dog if you introduce us, and I will kick the hell out of your dog the moment it becomes a threat to me.

Have a nice day!!!
This has been a public service announcement. We will now return to regularly scheduled programming.

(not really edited/proof read/grammatically correct in places; dont hate)

Things I Would Do If I Were A Richman:
Nanananananananananananananaaaaaa

Ok, seriously:

First things first, ill paint you a picture, and then move on to the bullet points.
So, I win the lotto or something -- no, no, too generic -- Ok, me, a blonde, and a red head find a genie’s lamp while having rampant intercourse in a dumpster behind a Wendy’s (because that’s a normal Tuesday night for me, I aspire to join to a fraternity…and have syphilis). We rub the lamp, the genie from Aladdin pops out (voiced by everybody’s favourite, Robin Williams) and gives each of us one wish. One of the girls wishes for world peace, the other to stop hunger or whatever, so I wish for tons of money since all the good moral options got taken. I immediately break up with those girls (because I’m rich, but also because it was the right thing to do), then drive to Disneyland and plot all the ways in which ill spend my dirty money while waiting in line ALL DAY LONG for rides I’m too big to ride in the first place:
-Immediately begin construction of a bat cave. Seek out the employment of an elderly yet street smart British dude and philanthropize the shit out of Fresno. By night I’d wear my modified spelunking gear and beat the shit out of gang members and people who didn’t tip me, all the while speaking in a ridiculous gruff/yell voice that nobody can understand which kind of gives the impression that I can’t act, but its ok, because you’d have no idea who I was…unless you’ve read this….
-Lobby to have legislation passed that regulates the minimum height of door ways, ceiling fans, awnings, ceilings, low hanging plants and wind chimes so id never hit my head on anything ever again…and by ‘lobby’ I mean ‘pay off’.
-Buy majority stock in Milano Corporation, run the company into the ground, declare bankruptcy, accept a financial bailout from Chinese investors, and make it literally un-American for people to eat Me-n-Ed’s pizza.
-Inhabit a grotto/mansion and outfit my security staff in storm trooper uniforms. This would serve two purposes; first to look really cool and possibly attract the attention of Mtv cribs, and also to hide the fact that my security staff really only consists off illegal immigrants willing to work for less than minimum wage and carry around large automatic weapons....wait, this is starting to sound like a bad idea...
-I’d buy a Lamborghini and invite Johnny Knoxville over to inflate an emergency raft inside…but only if Billy Idol came.
-I’d buy every billboard in town and plaster images of the San Francisco giants being unceremoniously shot by people who just don’t give a shit about baseball.
-I would run for president of Haiti
-I’d pimp Xzibit’s car, then id say: “Yo, I heard you liked pimpin’ cars, so I pimped yo car!” I think he’d be flattered and we’d become fast friends. At this point I would officially associate the word ‘dawg’ with my first initial (or middle initial) and all the other ‘dawgs’ would have to respect that, yo.
-I’d leave a briefcase full of money in the dean’s office at Fresno City with a note that reads: “Can I take my fucking class now?” but in actuality it doesn’t matter anymore because I’ve purchased all the ivy league schools (like, a fortnight ago) and have given myself honorary doctorates in just about everything. Then I flip The Man The Bird and reel the briefcase back because it was attached to a fishing pole the whole time!!! Then id comically lead him around campus while he chases the money, too blinded by greed to see me standing behind a tree laughing hysterically at his expense…get it? Expense?
-I would have a stuffed lion in my living room.
-I would buy Ron Paul the election (because we all know thats all it takes), then id Chancellor Palpatine/Darth Sidious his presidency, but not really in a maniacal way, because i think me and Ron would get along, so i guess i'd just sit behind him at press conferences (surrounded by guards wearing huge shiny red condoms as unifonrms, of course) with my hood hiding my face (assuring anonymity until the climax of the movie) constantly nodding my head saying: "Right on dude, word to your mother."
-I would totally pull some "The Most Dangerous Game" shit.
-I would hire a team of crack comedy writers so id never run out of things to write as bullets… no wait, scratch that, id just clone myself a bunch of times…yeah, that’s how highly I think of myself L

so by some freak coincidence i just happened to select some random court case to do a paper on a few weeks back and it turns out that everything i wrote about was being covered in tonights lecture. Needless to say i was adequately equipped to participate in law banter of epic portions.
the the teacher was like, "14th amendment." and i was like, "tell me about it." and he was like, "it caused the bill of rights to apply to the states." and i was like, "what about barron v baltimore?" and he was like, "touche, but that case predates the 14th amendment" and i was like, "that was a test, everyone knows that was 1833, so what do you say to Hurtado v California...1884!" and he was like, "that can be explained by selective incorporation" and i was like, "selective incorporation, shmashmorsheration, you're fighting a loosing battle old man." to which he replied, "Your statements resound with truth, Prodigy. I will admit defeat." And with that be began to ascend a huge aztec temple that seemed to have placed itself in the middle of the lecture hall, and upon reaching the 365th stair he stepped up onto the zenith of the structure and gazed out upon the expanse that was before him before turning his attention to the alter that rested close at hand where he sacrificed a beautiful young virgin, whose soul was purposed for my exclusive assistance on my inevitable journey to tonatiuhichan, the highest level of the aztec afterlife. the end. actually, after that i got carl's jr. with putty. then the end.

note: none of that is true

well, the first part is true, about the case brief being similar to the lecture, everything else just happened in my head, but it was cool and totally could of happened had i wanted it to...except maybe the bit about the temple.

the carl's jr. thing is true too. btw.

Only in Fresno

So Im stopped at a traffic light and look to my right, and im shocked to observe Kim Jong-Il in the car next to me. I roll down my window and was like, "Dude, why are you being such an asshole to South Korea right now?" and he was like "Um...not every asian with a terrible haircut is Kim Jong-Il."

so then i felt bad and I was just about to apologize for being so unbiasedly racist but the inner-skeptic took hold of my judgement and i refused to accept his excuse, so assuming it was still Kim Jong-Il driving the blue Buick Lesabre next to me i naturally flipped him the bird, at which point he threatens to blow me to radioactive pieces with his nuclear arsenal. So i was like, "You ARE Kim Jong-Il!" and he threw up his hands and was like, "Busted!"

we shared a good laugh, then had a pint at the winchester and waited for it all to blow over ( ^ i n s e r t o b s c u r e z o m b i e m o v i e r e f e n c e h e r e ^ ).

end scene

WOMP WOMP WOMP

i just wasted moments of your life; you're welcome.

i was having trouble sleeping so i bought a sherlock holmes audiobook (one word?) on itunes because i couldnt find a gurgling stream or lapping ocean soundtrack and i figured a monotonous british voice might do in a pinch when peaceful nature sounds cant be acquired to lull me to sleep.

needless to say that in doing so i inadvertently trained my sub-conscience mind to solve mysteries by means of deduction, and if you happen to find yourself in need of my services i can be found in my extremely cluttered study/room playing my violin and shooting holes in my wall looking ridiculously robert downey jr.

Question: What do Sherlock Holmes and Robert Downey Jr. have in common?
Answer: They've both snorted cocaine off a urinal...probably.

McGriddle: The Remix

The munchies are a bitch, and today’s ritualistic contraband consumption left me hungering for a McGriddle. Normally I don’t even like the artificially sweet, congenially greasy sandwiches, but my carnal urgings would hear none of my withholdings and commanded my immediate response. The only problem, I come to realize, is that I live 45 minutes away from the nearest McDonalds, but not to be persuaded otherwise I Bo Duke over to my driver’s side door and fumble to fit my key into the ignition, intent on throwing caution to the wind and breaking every speed limit thrown at me. Time: 9:34 am.
Despite my expeditious intentions, I find my overall velocity hampered by random distractions emanating from my surroundings. My speedometer has trouble exceeding 35 mph as I try to understand the lyrics to an old Billy Idol song in an all-new way, and the bushes on either side of the road take on the shapes of endangered animals, mostly rhinoceroses but occasionally something different. After narrowly avoiding the remnents of somebodys blown tire that for a split second i mistook for a baby seal, I surmise that I’m approximately 5 blocks away from my destination. Time 10:23 am.
My hopes couldn’t be higher until I sight a Cal-Trans sign ahead. “Expect Delays on: TODAY.” Damnit! One lane and every goddamned traffic light try to slow me down, but nothing can delay me now, “Welcome to the Jungle” begins blasting from my speakers and I am suddenly in the mood to race. I smoke a mid-eighties Honda Accord, and absolutely rape a 57’ Chevy pick-up. No one is safe; nothing can stand in the way of my Number 7 combo meal and I. The left hand turn lane is nearing, and throwing a backwards glance to the world, I don’t even signal. My pedal is at capacity, my clock, still ticking. Time: 10:30 am.
Cruising slowly into the parking lot, I make for the golden arches but find the way blocked. Ripples spread across the surface of a nearby puddle as horrific sequences of blue hair, polyester track suits and overpowering perfume pass before my eyes. In droves the elders consume the pavement, making for their cars now that their stores of carefully clipped coupons have been depleted. My resentment flares are I glance at the clock on the dash. Women over the age of 85 are making me late, therefore I hate them, I hate old ladies with carts, who, ever since petitioning for women’s suffrage in 1920 have run out of meaningful things to demand. Today was apparently pedestrians right’s day and the geriatrics were taking turns walking their carts in front of my car one after the other in a sort of nonviolent resistance. I sit in the same spot idling, just staring at the edifice that houses my tabernacle only a few yards away. I think maybe I, like Moses, will never get to see the Promised Land. Time: 10:35 am.
Finally my persistent honking parts the seas of the decrepit and I pull up to the drive-though and begin speaking with a box. The voice is menacingly cheery, like somehow it knew that it would be the cause of the dejection I was about to feel, and was taking joy in depriving me of my holy grail. It ironically belonged to a woman.
She asked me too hold on and then acted like she had left. She wanted me to know that she was in control of the conversation and was asserting it though a sort of forced silence, I could think of nothing clever to say, not knowing at that time that I was dealing with Satan. I was on the offensive and I hated that.
She drew first blood: “Welcome to McDonalds, what can I get for you today?”
“Um…a, ah…number 7 please.” I waited, my breath held…
“OK, and what kind of drink?”
“Oh shit! I mean, uh…Dr. Pepper.” I got away with it! I felt like I needed 12 other cohorts with whom to celebrate successfully pulling off the biggest heist ever! I envisioned myself eating my McGriddle with a sloppy George Clooney-esque grin on my face, driving into the sunset with Julia Roberts to my right and Brad Pitt in the back seat.
“Alright, so a 5 piece McNuggets with a Dr. Pepper, is that going to be all?” Wait, what? No! No, no, no. I could almost see her suppressing laughter; all her fellow workers stopping what they were doing to join in the secret hilarity.
“Um, no, I want the sausage, egg, and cheese McGriddle… the breakfast meal, but the Dr. Pepper part is right.” I added the last part so as to try and seem compromising. Sure, you got my order wrong, but not all of it, your only half of a fuck up.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but were not serving breakfast at this time.” I could envision her holding the mic away from her face and chortling with laughter, saying to herself, “I purposefully confused his gender” She probably had buckteeth and a cleft palette.
“I’m only a few minutes late, come on, help a brotha out!” Considering the part of Fresno I was in, I figured that throwing in a few Ebonics might help my cause.
“I’m sorry ma’am—er, sir, but its company policy.” She was curt, as if to say the joke is over and she was ready with Pepper Spray at window one if I got too feisty.
“Let me talk to your manager then, maybe he has the ability to use his mind for more than just respiration.” I wasn’t going to take this shit; I call in the artillery and start thinking of bigger words to use in the argument that was sure to ensue.
“Your speaking to the manager, and she has the same mind as before.” Her tone dripped of spite.
“Oh good, same dumb bitch then?” Vocabulary fail.
“Excuse me sir?”
“Let me talk to the clown! He’s in charge, he’ll give me my goddamned sandwich, you whore!.” I didn’t know I was this high; things were getting too out of hand. I did what anybody with the reflexes of Jeff Gordon would do and slammed on my accelerator.
I didn’t hear what she replied back because I was already rounding turn one with my middle finger poised. I was ready to finally look into the eyes of the person who owned the voice I hated, and then tell her to go fuck herself using my hand.
I realized that this wasn’t going to be as dramatic as I had first envisioned because of the mini van at the next window still waiting for it’s food. Shit. I smash my breaks and avoid hitting the assumed Asian in front of me, only to take away all menace from my emotional use of symbolism. I felt the burn of unheard laughter as I waited for access to the rest of the shopping center, and I look longingly towards the expanse of the parking lot, where democracy and liberty still exist in the form of Jack in the Box’s 24-hour breakfast deal.

False Alarm

It is evening, and I am to be found perched on a lounge that adorns my veranda, busy inhaling one of Fidel’s finest and watching the smoke twist and turn on the summer breeze that occasionally decides to delight me with refreshing torrents of respite. In the countryside that surrounds my dwelling it is perfectly calm and overwhelmingly still. I have not heard a noise nor seen any movement all day, possibly longer. I sit and I drown in the boredom of reality while inwardly yearning for excitement and aching for adventure, even if it would mean jousting windmills. After what seems like an eternity, faintly, a noise reaches my ear. It is hoofs, of this I am sure, but who rides horses in 2010? Realistically speaking, nostalgic rednecks and Poland’s military, but I just can’t stand the thought of this rare disturbance merely being as simple as that, in fact, I would rather assume a much more kick ass scenario. Straining my ears with every fiber of my curiosity I listen as my presumed antagonist approaches from afar. Sitting back and inhaling once more I bide my time, and in the growing darkness I eagerly anticipate the approach of this assumedly mysterious caller.

My mind reels as I contemplate whom this visitor could be and my commendable imagination quickly kicks any notion of a normal encounter far from my rationale’s reach. Of course it could be JUST a horse, but I’d rather it be something more fantastical, like a unicorn. Now, admittedly, unicorns don’t exist, and neither does a Pegasus, but there is an equal probability of either being the culprit impedingly sauntering closer. I suppose its even possible that a unicorn and Pegasus met a few years back at a mixer for work and had a baby that was both winged AND horny, and so it may be probable that this proposed bastard is what’s looming somewhere in the distance, who am I to say?

I suppose it might be stretching things to infer that it could be a centaur, but on the other hand, it totally could be a centaur. Why shouldn’t I expect a visit from a half man, half horse who obviously has some information pertaining to my Destiny and how the time has come for me to save the world? Just saying it out loud makes it more of a viable possibility, kind of like peter pan and shit.

Slowing down to summarize my thoughts, I’ve thus far deduced that the sounds I am hearing are emanating from some type of hybrid species with the ability of flight and/or a defensive outcropping of keratin, fingers crossed it speaks English. I’m sure you’re asking yourself what you would do if a creature of this sort were to clip-clop into your yard, but I’m afraid that you just can’t possibly imagine how it really feels, but I’ll do my best to summarize the terrorizing events that follow.

The moment for action is nigh. The seven times I watched MacGyver flash before my eyes, and my subconscious mind checks the box marked “fight”. First order of business: don’t wait around for the opponent to find you vulnerable and defenseless. Thinking quickly, I spring from my seat and hit the dirt on all fours, crawling into position for a flanking attack. Second order of business would have been to construct a pipe bomb out of stuff I had in my pocket, which consisted of string, fish bones, and the One Ring of power*, but I lacked the ever essential paperclip and chewed wad of gum so I abandon my Dean Anderson antics and get back to business. Like a freaky crazy bat I triangulate the exact position of my adversary with my heightened sense of hearing, then I lie in wait behind some foliage as the bushes directly in front of me rustle and shake. The tall reeds part like an up-side-down curtain presenting the crescendo of my fantasy, and in the next few seconds I realize that my suspicions and concerns are about to be either confirmed or shattered, and as my cryptid stepped out, appearing before me for the first time in all of its glory…it turned out to just be a goat. Go figure.





*Hobbit Reference, duh.