Please Quit Dumping Doo Doo on Dommie!
By Dommie 

Here’s a fundamental question: Should children be allowed to order pizza pies? I know what you’re thinking - children are growing beings, they’re trying to reach adulthood, they need to make their skin expand before their insides pop out of their belly buttons.

I know all of that. I’ve heard all of those arguments. Now hear mine: When children get hungry, they sometimes order pizza pies to satisfy their thirsty little appetites. When they make an order, I heft their pies into my trusty red oven-fresh transport bag and slide through town in my Plymouth Dooster, searching for their dilapidated, mice-infested homes.

When I get there, I give three sharp-medium-to-loud knocks with my upper knuckles and wait. Yet here’s the catch, as well as the problem: Don’t children realize that they’re too young to know what money is, that no one would hire them anyway because their little arms would break under the modern stress load of today’s average lift rate, that they shouldn’t be using the telephone system to make adult transactions such as ordering pizza pies?!

Obviously, they don’t realize any of this.

Why is this so obvious? Because sometimes as I stand waiting for the Orderer to reward my hearty knocking, four little hands stretch far out of the upper story window above the door, upturn a five gallon bucket, and release what must have been two week’s worth of rotten doo doo, a collection of horse urine, fresh garbage tidbits, and several years’ worth of male ejaculate onto my innocently barren head.

If this hasn’t happened to you, please try to avoid it because the stain on your skin doesn’t wash off for at least four days.

Anyway, back to the children, the tots, who “ordered” the pizza pie in my most recently sabotaged transaction…Needless to say, these foolish actions made me quite temperamental. If they knew they couldn’t afford the pie, why’d they order it? If they knew that three large, exotically-decorated pizzas were too much for them to eat, why’d they get me to drive across town to deliver them?

There was one option left to me. Underneath their childish giggling, I calmly walked back to my car, waited as the cigarette lighter warmed up in the dash board, popped it out, and set their pizzas on fire. Once all three boxes were blazing, I hurled them at the children in the window.

They, of course, jumped out of the way, but the boxes nonetheless traveled far into the house. The inferno began immediately, and trust me, this was pure fire.

As I drove over their mail box, I’m almost certain that I heard some screaming behind me. It sounded like the way I imagine anchovies must scream when the pizza fisherman take them from the sea, from their families who know that their little ones are going to be cooked in a land creature’s oven at over 2500 degrees, and then be eaten by other land creatures who will slurp them down like a milky milk shake of tiny fish.

Anyway, I couldn’t live with myself after wasting so much pizza dough and so many toppings, so I took the rest of the day off and sat on the roof of the pizza joint trying to OD on some mushrooms that I found in the deep freezer at the back of the kitchen. All that happened was that I fell asleep and got major sunburns on my face and legs and didn’t wake up until some time later when a raven bit into my knee, probably trying to eat away at the dried doo doo all over me.

Damn! I’m just remembering that I hugged Lisa not long after that. I sure hope she isn’t pregnant now. Lisa’s the fat lady with chronically sore nipples who assistant manages the pizza joint. I couldn’t face another day if I found out that my hug impregnated her fetid corpse of a body with another fetus that will one day grow into a child that I might have to deliver a wasted pie to. But I guess that’s just the grand cycle of life, isn’t it?