Dommie’s Economic Plan for Earth
By Dommie 

Well, here I am again, and again you people have me complaining about the goose crap lives that you all are existing in. Yeah, that’s right, I’ve seen them all, so don’t think I don’t have the authority to talk about it. I’ve delivered my pies to everyone from millionaires with their testicles covered in golden rubies to the lowliest hovel where the only reason the husband and wife have children is so that they can use them as food in the harsh wintertime.

On one day, I may sludge my way through yards where the dog crap is as thick on the ground as fresh snow in a mountain village, whereas on the next day, my feet test out grass so cleanly shaven, it’s like walking on a man’s trimmed beard after thirty minutes at SuperCuts.

I don’t know what to think, or who I like delivering to better. Sure, some would say, “Surely you would rather bring a pie to a rich man,” but you don’t have any clue what you’re saying if you say that.

I don’t blame you, though. Your mother didn’t bathe you in Coca-Cola and put digested pizza crust in your ears when you were a child. So you wouldn’t know anything about the game.

Rich men…Ha! Try avoiding attack dogs, motion sensors, hired guards, and 3-mile driveways only to be greeted at the door by some smooth-skinned 40-year-old with a mustache and a cigarette, wearing a silk robe and flashing his withered ding-a-ling as he begs for a touch. Or if it’s not that, it’ll be his wife, wearing leather jerkins that have holes in all the wrong places and shaking her wrinkled fat so much, you think she’ll splatter skin on you if she keeps it up. Sorry, ma’am, use some of that money you spent on this fortress of yours and dry up those soggy titties, or maybe hire someone to wipe off that mask of grotesque makeup that must weigh several pounds up there on your face.

And it’s not just the rich who sometimes freak me out and make me want to spew puke through my nostrils. When it’s getting close to midnight, the last thing I want to do is have to look for a house in the part of town where the streets look like they’re right out of Taiwan or South Korea or Brazil, or wherever else a war is going on right now.

Sometimes the road is blocked by a pile of dead animals, mostly consisting of dogs, cats, reptiles, and rodents, and I have to leave my car and set out on foot searching for the “drop point” - that’s what we call the location where the pizza pie is ordered from. If I’m not chased off by savages, or raped by a mutant, or beaten by a strong woman-man with a broom, I can usually find the place I’m looking for.

Of course, that’s just the natural instinct of a pizza delivery agent. But we don’t call it “instinct” in the business, we call it Pepperoni Pride. That’s why I have “PP” tattooed on the bottom of my foot.

Anyway, as I always do eventually, I get to the house, one way or the other, thinking I’m about to be greeted by a humble old man and his dying son (this is poor people we’re talking about, remember), but much to my surprise, a Chinese woman opens the door and offers to trade some lush garments for the pizza. Or if not her, then a shaggy goat greets me at the door with a note pinned to its horn saying the owner is deaf and the only way I can communicate to him is through the goat. Or if not a goat, a retarded child with green slime dripping from his mouth opens the door and begins yelling until I kick him in the abdomen.

I’m sorry, people, but none of this is going to cut it. I’ve told you 10,000 times, but you never seem to get it. The rich people need to give most of their money to the poor people. The poor people need to kill about half of their number and then give the extra money to the middle class people.

In that way, everybody will then be middle class, and it’s at this point that all the middle class people need to go live on one big island. Then everybody can donate one dollar to build a giant pizza glider and I will never have to drive down another earthly street again, neither one made of human flesh, nor one made of gold. I’ll just fly over the island all day and drop pizza pies with tiny parachutes on them out of the back of the glider.

PP’s with TP’s. That’s what I’ll call them. And everyone will love me.