All of Dommie's Untold Secrets...Told!
By Dommie 

Ever wonder why your significant other doesn't satisfy you? Or why you wake up in the middle of the night and feel like you should be somewhere else, be someone else, as fresh piss stains the inside-leg of your pajamas and your lover farts in the darkness? Ever wonder why you feel an empty hole somewhere in the middle of your stomach, and you can't figure out why cocaine-laced cigarettes and cheap booze can't make it go away? Ever catch a tiny scent on the wind that you can't define, but which both arouses you and makes you hunger for something unknown?

Too bad for you, because I don't, though I'll tell you why you do.

You see, you weren't born with a single slice of pizza crust wedged within the valley of your butt crack. You didn't carry a pocketful of Canadian bacon throughout your formative years in high school, every now and then pretending you were experiencing severe diarrhea so that you could sit in a bathroom stall and study every individual detail on each piece of that C. bacon. You've never worn the famous blue, red and white company colors of the greatest pizza empire on the planet.

It's O.K., you probably have your degrees in things like brain surgery, moon science, titty twisting, lawyerness or some other fancy field.

I am a "Pizza Delivering Expert." It says so on my mobile magnetic rooftop logo device which adorns the apex of my Plymouth Doister like the fin of a shark hunting anchovies in the dark of the deepest ocean.

Does this knowledge of what you aren't and what I am make you sad?

Well, before you split your abdomen and spill your yellowed guts with an extra-sharp pie cutter, let me give you some advice on how to fill that void in your soul that nothing seems to plug up.

First, let me explain something. Not everyone was given the righteous art of pie handling. It has been passed on to only a few of us along the time of man, first given to Euclides Pizzarious in 1276 BC by an unknown source preaching the secrets from a mysterious burning oven. You cannot know what I know, and you never will.

Don't feel so bad, even Tom, my overweight and belligerent manager, doesn't fully understand the power he wields at the tips of his grubworm-like fingers.

Also know this: Holding me down with thick ropes and fixing electrical wiring to my anus and genitals will still not get you the privileged information inside of my skull.

Trust me, it's been done before.

There is but one, and only one, thing you can do. In the night, when your lover has just deposited his worthless semen cells into you and you feel like it was all pointless, or when you're in a conversation with your children and they no longer seem like they are yours, or when you're alone in a prison cell and can't understand how it is you got there, drooling on your lips and wide-eyed rats nibbling on your toenails, or, very simply, when you hunger yet don't know what it is you hunger for, STOP whatever it is you are doing, very frankly reach for the phone (statistics prove that we are advanced enough as a culture so that now every person in the world has a phone very near them), and dial 1-555-DOMINO.

It's obvious, you need a pie. Perhaps you want it extra thick, covered in mushrooms and melted crayons, burnt slightly along the edges with a pinch of colored salt sprinkled on top. Maybe you even want a couple of pepps on the side.

Hell, I don't care. The point is, Dommie's your man! In fact, he's your man in under 26.5 minutes. Point taken. That's a fact.