Get the Door, It's Dommie!
By Dommie

    As I promised, here's your article. Right on time! And don't question me on what I mean by that because I stopped kidding with folks a very long time ago. When I got my wheels on my 16th birthday, I left behind every kidder I could and headed straight to the pizza place.

     Did you miss me? Of course you did. You missed that ring at your door, or that knock, three times not too loud and not too soft. You missed that smell permeating under that horrible door seal that doesn't keep out the winter cold.

     Well, here's some warmth. Inside this red oven bag is what you wanted. A fresh Thirteen-Slicer (that means large to you), hot to your door as if you baked this mug yourself and just got it off of the coals, although I know you didn't because there isn't a soul alive that can cook up a pie like this besides, of course, that Giant Deluxe Pressure Pie Cooker 7000 at the home office.

     Where do you think this came from? Where do you think I came from? I should have been born on a pepperoni, a hint of melted cheese on each of my eyelids.

     I really should have been.

     But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? All you know is that if I don't get here, under this fancy patio of yours, in less than thirty minutes, you get your pie free.

     Ha! These pimples on my cheeks, along with the rest of my entire face, laugh in your face. I've never made a delivery over the thirty mark. Never! In fact, I've never made a delivery over 26.5. Hate to bust that bubble, but you're just gonna have to pay up.

     And I know I'm not supposed to cross that threshold, that place where your green carpet meets your ragged wooden porch - I was always told to never enter someone's domain unless they give permission. That was drilled into my head; however, don't think twice that if you refuse my payment I won't lunge at you like a pie-handler wrangling down a Double Large from the heated storage unit.

     I've done it before.

     A child once approached the door and said that his mommy didn't have the money to pay me and that she was in the shower so she couldn't address me personally and that she was sorry. Well, sorry doesn't cuddle well with me. Using a balled-up slice of pie from the recipient's order, I broke the bathroom window where the “supposed mother” was “showering.”

     That's just who I am.

     That's also just the way it is in the Pizza Industry. I'm hoping I hit her between the titties, right where her heart is, so that she knows how she tore my heart from my milky body when she forced me to waste a delivery on a "No Show."

     No Shows! That's what we call em'. They're either pranks (some foolish children call in an order to their unsuspecting next-door neighbors) or they're folks who think they can bribe a pizza boy like myself with body dances and sweet talking.
 
     No dice! If you don't have the cash, don't make the call. I mean really, do you think I'm going to let you put that alcohol-and-pretzel-stained mouth on places that have only been reserved for fresh dough directly from our South American bakers?

     Do you really think those baseball cards, those false teeth, that fart you saved in a jar, do you really think that any of that is going to get you a triple cheese, half sausage, half grits?

     Nope! Only pure American dollars, and for that type of pie it's gonna cost you $12.76. And don't ask me how that tallies up because I'm tired of those questions, and besides, I don't answer customer questions anyway. Tom has that job. He's fat and retarded and he has a list of answers on a wall in front of him. I would spit on him if he didn't sign my paycheck each week. And speaking of signing, no, I won't sign your pizza.

     Just give me the money and don't forget the tip! Looks like you forgot it, so I’m outta here!

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