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It’s Time For Dommie to Deliver Some
Just Desserts! Well, my manager, Tom, is irritating the literal piss out of my urethra. He’s never made a delivery in the entire course of his fattened life, yet he expects to tell me how to run mine! Who does he think he is? I’m busting my balls on the beat, criss-crossing town to drop off pies like a stork dropping off infants to parents who couldn’t care less as long as they get to eat their infants in thirty minutes or less.
Do I get chased down by behemoth canines for nothing? Do I get my tires slashed for his lazy ass? Do I get snot forced down my mouth so that he can sit back and tell me that I should be faster and more efficient? Sorry, slug, no dice! You sit back in that plush office and just keep signing those checks like you do so well and leave the delivering aspect of this well-oiled business up to me! Really now, who would people want to see at their door – a plus-sized middle-aged man who could rest the entire pizza box on his gut, sweating and heaving and belching up fumes that come straight from the churned poo-poo that resides in his digestive track, or a slim well-dressed boy, pimples, like freckles, dotted under his eyes, a pizza pie in a sleek red transport oven bag held high over his head, smiling and beaming because he knows that when he lays his head down at night he’s laying it on a fresh slice of garlic bread? Can you answer that one with a little conviction? Of course you can. Even convicts can, and I’ve had my share of delivering to prisons, so I should know. Don’t believe me? Take a look at my delivery log. You’ll see an entry dated three weeks ago detailing the route, fuel consumption, cargo, and money received from a trip out to Batesville Penitentiary. I drove the old Plymouth Doister right into the workout yard. Caused a big fuss with the guards, but I think that was just because they weren’t offered any slices by the inmates. Ol' Tom didn’t like that one, either. He started yelling and spitting and it took everything I had not to slap those jowls of his, flapping as they were. As soon as I got home, I built a doll out of dried pizza cheese and wet crust and I commenced to slap the furious hell out of it, imagining it was big Tom, and when I had totally destroyed his grotesque features, I shed my clothes and fell asleep in the crumpled remains, imagining then that I was laying next to Sharon Stone, who is a lady in the movies.
Let me tell you something, anger is closely related to love. Think about it. What goes on top of cheese? That’s right, pepperonis. Cheese was once thought of as representing the fullness of caring love in that it’s so soft and giving and wraps itself around whatever form it falls on. You can drown in cheese like you can drown in love, and when cheese melts, it does so like the melting heart of a lover who’s just received a wonderful poem written by Steven Seagal himself. Pepps, as we call em’ in the pie industry, on the other hand, are hard and round and spicy, and have always represented deep brooding emotions like anger and hatred and cruelty. Pepps are like a disc hurled at someone in battle to maim or kill. If they were sharp on the edges, they would cut your fingers and I know that if they had feelings, they wouldn’t apologize. I once sharpened a pepp enough to cut through fresh bread, but not skin. So you see, it’s natural that these same emotions take hold of me from time to time. As a delivery boy, one who works closely with the actual finished pizza pie, I can’t help but get caught up in the emotional chaos of the thing that dominates my life. Tom, on the other hand, has nothing to get caught up in but some papers and some clogged arteries. Maybe while I’m out on the pizza beat tomorrow, a slice of withered onion will fall on the trigger of a pistol in the stock room, causing it to go off and place one well-aimed bullet into that fat man’s anus. I don’t know. Just maybe. Dommie just might be in the Studio 8 Forums right now! |
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