Stop Ordering Pies and Dommie’s Heart Stops With You
By Dommie 

So here's your situation: It's a Saturday night and you're fresh in from a hard evening of soccer at the co-ed field where you got your ass kicked in by a thousand of the opponents' cleats. You're sore as hell from the loss of blood and victory. You're more than likely retarded from a life’s worth of neglect and you're as hungry as a pig on a tiled floor just cleaned by Mr. Clean himself.

Now here's your options: You can get back up off of that dog piss-stained grandmother couch and drag your enormous fatty self back to your car, getting it even more dirty as the gravel in your butt crack loosens its hold to your crack hairs and dribbles out of your tattered shorts. Then you can drive around for an hour or more until you realize that most of the eating establishments are either closed or are places that serve poison between two buns. OR you can sit right there where your hefty weight has fallen, lift only one arm to pick up your phone, make a quick call to the local pizza pie company, answer a series of no more than four major questions, and you can have a delicious round or square, large, medium, or small pizza topped with your choice of food items delivered right to your door, right to where you lounge, to your mouth even.

Stop worrying about using up gas.

Stop worrying about ruining your precious radial tires.

Stop worrying about your milky skin drowning in a torrential downpour outside.

Stop worrying about where you're going to drop your trousers and release a few brown demons when you're in the middle of the city.

Leave those worries to me... Dommie!

Unfortunately, you people rarely follow my stern advice. DAMMIT! For two nights now, I've sat at the home office for an average total of 2.89 consecutive hours. 2.89! That means for 2.89 hours nobody is ordering pizza, I'm stuck in a den of hedgehogs who constantly remind me that I shouldn't be stuck in a den of hedgehogs, my bowels are bothering me because they'd rather be pressed against the worn interior of my Plymouth Doister than on an unheated oven surface, and I'm staring at a phone that never rings, doesn't want to ring, has evolved, thanks to Charles Darwin and you non-eating sons of turds, into an anti-ringing creature.  

Did you know that I have no real human heart inside my chest cavity? My heart is the pizza pie order, it's the thirty minute time window I have to make a delivery, it's the cash that someone hands me as I hand them what they want, it's in the dog that rips open my abdomen with its tiny little teeth as it tries to stop me from getting to a customer's door.

If you people stop ordering pizza, I start dying. In those hours when the phones are silent, I can feel myself bleeding internally, I can see myself bleeding externally from every orifice but my actual skin pores. I'm constantly regurgitating whatever was last in my stomach, which is sometimes the last regurgitation that I had. I'm weak, my bones begin breaking, and I'm basically knocking on Death's door, or rather ringing the doorbell, or whatever I need to do to get in there.

When the cheese and the peps and the hand-tossed or pan-made crust isn't being crushed between the molars of your teeth, inside your mouth, then the life that keeps this pizza pie boy alive isn't in his soul.

It's that simple.

So listen, folks, let's try to lower that average of 2.89 this week. Let's really try. I'm doing my part. Why don't you bastardly people do yours? That's all I'm asking. By the way, I really do have a heart, I was just trying to get your attention. Looks like it worked.