Politicizing Pizza: Passion, Propaganda, and Patriarchy. Pfffft!

The distributor sent us the wrong boxes last week. He said it was because they were out of the blank white ones, but it was probably really because my boss is somewhat of a blowhard, and the guy was sick of his shit. So we got this:



As if that wasn't awesome enough, one side of the box says this:



And one side says this:




And, lest we forget who we're referring to, the third side has this to say:



How does the distributor get the freedom, the wherewithal to send to a restaurant, that may or may not have political leanings, these patriotic boxes? How is it that we must stand by, and not only accept, but use these cardboard rectangular pieces of propaganda? How can it be that my boss, while maintaining the status quo of the American Dream by owning and running a successful small business, be overtly opposed to this message of nationalism, if only because it interferes with his blank canvas to paste coupons for Tuesday night on the top of the boxes, and still do nothing about it? I couldn't begin to surmise the answer. Imagine my shame when I had to hand people this box. Imagine my greater shame when their eyes lit up in recognition of someone, or some business, that feels the same way they do- that their country is the BEST! "And that's really such a rare feeling, these days especially."

How does this happen? What happens in life that makes it possible, and profitable even!, to print these boxes, these boxes that house nothing but what later turns into shit, yes, actual human feces, and nothing is said about it? How the fuck did they do it? I found my answer later, when I opened the pizza I brought home and looked at the inside flaps of the box:

Then, nothing.

In what would soon turn out to be a really shitty night, my first delivery today was to a neighborhood that I often refer to as "suck." I'd been to this house before, and luckily did not have too many negative connotations with the place. Chances are I probably got a decent tip out of a delivery that I would have normally assumed to be a stiff waiting to happen. I remembered this guy, too. This house. I wasn't sure why. Then, when I got to the door, I remembered. This guy was fucking weird. Maybe weird's not the right word. Afflicted, damaged, ruined, all come to mind. For some reason, I got it into my head after the first time I delivered to him that he was a veteran of one of our fine olive branches of the military. I don't know what gave me this impression. However, I do know that he had not one, but two, NRA stickers on the outside of his screen door. One was old and faded, and one was newer and fading. He'd probably paid his dues in the last two years at least. He also had a tattoo of a small cross on his ring finger, right where a ring might go, had he been married. Perhaps he was, after all. Not all people commit to each other with gold and diamonds. Did I mention that he looked exactly like a melting Christopher Walken with a pony tail?

Something had happened to this at once young (probably mid-thirties), yet insufferably old man. He shuffled slowly to the door, struggled with the lock, and verbal communication was a clear strain on his body. When I handed him his pizza and awaited payment after stating the total to him, he looked at me puzzledly. I waited. Sometimes you have to let things sink in with people.

Then he laboriously raised his right hand and made the international sign for writing, by which I mean he carelessly flicked his wrist back and forth a few times with a loose fist barely clinging to the wet paper towel that was his flesh.

"I gotta... sign.. something?"

"Oh, sorry, sir. You have to give your credit card information to the store when you call to order. I can't take a credit card here."

"Ohh..man.. that's gonna screw.. me."

"Well, if you want, you can just sign this receipt and give me the credit card number, and I'll just have 'em run it when I get back to the store."

He hesitated, understandably. I wouldn't give my credit card number to some guy on my front porch.

"Umm..."

"Or, you can just call the store and give 'em your credit card number, and they'll sort it out."

"Okay... okay."

"Okay. Yeah, just call 'em whenever you can and they'll take care of it. But I guess go ahead and sign this now, and we'll just staple it to your credit card receipt when we run it."

"Okay."

I felt pretty sorry for this guy. I looked at his overflowing mailbox, and remembered seeing the same sight last time I came here: bunches of bills piling up from various banks and credit institutions. Here was yet another of this dead nation's bastard sons (Thanks, D4).

When I returned to the store, I asked my boss if he had called yet. He said, "Who?"

"The guy on Coleman I just delivered to. He was supposed to call you with his credit card number. He didn't call?"

"No. Someone called, but it was a wrong number."

"Yeah, then that probably wasn't him," I replied. I love being a dick. "I'll just call him."

You can probably guess the rest. I called him a number of times, only to get his answering machine. I left a message the first time I called, but after that I just hung up when his slow, sad message crackled through worn out tape into the phone line.

My boss, from the very beginning, had doubted this man's intentions to pay for the pizza, and I told him that it's a tragic fucking day when a man can't even trust an ex-Marine. But, as the hours passed, I began to wonder, too. I knew we had delivered there before, and I know he paid with a credit card. What was going on here?

Running through all possible scenarios in my mind, I finally came to the conclusion that this man had probably already blown his brains all over the wall behind the computer which sat on a sagging aluminum folding table which served, however modestly, as a desk. That had to be it. He ordered so much food: a pizza, a salad, a piece of cake, a six pack of soda. Why so much food? It must have surely been his last meal, of course!

I imagined him suiting up in his full military regalia, just like in that movie A Few Good Men. I think that's what it's called, anyway. The one where the guy gets all suited up in his clean navy uniform and completes the task by putting a well polished chrome 9mm into his mouth and just going ape. But in this guy's case, it probably would've just been a dirty old army jacket that reeked of weed and cheap wine. His right shoe would've had to have been off too, so he could use his big toe, with that yellowed, cracked, and peeling nail of his, to pull the trigger of an ancient one shot shotgun that his step-grandfather not so much gave him, but that was kind of just left there after the old drunk had driven his rusty Ford into the oncoming traffic of a convoy of 18 wheelers just outside of Longview, Texas in 1972.

A few hours and a half-dozen unanswered calls later, I had a delivery going to a house just a few streets away from him. I asked my boss if he wanted me to stop by to see if I could collect payment.

"Sure," he said.

Well, if you're gonna be that enthusiastic about it, then fuck it, what do I care, I thought. But then I remembered I got stiffed, seeing as he made no payment at all, and so now it was personal.

While it was overcast and gloomy when I arrived there the first time, now it was just plain dark. Dark, muddy, and cold. I slooshed through the front yard, not seeing any of the puddles that were formed by a constantly shifting earth. I smiled to myself in thinking that his foundation is probably so fucked, and was warmed in the good fortune of knowing that mine is only kinda fucked.

There was only one light on in the house, and it was not the living room light. The soft glow emanated from a bedroom (computer room?) off to the right of the main living area. I knocked on his door my standard five times: not too agressive, but I definitely do mean business. Nothing. I waited an extra amount of time, remembering his drawling, dead man's walk. Three to four minutes later, I knocked again. Six times now. Louder, more urgent. I also maneuvered my body in such a way that I was not directly facing the front door. Instead, I had my shoulder facing the front door. Also, I moved away from being in front of the door. I also positioned myself so that I would not be in front of the living room window. I wasn't sure why at the time, but I am now.

Minutes later, after an awkward amount of waiting, I became sufficiently weirded out by my current station in life, and began walking quickly back to my running car. I had my hand in my pocket on my cell phone. I wasn't sure why at the time, but I am now.

As I reached my car, a feeling of control and security came seeping back into my consciousness, and as I opened my door and began climbing into the seat, I looked back at the house contemptuously and muttered, "Asshole." Which is precisely when, since I wasn't paying attention, my hat flew back, as if I had hit the brim of it on the top of my door frame. Clearly, I had overshot my landing while coming up with the brutish insult I just assaulted the nearby air with.

I reached back to re-position the wayward cap, now heavier than before. I sank into my seat, and instinctively pushed in the clutch, with a leg that had never shaken like this before, like the leg of a newborn calf. I began driving, my neck much warmer now, yet cold with the breeze from the open window. I couldn't stop my eyes from rolling backwards, and my ears, though mostly burnt and gone, wouldn't stop ringing.

The Story of B.

What a novel name for a blog posting! Hmm..




This is my cat, Bert. Bert is the most affectionate cat I have ever been personally involved with. Many of my friends could attest to this claim, to be sure. It may have to do with the fact that before he was owned by me, he was owned by the ailing father of Adam, the ex-guitar player for the math rock phenoms known as Butterknife, who at some point in time went to the hospital for an extended stay due to, well, medical problems, I suppose. I do not really know. Guess I never really thought to ask. What an asshole I turned out to be. To prove this claim, I will effortlessly continue telling my story with absolutely no regard for Bert's previous owner. Did he die? Is he still sick? I don't fucking know. Why don't you go ask him?

It so happened that Bert, our fucking hero, was somehow sequestered into the garage at this man's house for literally months when the man went to the hospital. I am not sure of the exact length of time, but I remember the term "six or seven" being thrown around, and quite loosely, I might add. I do not know how he survived. Presumably, Adam went over there once a week and emptied a bag of Meow Mix into a dusty old metal dog dish that was put back into service when someone was too lazy or inconsiderate to get Bert his own bowl, which incidentally is how many pets define themselves, they'll thank you to know. Surely Bert must have had to eat around the dried and dirtied crickets legs that always seem to end up floating in water bowls and collecting at the bottoms of food containers. It's amazing that crickets can ever jump, being as frivolous as they appear to be with their legs.

Maybe once a month Adam would take the litter box that was cracked in the middle and sort of half-cautiously, half-carelessly dump it behind a bush in the backyard and kind of kick at it from the bottom until the big clumps of urine mache would come unglued from the box, and fall to the ground slowly, like a giant tree falling from the forest canopy. Maybe there was no litter box at all. Why don't you ask the garage? Alone in his prison of old chains, containers of bonemeal, piles of nails used as a paperweight for ancient, yellowing pornography, what did Bert do, there in the dark? Amidst the maddening hum of a barely working freezer (they call it an "icebox") that housed nothing but venison steaks and cartons of Dorals, what happened to Bert?

For one thing, Bert became very co-dependent on his next owner, me, and, once he trusted me and those closest to me, became the most affectionate cat in the land. Sure, it's an endearing quality that stems from a life of tragedy, but I think both parties are satisfied with the outcome. He gets an owner that doesn't torture him (except for the few times that Steve and I raced him and Poe, Steve's cat, around the apartment by putting socks over their heads- they'll back out of 'em for hours!), and I get a cat that comes when I call him.

But during his bid upstate, Bert developed a problem. It's true. He can't help it. He is compelled to eat plastic sacks. He also likes licking deodorant from armpits, turpentine from stained jeans, and ink from dirty palms. It is a compulsion, a curious feline drive likely developed from his tenure as an unwilling garage dweller. He tends to only go after the sacks when he is hungry, which is any time there are not at least three pieces of Deli Cat in his food bowl. This usually occurs in the early morning, and it is quite often that I awake to the sound of rustling plastic, look around blearily and yell, "Bert!" This sends him tearing off under the bed. He also commences to tearing when he has to poop and he knows I know. Understandably, he is very self-conscious about his defecating habits.

But, often I will return home and find waiting for me what appears to be a shining, white turd. It is not a turd, however. It is vomit. It is the vomit from a cat whose stomach, as much as he wants it to, will not digest manufactured plastic products. This does not keep him from trying, though.

More than likely, this affliction may have been what kept him alive lo, those many months in the garage of a dying man. And he should be revered for his bravery during that dark age. But I fully expect to walk into my room someday after work and see this:





At least he will have died a hero. Oh wait, no, that's hobo. Heroes don't eat trash. Bums do.

P.S. If I get any comments about cat litter or cat boxes on this post simply because a few key words were mentioned that alerts your blog reader that I might be interested in your shitty business, I will personally murder my own cat. How's that?

My curiously queer internet friend, Kyle.

Below is a series of emails traded between myself and a gentleman on myspace. This gentleman must have stumbled across my webpage, and being a man of the gay persuasion, felt it necessary to email me, as my profile says that I am gay. It also says a number of other things about my personal statistics that are not only untrue, but (I think) hilariously satirical! If one were only to match my profile information with the pictures I have posted on my profile, they would soon see the obvious divergence between fact and artistic license. You too, will soon see what I am referring to. This clearly did not matter to my new admirer, however, as he immediately shot me a quick note, blind to every glaring incongruity that is present in my information, as soon as he saw that my sexuality read "gay." Perhaps the possibility of new and unfamiliar cock excited him so much that he failed to see the forest for the trees full of straight, satirical me's. As a male, I suppose I can understand- oftentimes we do not think when we act, especially as concerns sexual issues. He is not to be blamed for trying. Our correspondence has not been edited at all. I will continue to update this blog with any future communiques between my new friend Kyle and I.



----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: kyle
Date: Dec 13, 2005 11:10 AM

Gay and from Fort Worth I see. Do tell.


love - kylzies


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Jonathan
Date: Dec 13, 2005 3:12 PM

Hello Kyle-
Sorry, I'm not gay. I am also not a pacific islander, nor am I 8'11" with the muscular physique of a body builder. In addition, I am also not a Scientologist with a Post grad degree. Furthermore, I do not make over $250,000 a year in my occupation as a boner. I barely make $20,000 in that job. Many apologies, but you are the victim of an elaborate ruse. I hope this doesn't mean that we can't still be friends.
Sincerest regards,
Jonathan


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: kyle
Date: Dec 16, 2005 1:15 PM

Gay or not, you WILL be mine.


----------------- Original Message -----------------
Dec 16, 2005 7:58 PM
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello

You've got moxie, kid. I'll give you that. Keep it up, and you may just find a place for yourself in this crazy world. It just won't be inside my asshole.

Fondly,
Jonathan

www.jonathansalmanac.blogspot.com



Here's what my new friend looks like.





You can visit his site on myspace here.

You can visit my site on myspace here.

Nonsensical Dream. OR "That just means you're unsure of the future, you miss the past, and you want to be seen as a good person." Yeah, yeah.

So, Rebecca and I were at an amusement park. She really wanted to go on this roller coaster- one of these wooden numbers from days past. Rickety and bumpy- not too scary, in the modern roller coaster sense of the word, but scary nonetheless, for its own reasons. Like, 'this thing could collapse at any moment,' or 'why the fuck is that guy smoking so close to this thing?!' I didn't really want to, but not for any real foreseeable reason; I'm just a big puss. Anyhow, she convinced me too, and so we did.

As the rows of cars ascended the sharp, gear-grinding track, we surveyed our surroundings. I noticed we both felt strange. At least I thought I did. I could have sworn I detected a strange look on her face, too, but that's probably just my own paranoia.

We shot down the first hill, everything normal, everything fine. Then, a strange turn. I surely didn't remember this from last time. Did she? I turned to look. She seemed apprehensive, cautious, scared?

Another unfamiliar turn. A sharp grade increase. Where were we? A slow, foreboding left turn at the top of the coaster. I looked off and down to my right at the dizzying tops of the park's poorly landscaped and young, grease soaked trees as we approached the final descent of what was turning into a strange ride altogether.

That was when we noticed a wooden caution sign, complete with red stripes and circles with stripes through them indicating a no-pass zone, right where the last hill should have been. Oh, it was still there, to be sure. But we wouldn't be gracing it with our metal wheels. No. Instead, we veered left, where one would not expect to veer when riding a familiar coaster. I had time only to shoot Rebecca a furrowed, pensive glance, noticing the same unsure look on her face, before we careened down a new and uncharted track on this heretofore dependable and entertaining family ride.

This drop was more drastic than before. We hadn't any time to catch our breaths at the newly forged bottom of the hill before we saw what lay ahead of us- the end of the track. We each inhaled quick breaths of goodbyes as we sailed off the end of the track and looked down and below at the desert of dead grass underneath the barely spinning wheels of the coaster car that yearned for a good oiling.

And then- connection with track again. Yes, the track had been out, but our momentum flew us onto the remaining portion of the track that had not been removed, or just recently added. We were saved, but had we ever been in danger?

Soon, I found myself in a nearby room with Bruce Willis. Tensions were high, and the niceties that had surrounded our meeting with the group across from us were quickly wearing thin. We noticed a great deal of fear and apprehension in the face of the young woman grouped with an obviously seedy element, in the form of two mid-twenties men clad in leather jackets and pock-marked faces. Apprehension and fear were not the only things we noticed in this young woman's face. She also had a number of knotted ropes jutting in and out of her face, which at the onset of our interaction seemed simply like a new fad, but which we later determined to be a method of torture. We surmised this to be true after the criminal element she was associated with told us of their intentions to make her star in a snuff film.

One might well imagine that I was shocked, but in knowing that, one should also speculate as to just how fucking pissed off Bruce Willis was. It was determined between the two of us that the scum that was to perpetrate this heinous act of violence must themselves be killed. In reality, it was probably Willis' decision, as that is the kind of person he is, and besides, there was this really dramatic shot from underneath his face, about chest level, that, with the effective overhead lighting shadowing his darkening visage, truly indicated his intentions to stop this travesty. I probably just went along with it.

We took in hand dully sharp shrands of glass that simply appeared before us, and, with everyone else absent that had been there previously, set to work murdering this scourge, this would-be snuff film producer. It was no easy task, murdering this fellow. Many hacks were made at the base of his neck before our goal was accomplished. Why, we even had to massacre a small, scruffy dog that was present in the room, presumably to leave no witnesses.

The deed was done. It was just then that Paul Goetz's ex-girlfriend, Julie, walked into the room with what appeared to be a niece or nephew of some sort. Bruce Willis, of course, was nowhere to be found. Having accomplished his heroic feat, he must have returned to Hollywood to await more benevolent missions. I grew fearful of being discovered in my violent act, no matter how justified it may have been. I attempted to act cordial, as I had not seen Julie in quite some time, and I did not want her to think me a cold blooded killer. Her eyes and expression betrayed a suspicion that made me fearful of having to murder her and her young companion as well, so I did my very best to allay any doubts that may have been racing through her mind at that crucial moment.

I stroked the dead dog, bloody coat and all. I felt fortunate when the dead canine began re-arranging itself, as if annoyed by my petting it while it slept, in an effort to portray to the unfamiliar company that everything was fine, normal.

I owed a good deal to that dead dog, and I knew it.

Mocked Mood: A boss.

I've been trying to come up with a reason to use this hilarious play on words as a subject for something for quite a while now, and I think the following should suit the subject well enough. My friend Nick just got a job at the same pizza place I work at, and he called me a few nights ago to tell me about having just finished reading the delivery driver's manual. Of course, the first thing I replied to this information was, "You actually read that shit?" I admit that I did look over it when I was first handed it as well, but I certainly didn't read all 26 pages. Boy, was I dumb. I have no more to say on the subject, really. I will allow a few excerpts from the manual to speak for themselves.

On Arriving Prepared.

"CLEAN CAR. Good image builds tips. Also, clean windows and headlights can make for safer driving."

"STRONG SPOTLIGHT. Some drivers find that a spotlight helps in reading numbers on mailboxes and porches."

"WRIST WATCH, or clock in your car, that's set to the same time as the clock in the restaurant. Used for computing delivery time."

"NON-COMPANY JACKET OR SHIRT in the car. If you're involved in an accident, it may be helpful to remove your company shirt and hat (also the car sign) to avoid bringing attention to yourself."

On Safe Driving

"Drive calmly and with positive feelings. Driving with tension or anger can increase the chance of an accident. Leave personal problems and tension outside the car. ...Also, if you play music, listen to slow, relaxing music- not hard rock- as slower music promotes calmness and safe driving."

On Impressing Customers and Earning Tips

"Do the extra, nice gesture."

"Compliment something. If a child or pet comes to the door with the Customer, say something nice about them."

"Give their pooch a pet treat. The beloved family Fido is always a part of the delivery transaction (about 40 percent of pizza buyers own a dog). After handing a Customer the food, but before they give you payment, offer them a dog biscuit for their excited canine. This is a major tip-builder. HINT: Carry the biscuit in a plastic baggie- as it looks more sanitary and appealing."

On Receiving Payment

"NOTE: Many customers will tip after receiving their change. So, don't try to force a tip by stalling and fumbling with coins. It only angers people and causes them to withhold a tip."

On Basic Safety

"Glance at the back seat before getting into your car, to make sure no robber is waiting."

On Invitation to Come in from Customer

"For security and liability reasons, you should never step into a Customer's residence. If someone invites you to come in, say, 'Thank you. It's very thoughtful of you to ask me in, but the company requires that I stay outside.'"

On Additional Precautions for High Security Delivery

"When sidewalk conditions allow, RUN from your car to the Customer's door. A running person looks purposeful and in-control, which discourages robbers. It also leaves less time for a robbery. In conclusion, don't appear lost or scared, but act confident and like you know what you're doing. Robbers don't like approaching confident-looking people."

"After you've completed the sales transaction, say to the Customer 'Would you watch me to my car, please.' Customers are willing to do it if asked. Then RUN to your car."