I've been delivering your food for several months now, but lately you've been having second thoughts about tipping me. Maybe it's because unlike waiters I make a normal wage and get reimbursed for gas. Or maybe it's because your last 20 orders have all been late or wrong. Well, despite what you think, tips are important. They may not fully compensate for my difficult and dangerous job - driving around the city ogling girls and bumping rap music in my lowered Honda Civic - but they do have a drastic effect on how your next delivery is handled. To avoid future confusion, I've prepared this brief rundown.
$10 or More
Your next order will be my top priority, right after smoking blunts and texting my girlfriend. To make sure it arrives on time, I'll cut off everyone on your street and do a powerslide into your driveway, knocking over any trash cans or pets in my way. Then I'll slam on my horn to ensure that you and everyone else on your block know I'm here. The food you'll receive will definitely be correctly made, although it may belong to someone else. In the event this happens, you should consider it a thrilling mystery, just like the recent disappearance of your pets.
Your next delivery should be on time, as long as you live within 50 feet of the restaurant or a 7-11 that sells Zig Zags. If you live somewhere else, I might be late, but I'll compensate by giving you plenty of coupons, which may or may not be outdated, along with advice that you should make your house easier to find, possibly by erecting a 50-foot statue of your street number in your yard. Your food will still be warm, although I may have to use unorthodox techniques like the Spanish Oven. Also, one or two of your snacks might be missing, depending on how much weed I've smoked that day.
I might be a few minutes late, and forget what door I came in the last time - or just the basic concept of doors in general. You could find me knocking on a bulkhead or the side or your shed, or a piece of plywood leaning against your house that says "Not A Door" on it. When making change I'll briefly forget the laws of mathematics, or hand you dollar bills one at a time until you get annoyed and tell me to keep the rest. Your food may be slightly burnt, either from an errant roach or my attempt to keep it warm by lighting a portion of the bag on fire.
There's a slight chance that I'll forget where you live and have to relocate your house using a mathematical algorithm that involves driving down every combination of streets in the city several times. Along the way, I'll take a detour through the mall parking lot so I can blast the latest Pitbull single at obese high-school girls - as long as I do this with the car topper on it's considered "marketing." I might call you to say I'm running late but then hang up after one ring when I see a rack I need to holla at. If you call back I probably won't pick up. Please enjoy my LMFAO ringback tone while you wait for my voicemail.
Due to unforeseen circumstances, your next order may be several hours/days/years late. Also, when arriving at your house I might mistake your lawn for a driveway and your lawn ornaments for enemies in Carmageddon. Expect your order to be cold, half-eaten or full of items you didn't ask for and that aren't even on our menu. If you call the restaurant to complain, I'll mysteriously forget having delivered your order and ask if maybe you got a delivery from our other location. When you say that location closed down years ago, I'll say "well, that's just your opinion" and hang up. Oh, and if there's a weird stain on your bag, it's just the extra sauce you ordered, not bong water.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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