I used to work as a day shift Pizza Hut delivery guy during summers while attending college. During the day, my store didn't need many employees, so it was usually just me, the manager, and a spaced-out cook. Delivering pizzas to college kids is usually a pretty thankless job because many apartments / dorm rooms are hard to find, and the tips are far beyond shitty. So one day around 10:30 AM, I get a call from a guy who sounds fairly out of breath. He's consulting a woman I can barely hear in the background about what kind of pizza she wants (75% of people call pizza places with no idea of what they might actually want to eat). They mutter for a while and he manages to spit out, "we... we'll have... uhhhh... Hawaiian." Cool, something to do, and the address isn't a student neighborhood.
NO.So 20 minutes later the pizza is ready to go and I head out the door. When I finally arrive at his house, I notice the front yard is absolutely crammed full of dogs, a few thousand irate German Shepherds patrolling the ground and sniffing each others' asses. People love to pull the "cross the doggy minefield" trick on pizza guys almost as much as they love to call the restaurant with no idea what they want. Anyway, the dogs didn't seem as crazy as some I've had to navigate through in the past, but just to be on the safe side I call the guy to see if he could meet me halfway there. He picks up after almost a dozen rings and insists the dogs are perfectly friendly, and I should walk right up to the front door. That pissed me off pretty badly, as most dog owners simply forget they have the dogs out, and agree to meet you halfway. I nervously unlatched the gate and crept up the path. Fortunately, the guy wasn't lying; the dogs were extremely well-behaved and only wanted to sniff my crotch, not rip it out. When I finally reached the front door, I rang the doorbell and... nothing.
So I wait a while and push the buzzer again. Nothing. I can clearly hear the bell inside the house, but no one is coming out. I opened the screen, banged on the door, and waited a full minute. Right as I was getting ready to leave, the door finally opened. Now I don't think I can describe this part of the story adequately, but try to picture David Cross about 30 pounds lighter, covered head-to-toe in S&M gear. Spiked collar with a leash loop, some kind of Zardoz-esque black leather harness thing, and assless chaps. Thank god there was no ball-gag involved. Even though it's a half-hour later from his initial call, this guy is still VERY out of breath. Needless to say, I was beyond words at that point so I just kind of shoved his pizza in his general direction and awkwardly mumbled what he owed. He paid me and I got the hell out of dodge.
It wasn't until I reached my car that I realized three things: 1. He ordered this pizza midway through some kind of elaborate sex game (and I hope to god my arrival was not somehow PART of the game). 2. I got a $10 tip, easily double my highest tip ever before that day. 3. He had the absolute best excuse for not coming out to control his dogs that anyone could ever have.
There is a direct correlation between number of rights and smugness.My first job was at Domino's in the summer of 2005. A couple weeks into the job itself, I'm working days and making a pretty good bank. Everything was going well until I had my first delivery and consequently experienced the sheer joy of being a female delivery driver. This event provided me with a warning story to share with every new female driver I train, along with other shorter stereotypical tales.
The order was for a rather upscale part of our already upscale delivery area. A Mercedes and BMW were parked in the driveway of an extremely cramped looking, but expensive, house. I walked up and this is how that went:
Me: Hi, your total is $17.24
Him: Is that for the pizza... or for you?
Me: ... (Hands him the pizza) It's for your order.
Him: I need my change, thank you.
Then he forcefully slammed the door in my face. This is the only time I've ever been happy I had a chest cold that was starting to break up, as I had been hocking loogies the size of my palm all day. I left a decent size one on the windshield of his Mercedes, not because he didn't tip me but for the shitty one liner.
That's the example I give when I train new female drivers as the only time you should ever leave anything on a customer's property. Women need to be prepared before getting in to this industry. One woman that I didn't have a chance to train flipped out and ended up doing donuts in a guy's front yard after he repeatedly tried to sex her up.
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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