I was once bitched out by a woman over the phone for using too much "jargon". Reason? She didn't know the difference between "carryout" and "delivery." It's enough to make me wish I were back in IT.
Doorbells should not be complicated. There's also the woman who attempted to order "carryout delivery" of a pie with "Canadian ham" on. She regaled me with a five-minute tale of how diabetes made her urine smell, as a cautionary warning to why I should be sure the random goofy retard that actually delivers the order remembers to bring diet and not regular Coke. Wouldn't want to accidentally kill the stinky piss lady ordering delivery of her carryout order.
- Michael L.
I delivered pizzas for two summers in college. One time I was delivering to some apartment and I rang the doorbell. This woman opened the door looking really confused and asked, "I have a doorbell?" I probably should have demanded a larger tip for my home inspection services.
I had a friend, new to the delivery business, who was not "delivery person" material. He just needed cash quick, so it was definitely a short stay for him. I think he's a physicist now or something, making portals to new dimensions or whatever those people do, but back then he drove a car to give people pizzas.
On one of his first deliveries, he had to go to a hotel. Hotels always struck me as weird because it's so easy to get the wrong room and it's difficult to assume the people know exactly what room number they're in when they order. Anyway, he had to take a delivery to the top floor of a beat up hotel populated by highly undesirable clientele.
The official vehicle of the revolution.When he arrived at the room, what can only be described as a "homeless-looking druggie" popped out and snatched away the food. Then the spooky hobo swung the door shut. The delivery person assumed the man was going back for money or something, and dutifully waited for several minutes. Eventually he got impatient, and knocked a second, then a third time.
The rabid bum came running out the door, shoving my friend out of the way. He later claimed that he thought there was a gun in the guy's non-pizza clutching hand. The homeless psycho bolted for the elevator, so my friend ran for the stairs. He shouted for help the whole way down the stairwell, and found several security guards waiting for him. He pointed to the elevator just as it opened and the man stumbled out.
The first words out of the deranged crackhead's mouth were "I swear I paid him for this food, he's lying!" The guards looked at each other and I guess assumed that, since they hadn't said anything yet, it was obvious he was the one actually lying.
My friend ended up with no tip, but on the plus side he got to eat the food with no legitimate owner. Also, as an added bonus, he wasn't shot.
- "Myrddin Emrys"
I had graduated by the time this happened, so I was around 20 years old. I delivered to a house in a rich, upscale new development. A bunch of giggly teenage girls, probably around 15 years old, answered the door. They were wearing plastic tiaras and had gobs of makeup smeared across their faces, some sporting fake gaps in their teeth as if they were intentionally trying to resemble white trash prom queens from hell. While extremely surreal, I just assumed it was a game of ironic dress-up or whatever rich girls do during slumber parties.
I have a feeling Mark wanted to mention this game in his story but thought it might reveal a little TOO much personal information.I brought them a bunch of pizza, wings, subs, and soda, so I had two arms full of food, requiring me to haul it into their home and set it down somewhere. They immediately closed the door then surrounded me and refused to pay or let me leave until they could pose for a picture with me. I half-heartedly smiled for a picture, grabbed their money (with a pretty generous tip), and left. I simply wanted to get home because it was the end of my shift and I didn't want to spend my free time socializing with a coven of 15-year olds.
I later learned the girls claimed I stormed into their house and demanded to hang out with them or something creepy like that. I was fairly recognizable since I lived in a pretty small town, so to make a long story short, I had several teenage guys in my hometown repeatedly threatening to kill me for no good reason over the next few years. Luckily they failed to murder me, or else I wouldn't be able to write in here and submit this experience.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
We were able to recently sit down and interview the men's rights icon, Jordan Peterson, in this exclusive interview.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.