Hello? How do you do. I don't mean to cause a great deal of trouble here but it has now been over one hour since I ordered my sausage, pepperoni, and onion pizza from your establishment. It is currently thirty minutes past the estimated delivery time, and I, my boy, am hungry.
When a man makes a promise, or in this case a thirty-minute delivery guarantee, he is expected to keep it.
You see sonny, I wish I were able to tell you that I was able to fight the good fight in this situation. I wish I were able to tell you that, I really do. But real life is no fairytale world. People
they get hungry.
I do believe it's a feeling that cannot be suppressed in a man for too long before he grows restless; soon he will discover cheese and crackers, perhaps a bologna sandwich, to temporarily suppress his appetite. Yet he still knows in the back of his mind that all the television dinners on this wide earth will never be able to replace the three topping, fourteen-inch pizza he was expecting to help hold his taste buds at bay. And not a sunrise will pass where he won't feel regret over what could have been.
I understand the situation we now find ourselves in, I really do. Surely, it ought to be easier said than done delivering a pizza in a precise and meticulous fashion during these circumstances. Hell, you'd be a fool to find it a simple task to get much of anything done on a busy Saturday night, particularly with this current precipitation we are now experiencing.
To be brutally honest, as soon as I saw the raindrops slowly skimming down the foggy panes of my living room window, my projected time estimate extended probably almost fifteen minutes. But it has now been considerably longer, sonny, and my dinner has yet to be brought to my doorstep in the generously allotted time.
I guess I just want my pizza.
I suppose I ought to remind myself that perhaps some pizzas just aren't meant to be eaten. Yet part of you will always remember the soft, flaky crust; that garlic-flavored tomato sauce; that tender Italian sausage that snaps at the edge of your tongue with each bite.
At this point, I simply hope to receive my pizza in less than ten minutes. Or I'm not paying for it next time. I hope my Italian crafted pie will still be piping hot when it reaches my hands. I hope you throw in a free side order of bread sticks. I hope the delivery boy doesn't forget my two-liter bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper like he did last time.