Confessions of a Pizza Delivery Guy

Special Delivery!

Rather than writing another social/political essay on the evils of the world, I thought I’d just chat with you for a bit.

Many moons ago I worked at a pizza place as a delivery driver. It was a pretty decent gig for a young man in his late teens/early twenties. The money was good for a simple, entry-level job, the work was easy and I ate a LOT of pizza!

Anyone who has performed this work has stories. The one I always wished I could tell later on is a basic plot device for porn films. Pizza guy delivers to a young, single gorgeous woman with a raging libido. Rather than a monetary tip, the man receives something far more intimate. Sadly, this never happened to me.

I was offered my fair share of drugs as a method of gratuity, but I always declined. Not because I had high moral values or respected my body enough to keep it free from illicit substances, but rather I refused to take things from strangers because I learned how unwise that was.

The first time it happened, a guy gave me a joint to enjoy later. I saved it for the end of the night and shared it with my boss after we closed the shop. I have no idea what that rotten little Mary Jewana cigarette was laced with, but after about five minutes of heavy toking, I felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through my head. The three minute drive home seemed to take hours and though I was exhausted, I feared falling asleep because I kept waking up from not breathing. Terrifying night.

I Am NOT a Wordsmith

Drive with caution, artist at work

For someone that has profusely expressed his longing to write professionally, it might seem a bit odd for me to declare that I am not a wordsmith. In truth, I used to love that term. I found it to be a rather pithy and clever expression. Who wouldn’t want to think of themselves as a refined craftsman?

My change in attitude came from a friend and co-worker. This is a man for whom I have great respect. He’s highly intelligent, (although, like me, fails to live up to his potential), clever and wickedly funny. (He hails from the Boston area originally so I think it’s required that I use the term “wicked” in his description.)

While sitting at work, pretending to be busy (a worthwhile skill practiced by so many), we inevitably began a discussion about writing as a career. He expressed his dislike for the term “wordsmith”. In fact, I think his actual comment was “I fucking HATE that word! It’s so pretentious.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared for that bit of sarcastic insight and while I neither submitted an agreement or disagreement, inwardly I felt just a touch offended.

Fun Facts That Aren’t True

Correct his is.

Since people are so eager and willing to not only believe completely false information, but to pass it on, let me provide a number of Fun Facts (That Just Aren’t True)! Enjoy!

 

Fun Fact: More people poop in holes in the ground than in porcelain toilets (this… actually might be true. I can’t find confirmation either way.)

Fun Fact: There is no record of any man named Donald having a penis over five inches.

Fun Fact: Polar bear feces is white. Scientists think this happens to help the bear keep rival bears from tracking them.

Fun Fact: While no two snowflakes are exactly alike, over 10 million of them like Game of Thrones.

Fun Fact: Amish women are forbidden from braiding their pubic hair (but apparently pony tails are ok)

Fun Fact: Falafels were originally made from mixing sand and camel dung with water and frying them on flat rocks heated from the sun. (If someone offers you a “traditional” falafel, you may want to decline.)

Fun Fact: Silk is made from a by-product of the silkworm. Gum is made from the by-product of the Gummi worm.

Fun Fact: It takes light from the sun over 8 minutes to reach the Earth, which is about the same amount of time it takes for a blonde to understand a dumb blonde joke. Scientists suspect there may be a connection.

Fun Fact: Samuel L. Jackson is contractually obligated to appear in at least 200 films per year.

Fun Fact: People from Belgium have the largest belly buttons in the world.

Fun Fact: It is estimated that over 20 million tons of leaves fall in the state of Maine each Autumn. Nearly a third of that falls on the lawn of a guy named Dirk Gunderson.

Fun Fact: The state of California recently passed a law declaring Monday as a recognized holiday officially named “Fuck It, I’m Not Coming In To Work Day”.

Fun Fact: Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity predicts that the later you are to an appointment, the denser the traffic will be between you and your destination.

Fun Fact: The lower a person’s IQ, the more times they will post “Amen” on a “Do you love Jesus” Facebook meme.

Fun Fact: Humans give off a specific pheromone that causes cats to simply not give a shit.

Fun Fact: American Airlines recently announced that in order to fit more people on their planes and increase profitability, passengers will be required to don a straight jacket and sit on a small stool.

Fun Fact: Marijuana contains a chemical called munchitol that causes a person to crave Doritos and Oreos.

Fun Fact: A two year study from the University of Arizona found that dog feces tastes pretty bad. (If you can’t figure out which part of this “fact” isn’t true, I suggest you test this conclusion yourself)

~V

 

No More Crying For the Dead

I’m done writing stories about dead people. More precisely, the teary-eyed, reflecting-on-those-that-we’ve-lost stories. When I began my journey as a writer ages ago (or maybe about six months, whatever), I was quick to jump on that bandwagon. I wrote short stories like The Broken Bell, His Weekly Visit and A Hard Road to Walk. Fellow bloggers were kind enough to like the posts and even make a few remarks about the sentimentality of the pieces and at the time, I felt pretty good about writing them.

Having grown SOOO much over the past few months (Warning: The author’s ego is starting to inflate. Keep a distance of at least 500 feet.) and having read SOOO many other short stories that use the same jaded theme, I’ve decided that while those stories may give the reader a momentary “Awww” feeling, they are without substance and most are unremarkable. To me, they are a quick and easy way out of a writing assignment. Rather than putting forth real effort to devise and develop an actual story with a Character, a Journey and a Twist, those stories are the equivalent of My Dog Ate My Homework. Or perhaps, My Adorable, Loyal Dog Ate My Homework And Then Tragically Died And I Miss Him.

It’s not difficult to cobble together a soulful lament about a lost love,  family member or friend. Heck, if I can do it, anyone can (and they do). And yes, everyone can relate, but honestly, it’s just too easy to fall back on the pain of loss instead of demonstrating real creativity and originality. It’s cheating.

I know I need to constantly push myself as a writer and I’m trying to eliminate the shortcuts and escape routes that I’ve taken. It’s not that I don’t like sad stories. I just don’t want to write them. At least not the kind that rely entirely on reflections of grief to move the story along. I can do better.

Of course, Death is a popular character in literature. Many famous authors (some of whom are also decent writers) have built careers on the shoulders of the Reaper and that’s fine. I love Poe. I love King. I love Lovecraft (that last one is just fun to say, isn’t it?) and I have no intention of abandoning my horror fiction, but that’s entirely different.  There will still be plenty of death and terror and suffering in my writing but loving memories of the dearly departed will stay in the grave.

In closing, I would like to lovingly reflect on those stories I wrote that are now gone forever. Writing them brought such joy and now that they’re gone, there are days when all I can do is gaze out the window and recall times gone by. Life is hard. Letting go is harder. *Sniff* Goodbye old friends. (Teardrop falls)

See you on the other side. (Choked cry… Violin music fades in. Picture fades to black.)

~V

5 Things Never To Do on Facebook

The full title to this article was meant to be: 5 Things Never To Do on Facebook (If You Don’t Want To Be an Asshole) but I decided the last part should be self explanatory. I also considered: How To Win at Social Media in 5 Easy Steps, but I was afraid I’d have to have operators standing by to take the first of your three easy payments of only $19.99 for this fabulous offer. (But wait… there’s more!)

Social Media has developed it’s very own etiquette and customs and while many folks have gleaned this from years of experience, there’s still a significant portion of the internet population that has been a bit slow in picking up the not-so-subtle rules. It is for this clueless crowd that I offer a crash course in how to avoid being the person everyone complains about. You’re welcome.

The Only Thing We Have to Fear Is…

Saw this video posted on Facebook of Florida sheriff Wayne Ivey warning people that the terrorists are here and to arm themselves. I have only one response: Bravo! It’s about time someone told the truth. The terrorist infestation in this country is getting out of control. They’re worse than cockroaches. They’re behind every bush, around every corner. You’re not safe. Your kids aren’t safe. Your pets aren’t safe. Heck, even your plants may not be safe. You never know; a terrorist may want to rape and kill your rhododendron.

The only refuge honest, white Christian Americans have is in packing heat. The more guns you own, the safer you are. In fact, I think all licensing for guns should be suspended to make it easier for good, law abiding citizens to purchase an arsenal for home protection.

Everything you need for home defense. Or World War III.

Whatever. Nevermind.

A serious wardrobe malfunction?

I don’t like Justin Bieber. I mean, I really REALLY don’t like Justin Bieber. The amount I don’t like him could fill the Grand Canyon. If the amount I don’t like him were a fat guy, he’d be too big to be on The Biggest Loser. If you laid out the amount I don’t like him end to end, it would circle the Earth 27 gajillion times.

Justin is a smug, talentless, classless, clueless douchebag. There is nothing about him that I like. At all. (Except that he dated Selena Gomez and she’s hot but then, that makes me dislike him even more because… He’s Justin Bieber.)

So it certainly pains me to come to his defense. You see, apparently he wore a Nirvana T-shirt to the American Music Awards the other night and some people (probably those folks who have nothing better to do than sit around and write blog posts all day long) have lost their freaking minds. I don’t get it. It’s just a T-shirt. I mean, it’s not like he tried to perform or record a Nirvana song. That, of course would be worthy of Hellish fury that could only end with the Biebs being burned alive on stage while thousands of Nirvana fans chanted loudly.

Do I think that Justin understands and appreciates the musical genius that is Kurt Cobain or Nirvana? No, of course not. That’s silly. No one could possibly believe such nonsense. Why would anyone even suggest such a thing. Stop it. Just stop.

Concerned Citizens

Scene opens in the basement of a small church in a small town in Alabama. A group of concerned townsfolk have gathered to discuss the looming threat.

Bill: “It just ain’t right, I tell ya. They’re practically on our doorstep. We’re all in danger.”

Mary Beth: Looking around the room at the others. “You don’t think it could really happen, do you?”

Buford: “If it does, I got my shotgun that’ll send ’em all back to Allah!”

Murmurs of approval from the group.

Harry: “They’re all terrorists, every last one of them, we all know that. Why is there even talk of letting them in?”

Carl: “It’s that damn Obama and his Liberal agenda, that’s what it is!”

More murmurs of approval.

Mary Beth: “I heard that not only are they all terrorists but that many of them are… GAY!”

Gasps of  horror.

Bill: “Oh good Lord Jesus… gay terrorists. It really must be the end of days.”

Carl: “Whaddya think they’d do? Do ya think they’d make you… you know… DO things before they killed ya?”

Mary Beth: In a shrill voice. “Of course they would, Carl. That’s what them gays do. They’re all rapists!”

Buford: “Sweet Jesus on a pogo stick. This is worse than I thought. Better start stocking up on my shotgun shells.”

Breaking News: GOP on Syrian Refugees

(AP) – November 20, 2015

As Congress attempts to pass a bill that would prohibit refugees from Syria from entering the US, Republican presidential candidates have been speaking out about the current controversy regarding the Syrian refugees waiting to arrive in the US.

“I think it’s a huge security risk to let those illegal immigrants into our country” stated Sen. Ted Cruz on Wednesday. He then went on to clarify that he was not speaking about Mexicans but rather Syrian refugees.

“If we are going to allow any of them to come into our home, we need to be sure it’s only Christians and not the terrorists.” Cruz’s assistant leaned in and whispered to him. “Sorry, not terrorists. I mean Muslims. I get those two confused,” he said, correcting himself immediately.  “After all, you never hear about radical Christians committing acts of violence,” Cruz said speaking outside a recently bombed Planned Parenthood clinic where three staff members were killed.

Sen. Ted Cruz throws up  a Nazi ‘Sieg Heil’ salute at a rally in New Hampshire.

My Costume Only Comes in One Color

Does this come in white?

I saw a post on Facebook recently that inspired this colorful rant. Let me first share the link that was posted and then the posters comment.

What’s Wrong with Cultural Appropriation

The person who posted this added this comment:

Just a little PSA for the Halloween season. If part or all of your costume includes pretending to be from a non-white racial group, this is cultural appropriation. It’s also hurtful and in poor taste.

I want to address the “cultural appropriation” in the context of the comment. As I read this, she’s suggesting that if I, as a white man were to dress as President Obama or Gandhi, this would be hurtful and in poor taste. Really? Because of the color of my skin, I apparently have been bestowed this magical gift called “White Privilege” and while this allows me to perform all kinds of miracles that those with a different skin hue than my own cannot, I am now also restricted from certain types of behavior. It was certainly news to me that my list of Halloween costume choices was now shortened to include only Caucasian characters (I’m still not sure if this includes dressing as a ghost. They are usually depicted as being white, but I’ll have to check with the Political Correctness Overlords for a ruling.)