This is Epth Nation

Epth is a state of mind, not a place. Reading this will give you a virtual drivers license in that state, but you'll still need to be 21 to purchase alcohol. And you can't get any there anyway, so stop asking.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Antepenultimate Night at the Papa -- Edited Version

Since I have this blackberry and two working, opposable thumbs, I figured it would be a good idea to keep a running diary of this, my last Sunday ever at Papa John's. No, I'm not sad, except possibly when thinking about the time this place took from me. Dirty Scum.

-- Louis, one of the other drivers, took a double going in opposite directions. Needless to say, aaargh. No manager stopped him. I'm through with this war, and I have lost. I'm going back to Irving with my tail between my legs.

-- A crazy carryout customer just came in and complained that we're "getting skimpy" because we only give one (1) pepperocini out with our pizzas. Yeah, that changed two years ago, lady. Plus, you don't know where those pepperocinis have been. We found a cig butt in a sealed pepperocini bag once. Be careful what you wish for, is what I'm sayin'.

-- I just delivered a small pizza that a dude paid 18 bucks for, with tax and tip. The recession must be over. Either that, or this guy's dumb. The pizza was a works with anchovies. There's gotta be a better way to order that.

-- One of the houses I delivered to was drenched in Halloween crap. It's October 1st. And yes, this makes me want to T.O. Owens myself, thanks for asking. Is there a Halloween season now? Nothing like spending the entire month of October thinking about how cool it is to be evil.

-- The moon is quite cute tonight, illuminating the wispy clouds in front of it with a diffused glow. Richardson's really quite pretty for a Texas town, and I'll miss a couple of the parks. Everything else I'm glad to be leaving, though. Bor-ing.

-- I'm now going to Mccallum Blvd., which brings to mind the great hailstorm of 2003 and my riding it out on that apartment-filled street. I got out of my car and sat on some covered stairs as sheets of icy golf balls pelted everything around me. The thing I remember most is the terrible sound of the hail on the sheet-metal that covered the carports. It was unearthly loud. Anyway, after that day I never viewed hail the same way. It's like God's death snow. Appropriate for Halloween, no?

-- I'd like to take this opportunity to curse local radio station KTCK and their "Hardline" program for talking so much about the erotocomedic maneuver known as "the motorboat"* this week. Certain situations (like one I was just in) bring it to mind, and I can't imagine anything more fruitless to think about than that.

-- Sign on a door of a ghetto apartment:


-- One of the cooks brought his dogs in tonight. They were cute but big and rambunctious. That's all I got.

Happy Sunday, and rock on Chicago.

* For those of you who don't know what "the motorboat" is, I'll try to explain it as tactfully as possible: You put your face in some cleavage and make a motorboat noise with your lips. I'll let you figure out why I happened to be thinking about it.

I'm Such a Rebel...

If eyeballs traveled over TCP/IP, you'd be looking at a man who is simultaneously employed at both Papa John's and Pizza Hut. Of course, I'm not really still employed at the Papa...I'm just playing out the string because I'm a nice guy and I wanted to give them at least 4 days' notice. I feel I owe them that for all the stories they've provided over the years, even though they systematically shrunk the amount of money I was able to make there and only kept me at $5.25 an hour because it's against the law to pay less. Maybe I didn't owe them that, on second thought.
I'm just staying until Tuesday because Man Bob Bill will be there, and if he gets out of line, WHAP!

Good things about the Pizza Hut I work for:

NO cartoppers. I feel like flying when I think about this, it makes me so high.

Twice as many orders as my Papa outlet.

Lots o' money.

No ghettoized apartment complexes.

The automatic dishwasher that goes WHOOSH!

The drivers, who aren't necessarily stupid.

The fact that the managers dispatch everything, meaning scuzzbags can't take extra deliveries they shouldn't.

The fact that they cash out after every run, which makes leaving at night a snap.

Did I mention the dishwasher? WHOOSH! No more of that unhealthy three-sink crap!

Wayyy less phone calls due to the Pizza Hut Answering Service, which the managers all hate but it keeps me from having to answer the phone.

One or two words: Rockerknife.