Sin City

I like delving into the reasons behind the curious and questionable decisions that people make. For example, I was delivering to a customer that had written instructions on an internet order that detailed how I should arrive with his 40 piece platter of wings balanced on my head. Hilarious stuff, right? It just astounds me that an adult actually took the time to write in something so juvenile. What on earth would compel even the most awkward social misfit to enter this Paul Blart-type of comedic gold? Now, I understand there's a level of anonymity to internet ordering, and sometimes that isolated feeling leads to a social outcast using their lack of creativity for evil. I mean, Don't get me wrong, it's not like he demanded that I roll his hot wings around in broken glass and deep throat the larger pieces like a coked up Jenna Jameson. I'll even take a step back and say that what he did wasn't exactly evil. I mean, generally I only toss the word evil around when I'm talking about Stalin killing 22 million Soviet citizens, or when I'm referring to The Walking Dead writers not killing off Rick's son. Seriously, you had your out in season two. Why wouldn't you let that hunting accident lead to the official icing of that adolescent abortion of an actor? That's evil. What this wing loving winner did was simply a confounding time suck.
This is where loved ones in my life always chime in and tell me that dancing for the amusement of customers is all just a bit of harmless fun. And well, it generally is. Most customers leave their humorous feedback while stoned and sitting on their Lil' Wayne themed Lovesac and leave it at that. This special customer decided to up the ante and wait until I pulled up to the hotel room that they were living in and then proceed to drop a slew of strongly, albeit poorly worded jabs about how I didn't roll up to his unit with the wings on my head. This kind of follow up is when a comment goes from Tosh.0 kind of unfunny to full-blown Broke Girls on Telemundo sort of shit. I guess I could have taken a little solace in the fact that this guy turned out to be living in a rundown hotel with three other dudes, but in a way that kind of knowledge hurts more. His lowly status yet emboldened demeanor more than makes me question my lot in life, because unless he thought he was still winning in the game of life, why would he feel compelled to holler nonsense across a crowded parking lot? This is a guy who has unwavering confidence about his superiority despite being strung out on opiates and on week three of being stuck sleeping three sausages deep on a single king bed. It's a discouraging notion to think that we're in a tight battle from a class warfare standpoint.

Self-esteem issues aside, I just want to know why anyone would initiate this kind of conversation? At what point did he deem that being condescending was going to be good fun? I'm trying to grind my way through a day that involves creating and delivering pizzas that look like a spare tire and taste like AstroTurf, and yet he's decided that that's somehow not punishment enough. Are these soulless junkies trying to elevate their position by bringing those around them down, or are we just all so bored with our lives that hollering instructions at the employed seems like an enriching experience? In fairness, I'm guessing this guy's ignorance might have had something to do with the bathtub full of black tar that I'm sure they were getting ready to steep themselves in, but this problem crops up among customers of all income and intellect levels. Rich or poor, smart of affected, there seems to be no difference in the way that we're treated on an order by order basis. It just seems like there's an ever growing egotistical segment of our society that feels like we're a vagina shaped pinata that's begging for some rough trade. All I'm saying is use a little common sense and ease back on the douche bag throttle. Everyone will be happier for it. 

Now that I think about it, next time, just skip telling me where to put the wings and go straight to telling me to stick my dick in our deep fat fryer. At least then the physical pain would stop the emotional pain you and your stoned lackeys are intent on injecting into my already unfortunate life.