There are a lot of decent ways to extract what you want out of society. Pleasantries, friendliness and good old fashioned nonthreatening requests will pretty much assist you in attaining all of your heart's desires. You know what won't get you want you want? Being a demanding over-entitled prick. Sure there might be one or two individuals that cave to your tyranny, but the overwhelming majority of confident earthly cohabitants will just buck back. 
Let me give you an example on how not to behave when dealing with people who stand between you and what you seem to desperately want. 

A hillbilly that sounded like he was calling from an ice-house somewhere in the Appalachians got on the phone with a cook and demanded a pizza that wasn't shitty. That's probably a poor area to start when you're trying to place an order. If you're going to ask for something, try taking the courteous approach before you Do-si-do on over to the dickhead end of the douche spectrum. Your unsatisfied gullet and my will to live will appreciate the courtesy. 
By the way, I don't want to suggest that this guy having a Southern/backwater accent in any way altered our attitude towards assisting him. I'm just saying that being a prick and sounding like a middle aged man that makes love to his livestock is not the way to score a positive response. I'm not saying that someone with an East Coast accent would garner an alternative response, but fully pronouncing your words and not sounding like you have a mouth full of Copenhagen will probably always net you at least a neutral response.

Anyway, the man terrorized our female insider for a good handful of minutes with demands that involved wanting a pizza with everything on it but double the portion. That meant his pizza was going to be uncookable and cost somewhere between $25 dollars and a small moped. Both of which he was none too pleased to hear. To which I say, what do you fucking expect? I don't go into a Lexus dealership and....well, they probably wouldn't let me into a Lexus dealership, but if I stole a suit, had a bank account with a positive balance and snuck in through the back door, I wouldn't ask for a half million dollar Nurburgring if I couldn't afford it. And I definitely wouldn't tell them it better not suck and then offer them my 2012 Civic as equal trade. As valuable as the jizz stains in the back seat of my car are, and as posh as the permanent smell of pizza might be, I don't think they'd fancy me wasting their time with a completely unreasonable lowball offer. Despite this little bit of common sense, people still think haggling pizza prices is an effective method of ordering. And this gem of a mongoloid thought that being way too mad about nothing was the key to making his Alabamian math work. The insider eventually convinced Mayhem's retarded brother that the price was set in stone, to which the man eventually caved after only a half dozen or so irritating laps of lewd verbal lashings about the girl's IQ. 

The confounding part of this man's abrasive attitude and inability to order without crushing the spirit of our cook was that he lived in a semi-wealthy part of town called the Country Estates. I know the name fits the accent, but the community is not country. It's suburbia for well-off whiteys. Not any whites, though. Generally the kind that have a career in the corporate world. It's usually not a home for those that chain up their pit-bulls to horseshoe steaks and beat them with a rusty tire iron like an organic pinata.
Anyway, when our driver showed up with the delivery nobody answered the door. The driver rang the doorbell, knocked, called the customer, had the store call the customer and even left a handful of texts and messages on the man's voicemail. Smash cut to an hour later when I picked up the phone and discovered that I had stumbled into a call the with the illegitimate bastard child of Fred Phelps himself.  Before I even knew who it was, and well before I asked how I could be of service, this Down Syndrome version of Charles Manson demanded to know where his food was. Once I heard the dulcet tones of his southern accent I knew exactly who I was speaking with. Wait, "dulcet" is the term people use when describing a voice that makes you feel like your head's being held under water while an anonymous figure is wading in the pool behind you and taking a sharpened steak knife to the side of a bottle of wine, right? Oddly specific word, but I like it. Anyway, I informed the monster that we already attempted to deliver his pizza and that he apparently wasn't home. This is the conversation that ensued:

ME: Hi, we left a handful of messages on your phone about our driver having to leave because you weren't answering your door.
EVIL INCARNATE: I was feeding ma' horses. Did you try da' doorbell?
ME: Yes, sir. The driver rang the doorbell.
EVIL INCARNATE: What's yer name, boy?
ME: My name's Wayne.
EI: Well, Wayne, why don't ye grab ma' pizza, march your ass out to yer car and bring me my goddamn food.
ME: ....Sir, you can come and pick up your food, but we can't send another driver out to your house. You live seven miles away and we have other customers.
ME: We're not sending a driver into a hostile situation, sir. You're getting angry. 
ME: Yes we are.
ME: We will. Just not when you're this upset and hostile.
ME: Not today, sir. 
EI: *yelling and screaming* (or Chewbacca being anally fisted, I couldn't tell for sure) 
ME: I'm going to hang up now, sir. *hang up*
Now, in all of this nonsense there was still a point where I would've had the order redelivered. All it would have taken is him saying, "I'm sorry. I was feeding my horses and must have missed him. Any chance I can get that food redelivered?" That's it. That's the end of it. I'm not asking the man to milk my prostate or beg, I just want to get through a single sentence without having a semi-violent threat hurled my way. But telling me to get my happy ass in my car and redeliver him his fucking food is a bridge too far. I don't know where or why people have decided to double down on being dicks when a simple "sorry" or "thank you" will reap you far more rewards than almost anything outside of a handjob and a declaration of an increased tip. I know some people will say this is me being prideful, but I say it's me trying to teach the hostile hellions of the world a little manners. Who knows if it worked. It might have cost us a customer or it might have persuaded him to toss out a pleasantry or two in the following phone call just to ensure we allowed him his order. Either way it's win for me, and let me tell you, it's oh so satisfying turning down someone that deserves to have their order discontinued. It's a bit of justice in a world chalked full of injustices. It's a prostitute beating up a John and stealing his wallet in a world where John's routinely rape their escorts and tap out on the tab. It's me getting to deny some southern hillbilly a midday brunch while simultaneously feeding our crew a thirty dollar pizza. In all likelihood it's another painful lesson that another annoying asshole is going to ignore and refuse to acknowledge. Worse yet, it's just another day in the life of an average customer service representative.