Here's another entry in the always vitriolic and occasionally useful write-up known as Wayne's Wisdom:
If you receive a call from a strange number minutes after you order a pizza for delivery, pick it up. It's your lost delivery driver that you forgot to turn a light on for. Well, usually the call is about the lack of light. Other reasons why we can't find your home might be because you give terrible directions to our insiders or because the city planner decided to randomly put an 1100 block address next to a 200 block just to ruin the lives of UPS and pizza delivery drivers everywhere. That's not the end of my incessantly whiny wisdom, though. I want to throw out a few more insufferable experiences that I've routinely run into with the idea that hopefully you can take a little something away from them. Maybe you could use my pain and suffering as a way to course correct before I decide to decompress by drinking a decanter worth of Drano.
-Don't tell your driver "tough shit." No one necessarily said that to me verbatim, but on a recent delivery I called a customer sometime around midnight. I told the girl that answered the phone that I was outside of her or her neighbor's house but that I couldn't tell which because both the houses didn't have visible addresses or lights that were turned on. Her response? Laughing followed by a, "Well, I can't help you there," followed by more laughing. Is that really the proper response? Shouldn't she have said, "Oh, sorry. I'll turn a porch light on for you." Instead I flipped a coin, picked a house and luckily chose correctly. Now, what do you suppose happened when I got to the front door and knocked? She turned on the porch light! I guess the journey to the light switch was far too exhausting without the hot dog infused crust waiting for her at the end of the immensely challenging eight step endeavor to the door that she could have made 18 seconds earlier. Totally understandable, though. I only remove my rectum from my recliner when I'm guaranteed a slab of dough that looks like it was raped by one of Oscar Mayer's wieners. Truthfully, her inaction made all the sense in the world when she answered the door. You see, she was smoking hot. In fact, she was even doing that hot chick move where she was wearing a shirt that barely hung down past her hips. It's that move that makes you question whether or not undergarments are even in the equation. I guess I could have held the pizzas over my head and made her reach for them to really confirm my suspicions. I do believe a slight show for my struggles would have certainly been a reasonable bit of recourse, but instead of acting like a junior-high drop out turned pedophile, I chose to take the mature rout and left my love of lowbrow humor to my imagination. This is exactly what I'm talking about, though. I've already become distracted by the allure of her uncovered ass and I'm simply writing about it. I should still be pissed by the apathy she directed towards my porch light-less plight. Instead, I'm giving her a pass because she was worth beating off to. What a terribly fucked up world we live in, right? I mean, I still hate her for not being able to apply some common sense to a stupidly small situation, but society and I are willing to look beyond the bitchiness and give her an all encompassing Disneyland-like fast pass to the front of the lackadaisical line for being enticing enough to want to plow. It's just tragic that we're that aesthetically oriented. With that being said, ugly people, turn on your fucking porch light. It's midnight, we don't want to get shot by your redneck neighbors and you don't want us to trip over your lawn gnome and impale ourselves on a rusty rake, because the lawsuit and the lack of pizza would be a serious downer to what was probably a delightful night of drunkenness. And those of you that were blessed with Kim Kardashian-like curves, enjoy it while it lasts. A decade from now you and your get-out-of-hot-water hotness card will expire. At that point you'll just be forgettable, rude and a distant beat-off memory in the hippocampus of a handful of your old high school chums that used to have a hankering for the hotness that you had going on..
-When giving out directions, please don't spell out the name of the street or use landmarks to guide us. Give us a crossroad and whether or not your the third or fourth house on the left. Telling us that you live in the house with the palm trees in the front yard doesn't help. I actually had a customer tell me that once. I mean, that little nugget of knowledge may have helped if I lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, since I sincerely doubt that the words "palm trees" have ever crossed the lips of a native Corn Husker. The problem is that this is California. We regularly compete with Florida and the Virgin Islands for the landmass with the most palm trees. And seriously, don't spell the name of your street for me. I asked for directions one time and a customer start spelling the name of the street. The guy wasn't trying to be condescending or amusing either. He genuinely thought that they were doing me a solid. I immediately and somewhat harshly told the man, "Directions, not spelling." Naturally, my statement was met by silence and a complete inability to properly direct me in any useful way, which brings me to my last bit of advice:
-Learn where you live. I totally understand not knowing your address because you're visiting a friend and ordering a pizza. Actually, no, I don't get that. Who goes to a friend's house and orders anything? Shouldn't you leave that up to the head of the household? They obviously invited you over, shouldn't they be responsible for the food that flows through their own home? Regardless of who orders food or where it was ordered from, nobody in this iPhone driven age seems to have the ability to dole out comprehensible directions. Whenever I would make the mistake of inquiring about a particularly puzzling run, I'd be met with an unintelligible grunt or a question about what a crossroad actually is. I'd then be handed off to six different people over the course of the next seven minutes until everyone at the home concluded that they can't actually explain where they're located. You would think that with the combined might of an ant colony worth of morons that there would be one soul with some smarts and a slight inkling about how they got where they're currently at. Nope. As it turns out, everyone born after Vietnam is directionally daft and completely self-reliant on technology that they don't fully comprehend.
Seriously, what would all these people do without their smartphones? Would they just walk in circles around their coffee table or repeatedly smash headfirst into their front door until CTE finally claimed them? Please, for the welfare of all the innocent bystanders that are led into your life, just put down your phone for four seconds and hash out the details on how to get to your home without using GPS. I'm convinced that this is ultimately how the Russians will win the next Cold War that we're gearing up for. They'll just knock down our satellites, no one will be able to find their way home or to work, our economy will melt like Joan Rivers' face and we'll all starve to death while aimlessly wandering around the confines of our Google Map-less backyard.
These are just a couple of the more common place directionally deranged quirks that patrons pass my way. I have a ton more chambered for another tyrannical tangent. For now, just try to hammer down where you live and how to get there. If you do just that little bit of charitable work, it'll be the beginning of the best day of your delivery driver's life. There will also be some self-satisfaction in knowing that you might be able to successfully find the way to your own kitchen if you make the mistake of breaking the boundaries of your master bedroom without the team of Apple engineers that are riding along in your front pocket.