"Some people ain't no damn good
You can't trust 'em, you can't love em
No good deed goes unpunished
And I don't mind being their whipping boy
I've had that pleasure for years and years"
    -John Cougar Mellencamp
    "Crumblin' Down"

Last night I drove over to XXXX Old Duffer Avenue to deliver a
pie. The building was one of those "Seniors" apartment complexes.
I had delivered there before and most of the Pizzalovers in the building
treated me OK. I mean, sometimes it's a drag, for old people move
pretty damn slow. But for the most part, they're kindly citizens.
However, this particular customer wasn't.
I buzzed his apartment and waited. And waited. Now, this ain't no big thing,
I'm used to it at this address. I understand that these people don't have
the spring in their step that they used to and I'll probably be moving pretty
slowly when I get in my 70's too.
Anyhow, once the customer showed, I knew he was going to be trouble.
I'd delivered to this guy about a year ago and he was a total dick.
He was in his late 50's - early 60's, but in good shape, he moved briskly.
I braced myself and was prepared to keep that smile on my face no matter what.
He opened the door and immediately barked "Where do I sign?"
(He had ordered by credit card)
"I'll just need to see your card and ID, please" I said. (this is standard BS Pizza procedure)
"I don't need to show you anything"
"I'm sorry sir, I really need to see your ID and your card"
(He had been informed of this when he placed his order on the phone)
"Well, you're going wait a long time. Stay right here. Don't go anywhere"
I nodded and he disappeared into the building.
5 minutes passed. (5 minutes seems like an eternity while standing in some entryway holding a pizza)
Finally the guy came back to the door.
"You're going to have wait some more" he said and went back again.
I called my sister, checked my voicemail and sent a text message.
After 10 more minutes the customer arrived with Visa card and ID in hand.
He shoved them at me and snapped the CC receipt from my hand.
"Give me a pen" he commanded.
I handed him one.
I checked his ID and CC number - everything was Kosher.
He threw the receipt on top of the box and grabbed the pizza from me.
I took the receipt as he started off with the pie.
"Thanks" I said, and noticed he still had my pen. "Could I get my pen back?"
He then turned around and THREW the pen at me, hitting me in the forehead.
"Thanks... Asshole" I deadpanned.
I started down the sidewalk.
I heard his voice behind me.
"What's your name?! What's your name?!" he demanded.
I stopped, turned and replied:
"Steve Perry"


Now, I have NEVER, EVER used any kind of harsh language
with any Pizzalover, but this guy really got to me. I sat in my car,
my blood boiling. I was bummed that some old coot could get me that riled
up, could press my buttons like that. Why do people have to be like that?
I was only doing my job and this guy decided to make my life miserablefor
no reason whatsoever.
Finally, I cued up an old Mischke Broadcast on my iPod and put
the Pizzacar in gear, in hopes that the 'ol  Mischke magic would put me
in a better mood. (It did)
As I drove away, with Mischke's voice coming through the speakers,
I looked in the rear-view mirror and caught a glimpse of my forehead.
There was a pen-mark right above my right eyebrow.
I rubbed it with my finger and drove on.

"I'm riding
I'm shining up my saddle
I'm riding
This snake is gonna rattle

I'm back in the saddle again
I'm back"
     -Aerosmith
    "Back in the Saddle"

Well, after a few days of trolling the web and making calls, plus a
few rides from my lovely assistant, Miss Wigg, and one Ms. K. Majaris,
I finally landed a new rig.
I'm the proud owner of brand-new used car.
Fanfuckingtastic.
The new pizzacar is a real Champ, $1300 worth of Japanese brilliance...
Japanese brilliance with 188,000 miles on it, but Japanese brilliance nonetheless.
But the new ride seems pretty tight and it gets me where I'm going.
Now, I'm not saying it's perfect, au contraire mon fraire, the
passenger door doesn't open correctly, the defroster's a bit screwy and
worst of all,  no AM radio reception.
No AM = no Mischke.
At 10 'o clock last night, I felt sad that my 'ol buddy Mischke
was talking and I couldn't listen.
This must be corrected.

In any case, I'm back on the Streets.

I'll post more later... I have a bunch of stories to tell ya.


 "So lock up your daughter
 Lock up your wife
 Lock up your back door
 And run for your life
 The man is back in town"
    -AC/DC
    "TNT"

I went down to the auto shop today to get my things from
my totaled Pizzacar before it was towed to the scrapyard.
While I was gathering my stuff, my lovely assistant, Miss Wigg,
took a few photos.

After seeing the photos, I've now decided that I "cheated death".



The contents of my car:

- 1 F. Scott Fitzgerald biography
- 1 Credence Clearwater Revival "Chronicle" tape
- 2 bungee cords
- 1 baseball mitt
- 1 pair bowling shoes
- 2 red handkerchiefs
- 1 foil covered 2x4 belonging to "The Snake"
- 1 Steve Miller Band "Greatest Hits 1974-1978" tape
- 1 pair insulated work gloves (not mine, they belong to Howard)
- various insurance papers

Here's how it went down:

I was driving West on XX Street when this Blazer totally blew the stop sign at XXXXXXXX Avenue. I don't think the guy even slowed down, he was in front of me in a split second. I hit the brakes and one thought ran through my head "This is where my luck runs out". The impact wasn't too harsh, the front end of my car crumpled as it as designed to, absorbing most of the impact and I was wearing my safety belt, so I escaped with minor injury. (my neck, back and knee are hurting today) Once the two vehicles stopped, I got out, the other driver and I exchanged "Are you OK's" and a few witnesses and gawkers gather around. Someone called 911. We all stood there dumbfounded for a few minutes until the other driver said "I'm gonna pull  up and get out of the intersection". His front driver's-side wheel was all fucked up, so he drove hesitantly a few feet. Then a few more. Then he started to really get on the gas and sped away. Since the other driver's car was fucked up and he had stopped, nobody bothered to get his license plate number.
Actually, I took a look at his plate, but his plate-light was out so I couldn't see anything.
The Police showed up a few minutes later, but couldn't catch the guy. I gave the officers my insurance and license etc, he took witness statements and gave me a case card. The crowd dispersed, leaving me to wait for the tow truck alone and in the dark. The tow truck driver from Bobby & Steve's showed up, loaded the car and took my baby away. I called a fellow Pizzaman (The Snake) and he gave me a ride back to BS Pizza. I walked home with the knowledge that I'd have to spend the next few days dealing with insurance bullshit, trying to get my shifts covered and trying to get some scratch together to get a new ride. I couldn't get to sleep until around 5am and the phone started ringing at 8am.
I'm dog-tired and my neck and knee are killing me.

Keep your eyes peeled for the offending hit-and-runner:

-Caucasian male 20-30's
-Short hair
-Driving a early to mid 90's Chevy Blazer white/silver/primer in color
Blazer has front driver-side damage including a fucked up front wheel
Blazer also has "For Sale" written in orangish grease pencil on driver's side rear window
- the phone number listed starts with area code 952

If you see (or know) this chump, let me know.

pizzaman@citypages.com

It's 11:27 pm and I was just in an accident about an hour ago... I think I'm OK... my neck is sore and my back's a bit screwy, but I'm in one piece... some dude in a Blazer pulled out right in front of me.. he hung around for a few minutes then took off... I, nor anyone else, got his license plate number.. the cops came, I called AAA, the tow truck arrived (Thanks Bobby & Steve's) then a call to a fellow Pizzaman (The Snake) for a ride home.

I gotta go deal with more insurance/Police bullshit.

Looks, like I'll be needing a new car.

I'll post in the morning with the details...

There's this semi-regular who's been ordering quite often lately and the last three times I've delivered to him, he's been drunk. Now, I'm not talking kind of drunk, I'm talking falling down, slurring, shitfaced drunk.
He's an older guy (60's?) and lives in one of the swankier parts of MPLS in a huge house with a big backyard that contains a series of ponds connected by waterfalls.

The problem with the guy is that... well, he's a total fucking asshole. He bitches about the price, he's rude, he argues with me about the checking policies and he writes the check out to "Broders" half the time.

And did I mention he's a right-wing nutjob? The last time I delivered to him, he had the "O'Reilly Factor" on and whenever O'Reilly would mention a Democrat this guy would yell out "Faggot!" or "Fucking liberal" or just plain "Fuck you!".
Yeah great, not only is this drunk guy yelling at me, but he's barking at anyone left of Pat Buchanan.

Finally, he stumbled to the doorway with his check in one hand and the other hand gripping the doorway. I started to look at the check.

"I oughta kick your ass", he slurred.

I could not believe my good fortune, for I would love to punch this guy's lights out.

"You wanna go?" I asked, my hands starting to ball into fists.

He never answered.

At this point, the guy nearly fell down, so I split.
I left him gripping his pizza and leaning unsteadily against the wall.
Fuck 'em.

Seriously though, I was hoping he'd take a swing at me just so I could justify slapping the shit out of him.