the pizza joint

my boss, whom i will refer to simply as lucifer for the rest of this post for the sake of simplicity, is, well, lucifer.

his underling is, well, quasimodo, frankly. but this is an insult to good hunchbacks everywhere, because our favorite bell-ringer moves faster and thinks quicker than my under-manager.

under him is poor white trash queen. it would seem unlikely, but she actually has the best head on her shoulders of the bunch. i like her.

mostly, this post is about quasimodo.

being not very quick and not very bright, he tries to cheat the system by using little underhanded techniques to make the numbers look better in the computer. i hate this. cause invariable my ass is the one getting fucked.

yesterday, right around the time i walked into the pizza joint on the banks of the river styx, quasimodo's "techniques" were in full fail mode, and i, and several of the other drivers and in-stores, where about to get our anuses stretched beyond anything we could've ever dreamt up in our wildest, most freddy-krueger-esque nightmares.

several large orders had come in. one of them was for lucifer's daughter's birthday party. so lucifer is lurking about the store, not in his usually-quite-noticable red manager shirt, but incognito. the phones are ringing off the hook.

quasimodo had bumped many of the pizzas off the board, (one of his cheats) and then was going back, along many of the other in-stores, to make them one by one. the bad news is, pizzas were being added to the list faster than he could make the ones he had already bumped off. so the pizzas being called in were backing up the board, and beginning to flash (for being on the board too long). the in-stores are confused about which pizzas they are putting together, further gumming up the works. chaos, confusion, and pandemonium reign.

i jumped on the cut table to field the pizzas flying out of the stove like something out of maximum overdrive, a well-oiled machine (i have, after all, been doing this something like three years--god! how admitting that depresses me) cutcutcutcut, slam bam! "delivery up!!" lucifer is lurking nearby, noticing that half the pizzas of his large order aren't getting made. deliveries are popping up "ready" on the computer screen, even though the pizzas that need to be taken haven't even been put into the oven yet, and begin to tick off to going late. the foyer is full of people waiting for their pick-ups. quasimodo looks as if he has actually rung the bells of notre dame with his cranium while he frantically tosses out dough.

cutcutcutcut slam bam! "pick-up for 'unlucky pizza eater' is ready!"

"darth, how we doin' on deliveries?"

"fucking horrible! (the beauty of having left this job after letting many of them know i hated the people there, and then returning after all, is i say whatever i really think, and no one really gets mad about it! i love it.) you've got two that aren't even in the oven yet that are sitting at 34 minutes and 28 minutes respectively, and actually go with other orders that haven't been put in the oven yet."

more pizzas poor out. lucifer goes on a tirade about how long everything is taking and why aren't his pizzas even in the oven yet? in-stores mumble death-threats to themselves while bumping into each other trying to make the pizzas that still seem to fill up the board no matter how many they stuff into the oven. customers frown, growl, tap their toes, and check their watches.

finally, i am routed. the routing slip says the elapsed time is 43, but i know that due to mix-ups and one dropped pizza (yes, i admit. i knocked it down in my manic back-and-forth attempts to keep things going smoothly), the elapsed time is closer to one hour. and i say that to the anarchic mass behind me as i zip out the door.

i bag 'em, and rush out to the car. into gear and flipping through the ipod to find something with the appropriate punch. ah, there it is: stupid kid.

i actually drift out of the parking lot and into my lane of traffic (yes, drift. yes, really. yes, it was fun. no, i have no fucking clue how i did it and couldn't do it again if i tried), and zoom away.

and the people who had every right to tell me to "get bent!" in regards to a tip actually gave me what would turn out to be some of the best tips i would get for the evening.

with pure adrenaline and caffiene flowing in my veins, i get back to the shop, where everything has died down to nothing. dead. zip. zilch.

i inform pwt queen that i would rather be gangraped by angry giants with saguaro cacti for cocks with tobasco lube than ever have to pull that shite again. she laughs.

but i wasn't fucking joking.

darth sardonic

p.s. tomorrow a post that wuastc tagged me with. should be fun. stay tuned.