I've been threatening to rob the pizza delivery person for years. That tells you a little about my love/hate relationship with food. Well, last night, the pizza came to me. I was minding my own business, half naked in my bathroom, preparing for an exciting (yeah right) evening out. All of the sudden, Brock burst into my Calgon moment and said someone had wrecked in our yard.
I donned my ever-fashionable stained terrycloth robe and went to see what the ruckus was about. There in my front yard, like a gift from God, was a pizza delivery woman. She ran right through our neighborhood sign and practically into my dining room. Talk about curbside service.
The good news is that we got all the pizza we'll ever want or need. I spent a good deal of time rummaging through the boxes, eating it with my hands. Fuck the plate. I was all over that shit like a fat man in spandex.
What's worse than my pizza binge is the fact that another delivery guy came in and witnessed this atrocious event. With me in my robe. Carrying a baby on my hip. While my autistic six-year-old circled around me pushing a shopping cart and singing about the weather.
I cannot make this shit up.
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