(I am working late at a local pizzeria. I’m already pretty aggravated due to having to cover someone else’s shift who called off that night, but I have managed to keep my cool. A customer calls in on the phone to place an order for delivery. He sounds fairly plastered already but is polite enough so I begin to take his order.)

Me: “What can I get for you tonight, sir?”

Customer: “I’d like two plain pizzas, a cheese steak stromboli, an order of hot wings, and a six pack of Heineken.”

Me: “Sir, we can’t deliver beer.”

Customer: “Why the h*** not?”

Me: “Well sir, we just don’t. It’s against company policy. Now, can I get your name and address so we can send your food out to you?”

Customer: “Sure, but I’d like to change the order.”

Me: “Okay, no problem, what’s it going to be?”

Customer: “Well I said two plain pizzas, but now I’d like you to reach down your pants and tear out a large handful of pubic hair and toss it on top of my pizzas.”

Me: “Not a problem, sir; that’s complimentary and is included in each and every one of our meals free of charge.”

Customer: “F*** you. I’ll be in to pick it up shortly.”

(I figured he was way too drunk to drive over, so I didn’t make his order. I was right.)

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