This Transaction Is Bombing

(I’m waiting for my pizza at a pizza place where you pick your toppings and they assemble it in front of you. It’s about a half hour until closing, so the place is pretty empty. A man walks in and goes up to the counter. He’s acting very agitated, has red puffy eyes, and keeps sniffling and scratching his nose.)

Employee: “What can I get started for you?”

Customer: “A medium pizza. Can I ask you a few questions? I’m doing a survey. It’s just two questions, really.”

Employee: “Uh, sure. And what kind of sauce?”

Customer: “Are you a registered voter?”

Employee: “Yes.”

Customer: “And do you know how many countries the US is bombing right now?”

Employee: “No, I don’t. What kind of cheese?”

Customer: “It’s seven! And you’re part of the 80% of registered voters who don’t care to know that. No one cares anymore! See you later, morons!”

(It’s unclear why he added that last sentence since he’s in the middle of the pizza assembly line and isn’t leaving.)

Employee: “Right, um, what kind of meat?”

(The customer wipes his nose messily all over his hand, front and back, and then reaches over the glass barrier to point out the meats he wants.)

Employee: “Sir, please don’t reach over the barrier. The names are printed right under each meat so you can tell me what you want.”

(I miss a bit of the conversation because my pizza is ready, but it sounds like he’s still ranting. As I’m grabbing napkins, I hear some more.)

Customer: “Where are the sun-dried tomatoes?”

Employee: “We stopped carrying them because they had some preservatives—”

Customer: *cutting him off loudly* “You little s***s! You told me you had them! That’s why I came here!”

(I didn’t hear anymore because I left, but I really don’t envy the employee who had to deal with him.)