I’m an undercover operative working as a pizza delivery girl at our local Pizza Place, but they don’t know this. Yes, the pizza place is called The Pizza Place. Writer by day, pizza delivery girl by night. Even with you, my pizza loving friends, I cannot expose my mission until it is complete. They believe me some ditzy, flighty, type of overactive and energetic girl that just really, really loves her job, and makes inappropriate comments at times that result in a scolding.
No, seriously, the manager said to the assistant manager, “Did you scold her?” and then the assistant manager said to me, “Just to let you know, when and if you make inappropriate remarks, I have to scold you each and every time.”
I’d prefer to be reprimanded, chastised, or even constructively criticized, as scolding only makes cause for me to want to say even more inappropriate things, like, “I’m so sorry, Daddy. Would you like to put the soap in my mouth or should I do it myself?” Or worse, to pull my pants down and bend over in preparation for a spanking, as was how the scoldings took place in my childhood home, but of course, that would be even more inappropriate than the unfiltered words that sometimes blurt out of my mouth when they’re bubbling up inside and it’s impossible for me to keep them in.
Besides, it’s a cover, and I am prepared for many more scoldings to come, as I cannot let on that I am anything other than their new and beloved pizza delivery girl that brings her own unique appeal to the table (along with those inappropriate comments – Oh, if only they knew how many things I actually DO filter!)
But for you, my snot-nosed hot wing lovers, I will censor nothing. I will filter nothing. I will tell all!
I can assure you that B O R I N G will not exist in the pages to follow, though hilarious, shocking, horrifying, terrifying, disgusting, exciting, and dramatic may.
These are the chronicles of a pizza delivery girl, but be warned. After reading through the pages of these pizza tales, you may never look at pizza places the same way, ever again. So if you are faint of heart, proper-like, sensitive, or would rather maintain your blissful innocence and remain oblivious, I advise against you reading any more than what you’ve already been exposed to.
Go back to pondering whether you want a pickup or delivery, and which toppings you would like on your pizza, and whether you want to justify the expense of getting wings this time. But do know that if you order delivery, I may be the one dancing around the dog poop in your yard, looking through your windows to make sure you’re home, knocking on your door or incessantly ringing your doorbell and you will never, ever know that it is I, undercover operative, author of the Pizza Girl Chronicles, endeavoring on a mission that I must protect with my life, and you very well could wind up in these pages, a victim to the writer’s pen, eternally etched into an unfiltered pizza tale by an anonymous pizza delivery girl, and there will be nothing you can do about it, because this pizza girl will know where you live, and she will return again and again, because to live without pizza is to live without breath, and pizza withdrawals are even worse than being kicked in the nuts.
I mean, of course, I wouldn’t know this personally, as I am a pizza delivery girl, but still, I’m pretty sure I made my point. Let the uncensored pizza tales begin. Hold onto your pants, or your – well, after my last comment, you’re probably holding onto your – Nevermind. You don’t really have to hold onto anything. It’s just an expression. So, just keep reading … or not. And think of me always when someone calls out, “Pizza Girl!”, then knocks on the door of your safe haven, carrying that night’s dinner. And tip her well, because that girl could be me, and you’d never even know it.