How much is sitting at home in your ginch worth to you anyway?
When ordering pizza consider that only human turds don’t tip.
Of course, how much you tip is up to you and your individual turdiness. But, when contemplating how much to dish out to your intrepid delivery driver, consider that tipping is actually something of a mathematical equation:
Base tip: $1
Did your food arrive in under 20 minutes: add $2
Did your food arrive at all: add $1
Is it nuts-shrinkingly cold out: add $1
Is the pizza delivery person a total babe: add $2
Were you in your ginch the entire time while waiting for your food: add $1
Tellingly, during my three year tenure of delivering pizza professionally, this equation was almost always pitifully ignored. Of course, money isn’t everything and I did manage to get a few good yarns out of it – three of them! And a free pizza every night.
Concurrently, I lost roughly 25 pounds since quitting.
After delivering roughly $50 worth of pizza to a sketchy party house on the west side, several of the dudes inside suggested that I come inside for my tip. It was mutually understood that I would be hurt severely if I did not comply.
The tip was a bottle of beer. I was presented to the rest of the party as “the dude who brought the fucking pizza” and was given a resounding chant of “chug.”
Despite the obvious need to drive sober, I dared not sip.
After the first beer was downed in less than ten seconds, with some difficulty, I was given another.
I was cruising down 20th Street towards Meadowgreen on my way to a delivery when I was sideswiped by a large truck, knocking my car onto the sidewalk. The truck roared off into the night before I could memorize the license plate. Unsure of what to do next I called the police to make a statement.
A minute later a lady came running down the street towards me.
“Hey,” she panted. “I was in that truck that hit you. I got his plate number.”
“I’ll give it to you for $20.”
It was then that I noted the woman’s garb – a too-tight skirt and tube top strained against the heave of her curves. She gave me a wink – total pro. I have never been propositioned by a hooker before, I noted.
When the cops drove up I was passing the woman a wad of crumpled bills.
“What the fuck,” asked the officer.
It was 4am and my last delivery of the evening. My instructions were to take the pizza out back – “where the party’s at, bro.”
The “party” turned out to be eight scabby looking dudes standing in a circle puffing on several joints.
“Money’s on the table,” said the lead chud. “Better hurry up if you want your tip,” he said, waving one of the joints in the air.
I joined the circle and stood there awkwardly watching everyone smoke weed, which I didn’t want but felt compelled to take. Nobody said a word and the silence was freaky.
“Hey,” said the guy across from me. “Check out that cloud up there.”
Everyone stared up, mouths agape.
“That one over there. It looks like me banging your mom.”
Dude got punched in the face, which was as good of an excuse as any to leave the party.