There’s a girl named “Missy” who works at a fleet-management company we deliver to. In fact, I was enroute to deliver to her when I was in my accident last October. Aside for the damage to my car, her pizza was ruined. I think Missy is a very attractive woman, although in conversations about her, Zap has told me he’d prefer she add a few pounds (seriously, she’s a fucking stick). Anyway, she hadn’t ordered from us for a few months, but she came in both today and Monday. I, apparently blind, failed to notice that her chest was much more pronounced until Zap asked why I hadn’t commented on her new, almost magical “balancing” ability. Seriously, Missy, you were hot before you stuck cannonballs into your chest. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you still are hot, you just didn’t have to expand your boobs by 500% to be so. That’s all I’m saying. Hey, it’s your body, whatever.

Quick recap of yesterday — Ghetto Boy, having spent the weekend at the beach, gets back to Bel Air close to midnight Sunday evening. He doesn’t get to sleep until close to four. When OMF walks in at 10:45 Monday morning, in order to take a large delivery to a school by 11:00, he finds that the order is not only not finished and waiting for him, Ghetto Boy hasn’t even begun to make it. In fact, the oven is just warming up, the computers are down, and Ghetto Boy is moving like his limbs are made out of molasses.

The school order was a disaster, arriving late (and for once, through no fault of OMF’s). Ghetto Boy fucked up later in the afternoon when a teacher called to make certain that an order placed for the next day (today) was in the system and verified. Ghetto Boy confirmed that it was. But the teacher, perhaps wanting to make certain that he wasn’t blowing smoke up her ass, called again this morning, where Steve had to tell her that not only was their no order in the system, it would be impossible for him to get anything to her before 11:30.

She panicked. Anyway, this is the part of the post where I say, “Thank you very much, Ghetto Boy.”

I was working this morning at the Indy. The teacher, hanging up with the Franchise, called the next pizza shop she thought of, which entirely coincidentally, worked out to be the Indy. She called at 10:30, expecting sixteen large pies to be delivered at 11. We warned her we’d be close to 11, but it would probably be a few minutes later. In fact, it was 11:10 when I got there, and staggered into the school under a stack of sixteen pizza boxes piled high in my arms. She was great, meeting me at the doors and opening them, then providing a cart to load the pizzas onto.

But the best part?

The very best part?

The $20 tip that woulda been OMF’s if Ghetto Boy had the slightest inkling of what he was doing yesterday.