Fun With Pizza (Part 7: Random Chunks)

Note:

Any of the "Random Chunks" entries will break from my usual narrative, which would have an overarching subject or theme.  These really are just.... Random chunks, small anecdotes from the job that were funny/strange/sad/odd enough to warrant writing down, but too small for their own entry.  Just thought I'd explain.

Fun With Pizza (Part 6: More Greek Tragedies)

Tits!
Dude, TITS!!

Mammalian protuberances.  One of the great motivators for members of the Greek Fraternal system.

Several years of delivery in Berkeley had me convinced that all frat boys had been bottle babies.  They didn't have the standard appreciation for nice-looking breasts that heterosexual men have in general: you sneak a peek, think "Hmm, very nice," and go about with the rest of your day, the moment only lasting a few seconds.  For the fraternity brothers, it seemed to be a nearly pathological fascination.  Any girl displaying even a modest amount of decolletage would prompt "Whoa!"s and "Damn!"s and be a subject of discussion for several minutes, long after the girl had gone.  Their media intake, in any form, was influenced by whether there were visible breasts: frat boys would be rabid fans of Ingmar Bergman if Bergman had thrown in some random tit-shots.  Budweiser promotional ephemera is everywhere in a frat house, as the posters, cut-outs etc. contain both breasts and alcohol!

Fun With Pizza (Part 5 - Greek Tragedies)

"Brah!"

"Brah!"

"Hey brah!  Izzat our pizza?"

Well, girdle, give me your fucking name and I can tell you.  There's fifty of you clowns living in this monument to watery beer and date rape, it's a Saturday night, and there's just the tiniest chance someone besides you ordered.  Okay, it is yours.  You pay up, then I give you the pizza.  Because that's how I do things, that's why.  You really want an explanation?  You want me to stand here and explain why I'm treating you with surly distrust while your pizza grows cold?  You can't figure it out for yourself?

Cross-Tribal Mating Disasters (Part 1)

By some insane comedic twist of the universe, I actually dated a girl I met at one of the yuppie stockyards my straight friends always went to.  We went out four times, then simply stopped returning each other's calls: that made sense, as we had absolutely nothing to say to each other.  We were at one of the T.J. O'Mulligan-style bars, and I was sitting at the bar, drinking diet Cokes and feeling bored: it was 1998, and my friends, being in tech, were discussing the revolutionary possibilities of the World Wide Web.  (By 2002, many would be assistant managers at their local Starbucks, and happy for the work.  Their cars and furniture had already been repossessed, and now they were just happy to make rent.)  For now, their conversation both bored and irritated me --- I admit it, I was a militant Luddite when it came to personal computers, the Internet, or "any of that other digital bullshit.".  A good kitchen fire would have improved my mood, but no matter how hard you focus your mind....

Cross-Tribal Mating Disasters (Part 2)

She went in the bathroom, I unlocked my door, then remembered I needed to check messages.   (For various reasons, I had my own phone line.)  I was listening to them when she came back out of the john, walked into the middle of my room, and said in horror, "What in God's name is that?"
I looked around the room, trying to figure out what had her so startled.... And realized she was staring at my Dwarves poster, the one from the "Blood Guts & Pussy" album.
"Um, that's a poster for the Dwarves first album.  Didn't you say you graduated high school in 1990?"