The Pizza Conspiracy

Look at this scrumptious all-meat pizza. Remember to drink beer and hate yourself while devouring it…alone.

I once had a job as a pizza delivery guy many moons ago.  Now I’m sure some of you are thinking that everyday is like it is in porn.  You know the one I’m talking about.  The delivery guy shows up to the door, and a scantily clad goddess answers the door wearing only a thong made from Red Vines.  She tells you she doesn’t have any money, but if you come inside, you could work “something” out.  That “something” usually involves extra sausage.

Let the sexy times ensue.  Am I right?  Anyone?  I guess you didn’t see that one.

Well, I can assure you that never once happened to me.  Dammit.  Who knew that the world of 80s porn wasn’t real?  They should prepare high school seniors for this reality.  Anyway, I wanted to recount an interesting phenomenon I did encounter on my many deliveries.  It is something interesting and disturbing at the same time (but not as disturbing as watching Tron while on acid, not that I would know).

As a pizza man, you can get through virtually any form of security.  Just wear your restaurant’s official polo shirt and carry the recognizable red delivery warming bag thing, and you’re in.  Allow me to clarify.

In my pizza place’s delivery area are a few major hospitals.  I would routinely deliver to the ICU there.  Or the Intensive Care Unit.  Not to be confused with the Incestuous Carnivores Union (an awesome name for a death metal band, by the way).  Sometimes there were family members or patients, or doctors and nurses ordering pizza.  Either way, most people had to pass through a security check to get in.  Why? Well because they cut people open in there and/or stitch them back together.   Der!

I digress.  My point is, you don’t want some loony or Snookie to just wander in while people are trying to survive.  You never know what kind of germs they’re carrying.  Most nights when I had a delivery to the ICU, it would go something like this:

As I walk into the hospital lobby and approach the ICU door where the security guard and hospital staff is, there is usually a family member of some kind wanting to get in.

Mother with kids:  “But I want to get in to see my husband.  He was in an accident.  Please!”  The kids are crying for their daddy.

Hospital Staff:  “That’s no problem.  We just need to see some ID, a letter of reference from your husband’s great grandfather, a blood sample, a copy of a Nobel Peace Prize, a zebra, a voodoo doll of yourself as collateral, and a valid credit card in case you want to order any movies while you’re staying with us.”

Mother with kids:  “But why do I need all this?  I’m his wife!”

Hospital Staff:  “Security precautions, ma’am.  We can’t just let anyone inside.  I’m sure you understand.”

This is usually when I walk up to the ICU door.  The security guard, seeing my polo shirt bearing the restaurant’s logo and red pizza bag warmer thing, will shout out, “Pizza man!  Let him through!”

The door opens and I’m in.  It’s that simple.  I think it’s because everyone loves pizza.  I’m sure they love it even more than sex with twins dressed like Sailor Moon.  This leads me to what could be a fatal flaw in our airport security system.  If pizza men can access our nation’s hospitals, what’s to keep them from getting into other sensitive areas?  We must protect Skywalker Ranch.

I can see it now.  An evil cabal of greasy college dropouts, sitting in a dark, smoke-filled apartment after a game of Magic: The Gathering.  One of them, realizing the power that they all share, gives them the idea to change the world.  That’s when this X-files-esque conspiracy plots to sneak onto our airplanes nationwide, and ensure that airline passengers, for the first time in history and throughout the rest of time, have good food to eat.

So when next you happen to be flying somewhere, be wary of the man carrying a red pizza warming bag thing, eyes shifting suspiciously.  Your flight that day could end up being delicious.


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