so, check THIS shit out. we’re in denver, we get our work done (twelve hour day…one of many), and we decide that neither of us has ANY interest in driving ANYWHERE to get food. i point out that we ARE right across the street from papa john’s, and we decide pizza MUST be the dietary call for the evening.
we arrive at “da johns” at 9:50, but they’ve already shut off the pick-up signage (which is supposed to close at 10:00). we knock on the door, and the lone employee pretends he can’t see or hear us. we stand there like dolts for about five minutes till we notice the big neon sign that has a phone number on it. justin whips out his mo-bile, and away we go.
“papa johns…can i help you?”
“yeah…i just need to order a pizza to go”.
“to go is closed, sir…it will have to be delivery. where are you?”
“about eight feet in front of you…can’t you just bring it outside?”
“no sir…it HAS to be delivered. where can we take it?”
“well, we’re staying at the ramada across the street…”
“IT’S RIGHT ACROSS THE FUCKING STREET!!!!”
(this last one is yelled by me in the background since i CAN hear both sides of this conversation given our proximity to this shithead)
at this point, we see the guy put us on hold, and go off to finish the pizza he’s working on and put it in the oven. two things flash through my mind…
1. when i stand by my bar/humidor, and look out my sliding glass door at night, all i can see is me. i CAN’T see outside, because it’s dark out there and light in the house so the glass totally reflects the inside light back at me and doesn’t show me the outside; hence, this guy might not be able to see us AT ALL.
2. i have found the biggest asshole drawing breath and minimum wage at the same time.
then the prick comes back to the phone…
“get that address for me?”
“yeah…1150 east colfax”
(he cuts him off midway)
“512? that’s not local…”
“no…it’s not. it’s my mobile. anyway, 512-79…”
(he cuts him off again)
“i have to have a local number that matches the address or i can’t deliver…what’s the number at the hotel?”
“i don’t know off the top of my head”, says justin, nanoseconds before coming up with what i thought was a brilliant idea…
“wait..can’t you just put in YOUR address and YOUR phone number and deliver it to papa john’s, then we get it from you out front?”
“sorry, i can’t do that…what’s the number at the hotel?”
“what’s the number at the hotel?”, justin echoes to me…
“555-FUCK THIS CLOWN!!!”, i reply, and he hangs up his phone.
then we went to the liquor store, picked up some gentleman jack, and ordered from a DIFFERENT pizza place once we got back to the rooms. and that will be the LAST time i deal with papa john’s for a WHILE.