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Russian delivery guy.

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Being the lazy college Mexican student that I am, I order copious amounts of food from the local delivery places.

My room is littered with empty pizza boxes, little white Chinese food containers, single serving packets of guacamole, ketchup, mustard, and my garbage overflows with tin foil, wax paper, and receipts.

The sad thing is that I live about 500 feet from the largest dining hall on campus, but you'd be surprised how lazy freezing cold temperatures and three flights of stairs make a person.

As I was saying, I order lots of food. One pizza place in particular has tickled my taste buds of the late. They have a great buffalo chicken pizza, one of my favorites, and their chicken wings are pretty good too.

Late last night, around 11 or so, I felt a familiar grumbling in my stomach and reached for the phone.

"Hello, how can I help you?"
"Uh yeah, can I get a buffalo chicken pizza?"
"Phone number?"
"688-7777."
"Room 210?"
"Yup."
"Alright, it'll be there in about 20 minutes."
"Thanks."

*click*

The usual conversation. Nothing special. Short and sweet, no bullshit - just cook my damn pizza.

About 20 minutes later my phone rings.

Yes! Finally, my food is here.

"Yeah, hold on. I'll be right down."

I quickly rush to put on some clothes. I throw on an old t-shirt, some sweat pants, and my very comfortable, warm, fuzzy moccasins.

I take the stairs two at a time, my mouth watering with anticipation of those 8 spicy slices of buffalo chickeny goodness smothered in the sweet white nectar that is blue cheese dressing.

I open the front door to my dorm and come face to face with a new delivery guy.

Being a pretty regular customer of this place, I got to know all the delivery guys. Now, if you're a delivery guy for a pizza place in a college town in New Hampshire, you're not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. You usually dress in very old, tattered clothing, wear shorts in the winter, have extremely long, unkempt hair, and generally look like you just quit on step 3 of the 12 step program.

Either that, or you're an immigrant.

In which case you look the same, but speak with a funny accent.

I've had my fair share of crazy experiences with both. But last night was something new.

I open the door to find a tall, pale man standing there with my pizza in one hand and his little cash purse in the other.

He glances at me, and then at my t-shirt.


"Yourrr t-shirrt. It is of Russia, no?" The new delivery guy slurred in his thick Russian accent.


I glanced down at my black t-shirt. I had bought it in St. Petersburg as a joke. It had the McDonalds symbol on it, but instead of happy-go-lucky Ronald McDonald on the front, it had a picture of Lenin, and the shirt read "McLenins" instead of "McDonalds."


"Uhh, yeah. It's funny, right?"


The Russian delivery guy stared at me for a few very long seconds and then said, "No. It disgrrace mai parrty."


"Your party?"

Oh shit, this dude was a Communist. A fucking Red, Commie bastard was delivering my pizza? What is this world coming to?


"Well, I'm sorry if my shirt offends your party, but in all fairness, you guys had your shot and you blew it. You blew it all on an arms race that you were doomed to lose from the start and wasted all your money building bombs when you should have been feeding the millions of people that were starving to death."


"Wahat? How darre you speak of mai parrty like dat! Ve vill rise agin to powar!"


"Dude, you're not going to rise to "powar" anytime soon. Communism is like Pogs - it was a fad and it's gone out of style. And now the only people still playing are the Cubans, the retarded little cousin that kids give their old toys to."


"Bastard! I spit on your Capitalist pig pizza!"


And with that, my Russian delivery guy opened up the pizza box, revealing 8 sumptuous slices of buffalo chicken pizza, and hocked a fat loogie on it. Then he threw the box to the ground and stormed back to his car and sped off.

I stared in disbelief at my ruined buffalo chicken pizza. God damn Communists. How can they expect to rise to power when they go around spitting on people's pizzas?

Well, there was only one thing left to do.

I slowly plodded back up the three flights of stairs back to my room and picked up the phone.


"Hello, how can I help you?"
"Uh yeah, can I get a buffalo chicken pizza?"
"Phone number?"
"688-7777."
"Room 210?"
"Yup."
"Alright, it'll be there in about 20 minutes."
"Thanks."


I've made it a point to wear the same shirt every time I go down to pick up an order.

I've also made it a point to bring my baseball bat with me - nobody fucks with my buffalo chicken pizza and gets away with it, especially sick Russian Commie bastards.

kazzazo Uploaded 06/21/2008
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